#its like swimming in the ocean and getting under the waves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dabisbratz · 4 months

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𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

himbo!reader , farmer!au , strangers/friends/lovers , meet - cute , inaccurate farming techniques , lawyer!nanami , slow burn , depictions of injury ( minor burns ) , check - ins , dumbification , vaguely implied age gap (~5 years) , hand kink , inexperienced reader , light feminization , blowjobs , anal , mating press , fingering , hand-holding , praise , degradation , slut - calling , dirty talk , spit / drool , under-negotiated kink , aftercare

w.c; ~ 13.8k

sonny says. . . naaamiiii !!! {cry} {cry} mbaby :c can ybelieve s’is mfirst nami fic ?!?! just tbe clear, the reader’s size or height isn’t explicitly stated, but he’s vaguely hinted toward bein/appearin physical stronger than nanami.

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

When he wakes up, Kento expects sunlight peeking through greenery— warm, yellow rays of light that dance and flicker across his eyelids. Warm, yellow beams that caress his cheek like the knuckles of someone tender, the palms of someone sweeter. It’ll overwhelm him at first, so bright and unapologetic as his eyes adjust and focus, but he’ll quickly crash, pupils constricting as the disturbance dwindles. And, suddenly, the star’s saturation will be comforting. It’ll be like a second. Just slower paced, peaceful. He expects the rustle of leaves, connected to strong branches and even stronger roots that dig into deep, rich soil. He expects to roll over in his temporary bed, breathing gently beneath shade, shielding his eyes from the welcoming invasion and blanketing him in a seamless flow of cool air.

When he wakes, Kento expects to hear the chirping of birds. It’s never quite enough to hear them in Tokyo. The strum of wind as it tickles his nose and pushes him forward. The swaying of grass— the smell is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, as it makes his head swim while crystal drops glide across its surface — a coarse underfoot of greenery that prickles the souls of his feet.

Tranquility by his side, urging him to get out of bed, chirping in an excited voice as it tugs on his wrist. He expects solitude, rolling its tangerine eyes and tapping its foot impatiently, “This is the break you’ve waited twenty-seven years for.”

But, instead, he finds himself clutching his chest, his heart beating with an unfamiliar pace that isn’t so calm. His body feels cold, like he’s been submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, unrelenting and ruthless as wave after wave crashes into his ribcage. The static in his ears grows louder and louder, ready to combust and burst his eardrums. Instead of the rustle of leaves, the cruel hustle and bustle of city life storms forward against his chest, shoving him back and forth. Back and forth, to and fro, against his body as his knuckles turn white and his vision starts to spot. Back and forth, as he comes undone.

It’s been so long, he’s not quite sure just how to unwind.

He starts off slow, swallowing air in desperate heaps until his legs relax, spreading toward the cushion arms of his faux-velvet chair. Then he flexes his fingers, draws them into tight fists and releases the digits until the shaking has stopped. Sips his complimentary white-wine with newfound steadiness, and tries not to choke when the intercoms ring,

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

It’s a quaint little village, your district, where everyone knows everyone and the news is always, no matter where you are, city-wide. Stone-clad pavement and moss decalled windows, there’s a small blanket of achroous fog further north of town square. Yet, despite that, there’s an ever growing city of greenery and agriculture. With a small population and himself being the only passenger to unload at the station, it seems to be a lot busier than he’d originally thought. Street-food stalls and vendors, selling freshly baked goods and syrupy, savory sweets. It’s not like Tokyo, no, there’s no rush. No pushing or shoving, no overcrowded lines, no smells of smoke and burnt coal.

In fact, the air is rather crisp— the further his legs take him, the more apparent. No longer are his lungs breathing in the stench of sickness or body odors, no longer is he pushing past the fortunate, just to shove the unfortunate. And, admittedly, it’s a bit of a culture shock— but it’s not unwelcome. Regardless, Kento keeps his suitcase close, pushes it forward, sidestepping polite smiles and local shop owners.

He basks in it. The genuine nature to it all, the healthy glow of the atmosphere despite the steam, the fog, the chill to the air. He considers this a luxury— the closest to a vacation he’ll get, even if he’s technically ‘on the clock.’ Still— he soaks in the sights of hugging trees, of mossy roads and cobblestone streets. The colorful banners that jump with life, the lanterns and yellow-lighting that illuminates the day— he’s sure at night they’re even more wondrous. And, oh, the smells. Not at all like tokyo— there isn’t an overwhelming mixture of perfumes and colognes, no fast-food chains competing through aromatic smells, no heavy scents of tobacco littering the air. It's crisp, it’s ripe.

He almost takes no offense to the collision against his side— nor the screeching sound of surfaces grinding against each other, nor the loud and abrasive cry of the man bumping into him, accompanied by the crack of an apple’s core against the ground.

“Woah,” Warm breaths pan down the base of his neck, even warmer hands wrapping around his bicep with strength Nanami is sure shouldn’t be normal for a typical, everyday civilian. He involuntarily grunts, a deep sound that rumbles in his throat and earns an eager, yet apologetic chuckle. “You alright? Y’almost went flyin’!”

His brows furrow quizzically at that. First— he’s certain it’s the latter who nearly lost an arm and a leg with his tumble. Second, he hadn’t expected such a youthful, bouncy voice from the very stature shadowing acast him. Not even a bit, it doesn’t match the muscle straining through thermal clothing at all, let alone the sheer square feet of area being taken up by one person. Blocking his vision almost completely, standing straight— at an angle— that blocks a stall for fresh produce and flaky, steaming bread. The goods speak for themselves, crusted over in golden brown mountains and cloud-like, moist cross-sections.

Swallowing, Kento nods, eyeing the poorly drawn sign for fresh bread. Drawn in sharpie, the prices are written in big, bold, red letters. Endearing, almost, the curve and loop of each letter and number— the lines of each to-scale doodle of bread. Nothing like Tokyo, not nearly as artificial, not perfectly clean-cut. Not so cookie-cutter. There’s some personality in it, as juvenile as it may be. And it’s a shame, really, how promising the stand looks. Apples that shine a golden shade of red, bread that’s glazed in a sweet, sticky layer of yellow molasses and savory honey. And though he’d love to indulge, Kento has yet to label himself as the type. “Great, thank you.” Is all he says, pulling his suitcase along the perimeter of the stand.

Some other time, then.

The days are long as they are hard. The sun has yet to fully set, and still, the Earth pulls and pulls to weigh it down onto your shoulders. The sky is painted in hues of orange and purple, strokes of tangerine and lavender roaming past your bird's eye view. Your back pops as you stretch, arms tensing against the woven basket of leftover harvest, shiny red fruits aligned with the horizon and reaching toward the tiny glimpse of departing stars.

Where blossoms grow from tiny seeds, and orchids dance in gentle breeze— beds upon beds of farmland and agriculture drape the outskirts of the farmstead. Though the weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up its seasonal chill, and the clouds have begun to dissipate into the sky. . . The well-received proof of your hard work is still something to behold.

“—ome any minute, now,” You’ve heard it all before, your mother gossiping to her farmer-wife friends as she nurses sweet teas and tangerine tiramisu under her calloused, warm hands. You’d been a mere two steps away from where she sits at the open-island kitchen, shoes tipped in the illuminated speckle of celadon clearing just adjacent to the sliding, front, cedarwood door. “Said so, at least. Did you hear. . . ” Windchimes sing in welcome, soft and mellow as the door opens and shuts behind you, socked feet slipping from boots to warm, fuzzy slippers.

“M’back, Mama,” You mumble, half-humming along to the tune of muffled windchimes the further you walk, arms hoisting the overflowing basket up to your chest. A sweet sigh, then pitter-patter of fleece against parquetry, and the discovery of a sweet, cherry-red ladybug walking along your knuckles, leads to the basket securely placed on a free countertop. There’s a quirk of her brow, something of a gentle question— more of a suggestion— not completely committed to keeping two conversations at once. How’d it go?

“No luck sellin’ today,” your voice buds, small and soft as your eyes trail the curves of a particularly large waste of an apple. An evident pout on your lips, then a quiet huff of air.

Farming has been your whole life, really. It’s what you’re best at, good at. Ever since you were young, barely tall enough to push away tall-grass— barely strong enough to pull out weeds, you knew it was yours. Something special, gravel crumbling and breaking beneath heavy, solid boots and rubber tires. The remnants of small, flying rocks, pelting into each other and leaving behind white, gray smoke as your tractor comes to a slow, gradual halt.

“But I met someone new!” That peaks her attention, nothing short of a gasp coming from a pair of lips—identical to your own— and here come the questions. Was he blond? Oh, I knew it! Did he buy anything? Well, why not? Was he tall? Thought so. . . How about handsome? Come on, now. .

“He was . . hmm, pretty.” Is how you’d like to put it, raising a finger to the air in finality. Truth be told you don’t remember much about his appearance— it was more so his demeanor. He’d bumped into you— you think— and yet, there was something so smooth about him. Not even his slicked hair, wavy at the end and curved just right to frame his face and bleed into the bristles of his blond undercut. He’d carried on like it was nothing, still polite, even admired your handiwork on your stall’s banner. A sweet thing of a stranger.

“You’re so easily impressed,” The smile dusting your lips curls into a wee, nasty little frown. That’s just not true. “A good thing, too, you’ll have to like our new neighbor.”

Her voice melting through one ear and out the other like freshly harvested honey has your throat tied into a thick knot, stuck right at the base of your neck and only growing in size. Hands thrumming against the granite countertop, your body leans inward.

“Neighbor?”

“Mm,” She hums, landline trapped between her ear and sweater-clad shoulder. You’re not entirely sure if it’s toward you or her friend, either way, her conversation stays ambiguous. “I heard he’s some fancy lawyer. You think he’s defendin’ the Hasaba girls from last year?”

That’s something to think about. Two little girls who’d been found locked away by some sort of— police officer, was he? Perhaps something more authoritative, and taken into his personal care. You wouldn’t be surprised if it became legalized— you’d only met that man (Suguru Geto, was it?) in passing, but his stature seemed dead-set on protecting those girls.

There’s a muffled gasp on the other line, crackly with static as a finger twirls around the phone’s coiled, mint wire. The rest of the conversation goes unheard, slippered feet carrying you to the large, alcove window that displays just enough equal farmland and neighborhood housing. And, sure enough, as if on cue, it’s not hard to make out the lines and shadows of the ‘ fancy ’ lawyer, his fluid silhouette effortlessly carrying luggage and— what looks to be— a box of books. Documents, perhaps.

“You didn’t— how come you didn’t say nothin’ ?!” Your excitement has you toppling over, limbs every which way as your face presses into the glass window. When you’re stuck in a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s something exhilarating about having a new neighbor. And he knows nothing.

There’s a quiet mumble that roughly translates to: ‘You didn’t ask.’, but it’s filtered out by the sound of your full-footed stomps. You opt to keep your slippers, racing toward the neglected basket, mind completely set. “I’ll be back, Ma!”

The path along your house isn’t dangerous, but it is harsh on bare feet— inured by heavy boots and pick-up trucks.. Still, it goes completely ignored as you carry the heaviest basket of goods you own, anxiety twisting and turning in your stomach— bunny hops into your chest and stomps and stomps and stomps. You’ve carried yourself past the intersection of the cobblestone path, a lot more smooth the closer it gets to the large, usually untouched, rental home. The lights are off— save for the dim, yellow glow of a small porch lamp resting above an unsullied, sleek and wooden rocking-chair. When there’s no one to inhabit the home, it’s always been comforting to look at— but now? .

Cold would be one way to put it. Your feet are cold, your arms are cold, your hands are cold, and you’re stood at his front door— frozen. Scared is another.

Even so, you’ve always been told you’re the ‘bravest boy’ in your whole district. Cry-baby habits and all.

The door opens before you can knock, and all you can register is brown. Brown wallpaper— the beige type, just barely meeting the requirement. Patterned with old, vintage looking floral prints. Brown, sleek wood of a bannister— steps that lead down into the living room, but are visible from the front door. Brown eyes, such a specific shade. When exposed to the light they almost look gray— green?— but as he stands before you, there’s nothing but molten chocolate and burnt honey-candy. A brown leather belt, securing crisp slacks and an equally crisp button up. You expect to see brown loafers, but—

Fuzzy slippers, brown and soft and cute. Little black buttons for eyes, and two floppy, fluffy ears— reminiscent of a bunny.

“Oh. . . Can I help you?” You’ve heard it before, his voice, but it’s even more striking than ever. It’s easy to forget the voice of someone you’d just met, but there’s something so. . distinct about it. He’s got a slight accent, too, something Tokyo-adjacent— you’ve always wanted to visit for longer than the feeble four hours of a busy work-trip.

“Mhm!” Pretty lips spread to their best grin, pulling at your cheeks until the babyfat wells up. “Well, no— um, actually. .” Brown eyes are expectant, but calm and patient as they watch you fumble over your words. Your fingers tremor as the basket is thrusted forward, heat blooming in your cheeks. “These— This is for you!”

“Ah. . .” Pink lips part, cupid’s bow prominent. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his front door closing with a slight click— right in your face. For a moment all you can do is stare, eyes boring into the dark, chestnut wood of the rustic front door. Staring until it’s gone blurry, eyes bubbling with fresh, unshed tears. And, nearly spilling over like an overflowing faucet, they gather before you can blink them away— fat and thick and embarrassing.

“Um. . I like your sli—slippers.” Fully aware you’re speaking to an unmoving door, you can’t behind yourself to walk back the moss-decalled path home. It’s not so cold anymore, your bones having rung out in the, metaphorical, hot sun until they’ve dried completely and— now it’s warm. Warmth in your nose, stinging as you sniffle and bite down a hiccup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mahogany shifts, offset by a deep rumble of a voice, smooth like velvet in comparison to the sharp, slow creak of door hinges, “Here.”

Dam rebuilt almost immediately, your body straightens. Him again, this time his eyes trained on what he holds in his hand. Brown and gold like sweet honey and, by God, it’s the most crisp set of yen you’ve ever held in your life. His fingers dance with fluidity you’ve never seen before, counting through each slip until he’s deemed an amount satisfactory— there’s a slight patch of hair on each of his knuckles, an array of veins that cascade into his forearm. His fingertips look a bit rough, but his nails are glossy and clipped. Even his cuticles are pushed back, just enough to look healthy and natural.

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know it’s rude to tip, so I left the exact change,” You blink. Once, twice— again, lips parted like a fish, fresh out of water. Then he’s hoisting the basket from your trembling hands, eyes downcast. “Next time, don’t give out things you worked for, for free,” Right where his eyes dip, his monolid, there’s a small mole— cute and circular, and had you not been studying the curves of his face you wouldn’t have noticed it. “You should wear a coat, too.” And, like a schoolboy, you can’t help the flurry of butterflies catching flight in your stomach.

“Yes, Sir,” Pearly whites biting at the fleshy, pink insides of your cheek have your lips puckered, pensive and sweet as you clutch the money to your chest. “Sorry about earlier— um, if it’s okay, I could help with your boxes?”

He leans forward, careful enough to keep the respective bubble of space between the two of your bodies, glancing at heavy, book-piled boxes labeled ‘N.K.’ The woven basket creaks under the weight of his chest, but it stays in one place nonetheless. “That?” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, just mail. Must’ve arrived before I did.”

It’s a bit awkward, really. Anticipation nips at your fingertips— you’ve never really had to work so hard to continue a conversation. You’ve never had to think about it either, if the words were coming out correct, if anyone was comfortable with your presence.

“Oh,” You breathe, subconsciously leaning closer. Perhaps it’s a miracle he hasn’t actually shut the door in your face, and— right. Your hands move to wipe away any streaks from your cheeks, a small sniffle ringing in the air. “Sorry f’I bothered you. I live, um, closest to the windmill. Yknow, just up the path from here. . . ?”

You haven’t known him for long, but you just can’t consider him comparable. Maybe it’s your heart speed-running past any other rational thought, maybe it’s the blooming heat in your chest, maybe it’s the shiver of winter trailing down your spine. You find yourself desperately hanging onto his every breath, only ever beaming when he shakes his head.

“Kento Nanami,” Tense shoulders relax with a deep inhale, the sweet smell of chocolate stuffed bread filling his nostrils. All that trepidation washes away, hushed under the breeze of Kento’s slow breaths. “Did you make these yourself?”

The door creaks, quiet and welcoming as Nanami extends an arm, stepping aside. Once his eyes finally settle on you they harden, just for a moment, as if he’s finally noticed the pull of your eyes— the crystalline seam tightlined around your waterline, the bright red strain of veins peeking behind your lids. Still, he says nothing, until you’ve introduce yourself with watery tremors.

“It’s cold, and you came all this way without a jacket?” Your eyes trace the vapor floating into the air as he sighs, irises dancing along the edge of your bare forearms. “Come in.”

Your muscles straighten up under his gaze, rippling until rigid as you eagerly nod, “Y’don’t think we could share some of that bread, d’you?”

The best time to farm, you’ve learned, is just after sunrise. The sun rests her head on grassy hills, still groggy and not quite awake yet, herself. But you are, suited up in your boots and overalls, not a single lantern in hand. That’s the first plus, natural lighting of the rising sun. The sweet, dim bath of light that paints the path from your home to your plantation in molten gold.

Then there’s Kento. You’d think he never sleeps, but you’ve seen it. Ritualistic, in a way. For the last two weeks, you’ve watched him go about his day. See, the window of your bedroom leads straight into his study, where he prefers a dimly lit lamp over the bright fluorescents. It’s almost hard to tell when he comes and goes, seeing as whenever you look, there he is. Sat in a swiveling chair and hunched over his desk, writing something in a notepad and skimming through— what looks to be— more documents on his computer.

You can only tell he’s going to bed once there’s a sigh, a pinch to the bridge of his nose before smoothing out his eyebrows, then the discarding of silver-frame, rectangular reading glasses. The lamp stays on, as if he knows he’ll be back in less than seven sleeping hours— which you think, for him, translates to roughly thirty minutes.

And, though he can’t see you, you always make an extra effort to wave up at his study, just before starting up your tractor.

You never expected him to wave back. You never expect his eyes to trail from your face to your supplies. And you, most certainly, never expect him to join you. Two thermal mugs in hand as he makes it over the small hill from his home to your own, past the thorn bushes and vacant tangerine trees. Hot chocolate— piping and rich, it coats your tongue in its sweetness and splashes against your lips with comforting warmth.

“Mm!” You hum, blowing through the small gap between the thermos and its sealed lid. You’d assumed your scarf, wrapped snug around your neck, would do the trick— keep you warm enough — but this seems to actually hit the spot. Sticky accents from remnants of unmelted marshmallows, its fluff clings to the corner of your lips. And Kento, nursing his own mug— though it contains tea— looks up to watch you grin, shards of tiny sugar crystals clinging to your pouty bottom lip.

“Hold still,” all but purring, his thumb swipes at your lip, wipes away the stickiness until they’ve parted— breathless. His eyebrows furrow with concentration, as if it’s a practiced habit, absentmindedly licking his thumb clean with one smooth, quick dart of his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Your breath circulates into the air, a swirl of white that dispels almost immediately. Your thoughts are cut short, breath stuck in your throat, eyes wide and glazed over with astonishment. “It’s— huh?”

“Sweet,” he chimes, lips curling around each letter. He’s beside himself, nearly forgetting who he is until the clear of his throat and a resigned grumble. “I can’t fathom how you manage to drink. . . radioactive waste from a cup.”

His humor is dry— something you have to think over for a moment before smiling against the lid of your cup. Kento notes how you smile— with your whole body— eyes closed tight and teeth on display, shoulders bunched and your stride much more bouncy. He tries not to smile when you giggle, hiding the lower half of your face behind the piping mug as your shoulders brush against his own. With each step the closer you get— to both the blond and your truck.

“It’s good,” Your voice lifts at the end of the statement, feigning offense as you lick your lips. Soft tongue against soft lips, Nanami partly wonders if you naturally taste as sweet as your preference for drinks. “M’not bein’ mean about yours!”

“I'm not being mean,” He corrects, a silent apology laced in his tone— just in case — and your knowing gaze lifts from his cup to his eyes, blazing bright and beautiful. He basks in your attention for a moment, like the gentle rays of a sun-swept island. Had this really been a vacation— no carry-on cases— he would’ve considered booking a flight to Malaysia.

First, he’s buckling you into your seat— it seems you’d forgotten, then he’s reminding you to put on your gloves, despite having bare hands of his own.

“You do this for a living,” is his justification, though you deemed it more a reason for him to wear the protective gear. “You wear them.”

And, now, he’s listening intently as you explain the mild inconvenience that is the technicalities that come with farming. He learns of your affinity to animals. Your slight, biased preference for gardening. The way your nose wrinkles when you think too hard, and the way you often forget what you were saying as you say it.

Though the scenery outside the passenger seat window is beautiful— valleys of faded green and brown, a light fog dusting the air. The symphony of crickets and cicadas, and of course, the sunset making its round up the horizon, teetering along the age of the Earth as it paints each and every blade of grass in its light.

He helps you out of the car as if you haven’t done it yourself a million times, careful not to spill your drink in his other hand. He’s awfully tender, too, his thumb absentmindedly circling the glove-clad skin of your knuckles as your hand squeezes his own. The door slams shut, and he doesn’t miss your expression twist as you whisper a small ‘oops, sorry!’ to your precious truck before unloading supplies.

Kento can’t name a thing— he’s out of his depths, here, but he helps anyway. He carries it down the never-ending row of cabbage and radish, watches his step despite nearly dismantling at least three dozen budding vegetables simultaneously. And you don’t yell at him once, instead offering words of sweet encouragement until you’ve found the place to start, dropping your assortment of tools and buckets.

“M’kay, ‘Nami,” He watches you drop to a crouch, warmth blooming in the apples of his cheeks. It’s not just the suggestive position, nor the way your pretty eyes look up at him from there— but it’s how sweet you say his name. . going as far as to give him a nickname, too.

Still, it manifests through the twitch of his eye, which you don’t catch onto, as he kneels alongside you.

“‘Nami—”

“No. It’s pronounced Nanami.” He interjects, his grip tight along the base of unsavory, frostbitten weeds— at least, that’s what he sees you doing anyway. Almost too tight, heavy and thick hands flexing, you can see the bend of his knuckles as his fingers dig into the roots.

“Na,”And, the smell of dirt, it’s so strong, the earthy undertones invade your nostrils and have no intent on stopping. . . “—na,” Raw, natural. His palms press in at the sides, thumbs stroking at the soil as he feels around for growing stems. For a moment it’s silent, save for the crackling radio beside you. Your pretty lips part, and sweetly, you’ve sounded out his name. “—mi.”

A puff of air leaves his lips, a scoff of a chuckle, and he’s giving a slight nod, quietly whispering the syllables of your name in acknowledgment. “Mhm?”

He doesn’t miss the way your lips split into a wide grin, weeds absentmindedly disregarded for a moment as you giggle, “I already knew that— I just said it!”

“Mm,” He agrees, though he’s not entirely sure you did. Then his heavy fingers tap your wrist— gentle, barely even a tap, but it gets you back on track— picking up the dead weeds. Kento watches, your hands gingerly plucking them free from the root, mastered and effortless.

Your fingertips dig into the soil, palms sticky and damp, littered with defrosting grass along each ridge and defining line. There’s so much care in your fingertips, and with every successful pull your eyes ignite. Like a cute, overgrown puppy. “Good. You’re a smart boy.”

“Y’think m’smart?” And, though your shoulders bunch up— a bit more bashful, you’re shaking your head. “I mean— I knew that already, too,” and it washes away as fast as it arrives, replaced with genuine exuberance. “I tell m’self everyday!”

The blond catches it anyway, gaze unwavering, even as your own struggles to keep contact. Nanami’s eyes are remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who’s positioned so utterly relaxed. . Crouching just as you are, but with smooth shoulders and lax biceps. Still, they’re visible through the silk fabric of his button-up, but he seems used to it. Tufts of blonde hair, slightly unruly and disheveled— swept back with gel, yet still set off in a flurry of gold by the back of his head, as if he’d rolled around in bed and decided to lounge about instead of retouching it.

Cozy.

“I do,” The sun dawns down through thick, gray clouds, framing his bronze locks— and with his lips slightly parted and his skin picking up a peachy glow, he looks almost seraphic. “What were you saying?”

“Um,” You pause to rethink through the last hour, warmth blowing past your cheeks as a particularly nippy gust of wind rushes by. “. . We sell ‘em, the weeds! That won’t be for a few days, sometimes we keep ‘em for cookin’, but . . . these aren’t any good.”

“Too many?” He asks, as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s learned in his vacation here, by far, despite having learned that just a few days ago.

“Too many!” Pretty lips part into a wide grin, and perhaps that’s the conclusion to Kento’s sightseeing.

౨ৎ

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to.

With your black on black attire— a large, knitted sweater, a black bomber atop it, dark jeans to match, a hand-woven gray scarf wrapped around your neck, and white sneakers that carry a cream-colored accent in its threading— it’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Where are we going?” Is his first question— but there’s so much more he means to ask. Since when do you dress so nicely? Do your parents know you spent extra farm money on those shoes? Is it bad to feel the urge to hold you closer, just so no one gets any ideas?

Nonetheless, checking the silver-plated Rolex along his wrist with the slight tussle of his lapel-collared trench coat, just before popping open the passenger’s seat of your truck, he ignores the growing thought.

“You’re always locked up in your house,” Twisting your keychain covered keys into the ignition, the truck starts up with a gradual rumble. You’ve figured something was wrong with the oil for quite some time now, but it’s never been enough to start any problems. “Don’t y’wanna have fun?”

That doesn’t entirely answer his question, nor does it ease his mind— a vacation this is, yes. But it’s also paid, and he’s technically on the clock whilst being here. Still, he nods just once, the clench of his jaw apparent in the faint valleys of muscle just below his ear. Though, he supposes he could say the same about you. Every day you wake up, harvest, water crops, feed your animals, clean out troths and shovel up feces. He’s not even entirely sure if that’s your idea of fun— but he hopes not.

Kento doesn’t expect you to be such a great driver. Smooth turns and a gentle ride— even with cobblestone streets and gravel trails. You get carried away when you talk, too, hands moving about and your gaze trailing to his eyes every few seconds. He has to remind you— “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” “Don’t look at me, look at the road,” — but Kento would be lying if he said it weren’t endearing.

It’s almost like you can barely function without basking in his presence.

“If it were warmer,” You swallow, finally stopping to catch your breath after the last fifteen minutes of rambling. The car slows down to a halt, an overhead traffic-light flashing a bright, crisp shade of red. “We could’ve went apple-pickin’ . . . or even oranges!”

You take the time to fully face him, eyes trailing up his dark trousers and gray turtleneck— it bunches at his chest, and you’re sure without his trench coat it’d be just as strained around his biceps.

“What do you do when it’s cold?” He muses, ducking his head to watch the passing of trees and inner city shops.

“Hm?” You hum, but before he can repeat the question you beat him to it. “Uh, we have this lake— it’s the first to freeze over when it’s cold. . ” So quaint, his eyes gloss over pedestrians as they live amongst themselves. Walking their dogs, sharing a drink at an outdoor bar, couples huddled close together for warmth. The sidewalks are clean and clear, there’s a polite, happy bounce to everyone’s step. Fairy lights blink in every other window, casting a sweet, bright hue along the streets below it. Kento understands it all, despite it being much more. . comfortable. . than Sendai. “And, when it’s completely frozen, we skate on it!”

It feels like home. A gentler, cozier version of it.

“I’m sorry—” The blond clears his throat as he turns to actually look at you, having fully processed your words. “Skating?”

“Are y’scared?” Nanami tries to ignore the burning of his throat when you laugh at his silence— a pretty, featherlight thing of a giggle that only progressively makes it harder for him to catch his breath.

“No,” He grumbles. He’s actually done it before— his younger, studying ‘coworkers’ had a knack for dragging him around outside of work hours— and he wasn’t free from it, even in winter. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobora, perhaps the three only people who could have him willingly risking a fractured disc.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Nami!” The car turns into a short trail, decalled in various signs and brightly colored symbols. “I can help you, m‘kay?”

Four people.

He nods anyway, save you the meltdown, and lets you drag him out the car once you’ve found a good place to park. He’d think it was illegal had there not been a sign for it, let alone communal skates in varying sizes. They’re in good condition, too. A small wooden bench— decorated with moss along its sides, he brushed his fingertips against it by accident— keeps him steady, but when he looks over to you, you’re already walking around with untied skates.

“Come here,” He beckons, voice soft and fond as he quirks a finger in your direction. He watches you fumble, nearly tripping over your own legs as opposed to your laces, but you make it over to him anyway, thigh against thigh. You brace yourself when he pulls your legs over his lap, shifts in his seat and tightens them just enough— “It’s not hurting you, is it?”— to fit comfortably.

“Thank you, ‘Nami,” He can hear the sincerity in your voice— as if he’d saved your life. Your breath pans across his face, warm and minty as you shake your head, “Doesn’t hurt. . .”

He offers a gentle pat to your knees once you’re fully set, softly dropping them back down as he leans to tie his own. It’s a quick process— not as tedious as the knotted up, tattered ones back home— a much more nice change of pace.

The ice, though, is considerably worse. He surmises it’s because it’s relatively untouched— if the whole village of Sekichiku had done two laps over it still wouldn’t have been enough to leave a noticeable dent in the ice— so his skates have nowhere to grip. You, though. . .

You’re much more graceful on ice than on land. A slow turn here, a quick twirl there, you could skate laps around him if you so choose. But you don’t, instead holding onto his wrists as he stiffly skates forward. Kento’s nose is nipped with pink, matching the particular shade of his lips as they part in concentration. The shade dispels down his cheeks, and you’ve never seen his face so. . . soft.

“Say, ‘Nami?” You huff, holding his wrists as you move in a slow, clockwise circle, turning you both. “When’re you leavin’?”

The truth bubbles in his throat, tougher to swallow than he’d originally thought it’d be. He clears his throat, avoids the question, and instead of freeing his wrists altogether, he holds your hand. You’re pouting when you slowly swivel to his side, his heart somersaulting almost painfully at the cute, wee frown to your lips. “Hey,” you whine, caught off guard but still pleasantly surprised, squeezing your palms against his own. “What’re you doin’?”

You’ve always been undeniably sweet. Kento thinks back to your basket of goods. The sweet, savory, aromatic flavors of bread, meats, cheeses, chocolates. How you have it to him so sweetly, no questions asked. There’s no ulterior motive to your demeanor, either. It’s peculiar to have someone so. . dependable. Someone to easily lean on, someone so— hospitable.

You’re perfect.

“I've never—“ He pauses, watching smoke dispel form your lips. An intimate position, he’s in— close enough to hear your breaths, holding on tight enough to feel your pulse through your fingertips. “Noone has ever done this for me. Thank you.”

“What, take you skatin’?”

“Support me unconditionally.” He pulls away before you can say anything in response, relishing in the thought of your pulse speeding against his knuckles as he stiffly skates back toward regular land.

The ride home is smooth, but quiet. And once you get there, hunger overrides your hospitality.

You like Kento’s rental— its kitchen is spacious and just big enough to support the mess of pots and pans that come with baking. It’s warm and inviting, the stove works great and the oven even better. Its heat burns a little brighter, but nothing you can’t handle.

Pain au chocolat — chocolatine — and meringue cookies; they’re a pain in Kento’s ass. Not even something he’d try to attempt without you there— he’s happy to watch you whisk away and laugh at his disgruntled faces. A “taste-tester”, you’d called him, scooping one sugary accessory after another onto the pad of your fingertip and asking him to try.

You weren’t lying. You really do know how to bake— flour dusted skin and all. Twisting raw dough into pretty sculptures of bows and braids, scored surfaces of x’s and o’s, light layers of warm butter that seep into soft, risen dough. And when it bakes, oh, how sweet the smell of aromatic bread is to Nanami’s stomach.

Studying the contours of a pretty face— baby fat rounding your cheeks as they pool into a sweet smile, pearly whites displayed brighter than the moonlight leaking through the floral curtains. Your laughter is wholehearted, hands gripping the hem of Nanami’s fleece shirt, body tipping toward his chest as your giggles dispel into the warm, brown-sugar baked air. For a moment he mentally swoons, something of a comforting coo, eyelids heavy and blanketed with the same baking powder littering your handsome face. He relishes the warmth, which leaves just as fast as it arrives, and suddenly you’re reaching into the oven without your cute, fluffy puppy-patterned mittens protecting your hands.

“Wait,” His tone is harsher than intended, solid and thick, and you— the sweet, softheaded boy that you are, don’t entirely deserve the worried look on your face that melts into sharp, hot pain.

“Ouch!” Your elbow smacks into Nanami’s calf as you flinch, fingertips raw and numb— still pulsing from the fresh burn. The man crouches down, knee to ceramic, palm to your warm shoulder, and suddenly your wide eyes are glittering and gleaming. Had the smile from your face not been growing, he’d have been appalled. “‘Nami, did you see that?!”

“Silly boy,” He sucks his teeth, pulling your clasped hands from your chest. Gingerly, he plucks out each finger one by one, runs the pad of his thumb along the burn sites. “You have to be more gentle with yourself.”

And, as if he’d declared to destroy your favorite equipment, your shoulders deflate. Hazel watches as tears well in your eyes in real time— with award winning speed, really— glassy and wet and oh, you’re so cute. It was just a small reminder, nothing too harsh— it could barely be considered scolding. Yet here you are, sniffling and averting your gaze. Eyes glossed over while your fingers instinctively curl over his own for comfort. Then a small, petulant, “M’sorry, ‘Nami.”

“None of that,” Soothing, it's gentle and soft as his thumb travels along the numb pads of your fingertips. And though it was already a faint sensation, you can tell his touches are deliberately featherlight and calculated, cautious. “Nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying,” You grumble, though his ears register the sound as a wet sniffle as you rub at your cheek with the back of your free hand. “I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” The breathy lilt tongue voice gives it all away, a tiny smile dotting the man’s lips. They’re entirely too enticing, a sweet shade of pink that dispels into the milky tan of his skin. Sheen and glazed with what could be spit, your lips part to mirror the same smile. Though yours is larger, his isn’t any less exuberant— luring you in one centimeter at a time until, inevitably, his breath ghosts along the expanse of your jaw— you can almost taste him.

His voice breaks through the thickened silence, “But it’s okay if you do.”

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

Floorboards creak beneath Kento’s feet, dimly lit ambient lighting placed around the office keeps it lit just enough to see ever so clearly— a small lamp angled above an open file, then the remaining trickle of light cascading over photos. Labeled, dated, clipped, and shipped to his front door just a couple weeks ago. Soon to be released, relinquished, deadlined.

His hair drips with cold water, tiny drops dripping down to the floor while others slither down his neck, and pool where his back dips, just slightly. He doesn’t tense when he sees you— his muscles remain just as relaxed as they were in the shower— and his eyes barely widen past the tired, lidded expression that paints his face every night, before he gets his studying done. But you—

You’re the opposite. Your shoulders raise to your ears, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the towel wrapped around his thick, slightly hairy forearm— it’s navy blue, with a brown, horizontal stripe across its fabric, and embroidered letters you can’t quite make out. An intelligible sound, then an unexplainable expression, and— there you are, tripping over your own tongue as your hands shoot to cover your eyes. Only unclothed from the waist up, Kento can’t help the amusement blooming in his chest.

“It’s a deduction based on a defendant’s failure to answer. . or appear, in some cases, to a lawsuit or court.” Nanami’s eyes trace the part of your lips behind your palm as your brain processes (though, he doesn’t think that’d be the correct word for it) his words. They purse, quickly, tight lined, until parting again— once more, with less confidence. With each step he takes (long strides that make him appear as if he’s almost floating) he grows closer, strands of freshly washed angel hair sticking to his forehead.

“. S. . ure!” You smile and nod in faux understanding, fingers curling toward the dip of your hairline, eyes peeking through cracked fingers. From there, beneath your palms, an uncomfortable warmth blossoms from your throat up, settling in your cheeks and sprinkling across your nose— sweltering and tingly.

Kento tuts, a soft noise, and you watch as he inhales a deep breath, pine eyes perusing through the space between your fingers for eye contact. “. . . Don’t worry about all that.” And, as if he can feel the high voltages slamming against your heart, his tongue darts out to moisturize his lips, and his eyes fall to your chest. He sits aslant to you, legs spread wide with the occasional sway of his knee— but nothing too sudden. You’re made all too aware of his half-naked proximity, purportedly close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the room— to smell the sweet undertones of vanilla, musk, and earl gray tea residing in his skin. In a low rumble he speaks, pulling lotion free from the drawer to your left. “Silver lining is: I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Even as he leans forward, closer and closer, he doesn’t cage you in— even if your chest aches at the loss.

Your heart demands the conversation die after that. Beating so rapidly you assume it’s stopped, silence freezes the air as your hands slowly drop to your lap. Lips pulled with woe, darling eyes low and sodden in an instant. Shoulders dropped just enough to sound a sharp creak in the swiveling chair you’re sat in, your lashes clump with fresh, unshed tears. And, in a lapse moment of murkiness, Kento’s lips twitch into a frown of their own.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, as if afraid your response will confirm it— he’s what’s wrong. His choice of words— wrong. Thin brows furrowed, the dip of his chin has his lips ghosting your cheek.

“. . . Nothin’.” It’s worse. He’d expected tears— maybe even an exchange of fiery words— but instead you’ve shut down, hands balled up in the fabric of your flowy pants, denim bunched up and draped over your thighs. Completely silent, staring at nothing and everything— all in between— all at once.

“Nothing?” He echoes, a silent suggestion for more. The rumble in your ear is almost too much, for a moment you assume you’d conjured it up with your imagination. Too close, too bare, too blunt, too warm— too fleeting.

“Mhm,” When your gaze meets, his heart plummets to his stomach. “Nothin’.” Words rush to his tongue before they can catch up to his brain, and. . you look so . . sad. He’s never seen you so defected— nor had he thought the concept of giving up existed for you. So headstrong, determined to make things work, gears always shifting into overdrive when you can’t make something out. You’ve gone as far as to create your own definition— this isn’t you.

“It’s. . . inevitable,” Kento’s voice softens, dropping to a quiet whisper between just the two of you. “But not for a while,” Then shifts his weight back, pulling away as he speaks in some sick sort of oxymoron, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will.” Grumbling, you’ve always been an open-book.

“Not forever.”

“. . . Ever,” You grunt, choosing to ignore the stern quirk of his thin brow. You’re a bit of a brat— Kento sees that now— behind the pouty lips and soft eyes, behind the large smiles and intimidating prowess. “When are you goin’?”

Nanami treads carefully, fingers wrapped around the closed bottle of lotion. With a snap it clicks open, and a generous amount is pumped into his palms. The smell is neutral and muted, but clean and fresh.

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to. An unexplainable feeling, adjacent to panic, rises in his stomach as he lies, “Six weeks, at least.”

“Nami…” Ignoring the deadline he’d just given you, you ask, “D’you like your job?”

You watch his posture relax, as if the previous conversation was just as emotionally taxing as it was for you, for him. He sighs, pauses to think for a mere second, then shrugs. “I like its structure.”

“Oh.”

“I like helping people, too.” He adds, much more sincere. Your eyes trail the lotion as it’s rubbed into his biceps, his shoulders, his forearms. His fingers flex and muscles ripple, skin bouncing beneath his fingertips, and light traces of hair at his knuckles raising.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on his veiny hands. You suppose, in a way, your jobs are similar. You, too, help people out— you provide fresh food and crops, you herd cattle and brush the hair of healthy horses. A very hands-on job— it’s rewarding. “Me too. I— I like helping too. And. . .”

His fingers twitch, almost as if they can feel your gaze, but Kento makes no effort to move them.

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

“I—” With trembling hands you lean forward, clasping Kento’s smooth knuckles against your palm. He’s just as warm as he looks, skin soft and sheen. His fingers flicker in your hold, straining as they tense— silently, asking, ‘what?’ as an increasingly overwhelming urge to keep Kento close washes over you.

It’s moments like these you’d wish you were better with words. To weave them together into something pretty, like a basket made for carrying fresh harvest. To pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Some that sound soulful and genuine, yet effortless and forthwith at the same time.

Moments like these, where your breath is stuck in your throat and with every rise and fall of his chest you think you’ve lost some more— he’s taken it all from you— you wish you knew just what to say, to do, to bring that air back.

To have him melt at your words the way you do at his actions, to have him feel the same exact thing when your heart clenches in your chest like a rag that’s been wrung out to dry. Without trying, without straining. You wish you were smarter— better at this, as you lean so far from the chair it begins to squeak in protest.

You’re sure there’s better people in Tokyo. With better educational backgrounds, with cleaner jobs. People who have it all together, who have different skills and assets— who don’t stick to one thing simply because they have a natural born talent for it. People who are prettier, more handsome— perhaps more his type. People who have aligning career goals and paths— more accomplishments.

Sweeter, kinder. With softer hands and an easier understanding of city life.

People who are better with words. Who can weave them together into something pretty, like a closed case with no loose ends or dead leads. Who can pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Who can make their confessions sound soulful and genuine, effortless and forthwith at the same time. All within the heart of Tokyo.

People who aren’t you.

Nanami stands, shuffling over to fix the documents you’d ruined— of course you did— but his face hasn’t changed from his usual tight-lipped expression. Sometimes it’s hard to read him, and it’s times like these you really wish you could.

“I like you,‘Nami.” You whisper to yourself, quietly pouring your heart out with each spoken letter.

And, with a snap, your world goes crumbling down. Increasingly silent, the world stops as you hit the floor and Kento’s chest stills— the soft, quiet beat of his breaths gone quiet, as if it were a mere memory to begin with. The backing of his swiveling chair falls with you, right to the floor, clattering much louder than the sound of your tense body, and—

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you have the wrong idea.” His voice is strained. Uncomfortable.

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

Despite your humiliating attempt to hold onto it, time flies by. Locked away in your room— your only source of comfort being an occasional knock on the door from your mother and the weight of your blanket as it remains overhead. You’ve counted the seconds— tripped over your thoughts after reaching 1,633– started over again. You’ve listened to the pitter-patter of rain against your windowsill, peeked out from your cocoon to bet on a race between the raindrops.

You’ve thought about Kento, of course. So much it plagued you, made your chest uncomfortably tight— until all you could do was let out a humiliated groan all over again. It’s a timeless cycle, and yet, it grows closer to his leaving date.

You haven’t spared a glance toward the actual outside, even when your window overlooks his own study. You’re sure everything’s out of sorts now— weeds overtaking the farm, plants dried out or overwatered, any blooming vegetation snipped at the bud before it could bloom. Tough luck, they’ll get over it.

And, God, has your family tried. Through gentle words and offers of food, through soft praises that fell on deaf ears. Through frustration, too, anger laced in the sweetest yell of ‘where’d my smart boy go?’

Your eyelids feel heavy and thick. No longer swollen with tears or bloodshot with dejection— just heavy, simply tired. Sleep is all you’ve done these days, yet it feels like your body can’t get enough. Fifteen hours a day leave you straining for more, three hours a day leave you exhausted. You can barely remember when you last left your bed— for the bathroom, never for a drink— and even when your frown deepens as you think about it, you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

You can’t bring yourself to fix anything as of late, if it can even be fixed.

You were stupid for thinking he’d feel the same, anyway. A man like ‘Nami— a man like Nanami— so smart and so distinguished. So. . opposite of you, to think you’d fall anywhere near the same line as him. . is laughable, really. Even more so when you consider his upbringing. He doesn’t mention it much, and you try not to pry, but you consider his lifestyle quite traditional and cookie-cutter. You hadn’t even asked if he liked men.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

His rejection physically pains you, a quiet sniffle and suppressed whine straining your vocal cords. Your nails dig into the fleshy, cushiony part of your palm. You can hear the pitch of his voice — rumbling and deep, you hear the shakiness of his breath—so deeply uncomfortable, cold with disgust. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

A knock to your door startles you awake, eyes wide open as your cocooned body flops around in bed. Still, you barely make an effort to respond, dry lips parting to form a garbled groan.

“Your. . . friend was at the door,” It’s your mother’s voice, but softer and pleading. For a moment your heart twists, eyebrows pinched as you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth— you can’t remember the last time you’d seen her face without slamming a door in it. “Looked tired, so I gave him some coffee. . .”

A bitter, disconcerting ‘so?’ nearly leaves your mouth— something so unlike your usual self, it makes you want to borrow deeper into your sheets and never leave. Shame. She doesn’t expect you to crack the door open. You shake your head, even if she can’t see you, only breaking your stubborn resolve when knocks once more, and slowly, you scuttle around the mess of your bedroom to unlock the door. Your eyes carry dark circles and heavy bags as your gaze pierces straight through her. Then, a shaky breath and barely audible whisper, “. . . S’it Nanami?”

Her aged smile is soft and thoughtful as she leans into the doorframe— something you haven’t seen in a while, and your eyes prickle with warm tears once more. “Between you ‘n me, you’re in much better shape.”

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

You don’t bother changing from your pajamas— they’ve always been so baggy to support the muscle you’ve grown over years of lifting heavy produce and working with truckloads— and now you’re grateful for it. Something to hide behind if you need it, and your fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of your long sleeves for comfort. Once you get downstairs the two of you depart, and a gentle rub to your shoulder blades is all your mother offers before finding solitude on her own, just a few rooms away if you need her.

And— she was wrong. Of course, he looks tired. You can see it in his shoulders— they’re all wound up and tense, like they’d been when you first met. Sure, his jaw is tightened and you can hear the grind of his teeth against one another despite keeping your distance— but he still seems put together, albeit lacking his usual combover or corporate style of clothing.

It hurts to know he does well without you, as selfish as it may sound.

“Hi,” You mumble, rubbing at your face with the palm of your hand. Your voice crackles with disuse, rumbling and garbled in your throat. “Nanami. .”

“Hi,” He echoes, your name heavy on his tongue as he stands, leveling out the shared eye contact. Just Nanami. For a moment he’s at a loss for words— and it’s odd, typically he has an answer for everything. You remember asking why he’d buckle your seatbelt before his own, and his answer was always the same. You remember asking why he likes what he does— and they’d all circle back to enjoying the small things in life. His Kento’s lips part, taken aback by the loss of his nickname, but they close into a tight line with registration. Perhaps you’re just. . too much.

“I lied to you,” He begins, and your heart leaps to your throat. He clasps his hands together, resting soundly by his thighs as his head tilts downward, a silent plea. “And, for that . . . I’m sorry,” Kento releases a breath, hands coming undone to swipe away stray, gold strands of hair. “Don’t feel obliged to accept, I just— I like y— I want to show you something.”

It’s odd. The look on your face makes him want to scoop you up, to cradle you in his arms and hold you tight. And yet, he can see the cogs turning in your brain, the gradual loss of your frown and faux steel in your eyes as you shrug— he can’t even distinguish if you’re being reluctant or stubborn. Nonetheless, Kento smoothens the fabric of his coat, and makes a small, polite gesture to the door.

“Okay.” Your fist rubs sleep from your eyes, steps heavy and dragging along the floor as you slide your feet into brown bunny slippers— the same ones he’d worn when you officially met.

Stepping into the cold, crisp winter air, you both ignore the tremor to your bottom lip, “What were you gonna. . ?”

Not at all hard to spot, set alight by the glow or orange lanterns, it’s your farm. Oh, it’s much prettier than you could’ve ever imagined it. So clean, with pristine rows and neat placements of fresh soils. You can actually walk through it, as opposed to tip-toeing around like you used to. The air is crisp and fresh, just like you’d remembered it— but it feels better than before. And, dotting the horizon, fireflies dance into the night sky and blend into the twinkling stars. You don’t remember the last time you’d seen them— vision occupied by tall grass or obstructed by rusty tools. You could almost cry. Your breath catches in your throat, a gentle breeze brushing along your forehead and digging into the fabric of your clothes— yet you feel light and warm.

He did all this for you?

“Are you cold?” You blink hard, vision blurred with tears as Kento’s hand grasps your shoulder. “You’re shivering.” He’s quick to shrug off his coat, barely even flinching when the fabric dips into fresh mud, and loops it around your form with steady hands.

“M’okay. .” He frowns, barely visible, and the slight protests of being strong enough to tough it out die on your tongue. But it’s true, you don’t feel cold— not internally, at least. You feel light yet heavy, warm and airy. Heat pokes at your skin, ignites in the apples of your cheeks and trails down your throat. “. . . Thank you, ‘Nami. . . For everythin’.”

‘Why're you saying it like that?’ He wants to ask. As if it’s some sort of sick, roundabout way of saying goodbye. His movement stutters, lips curled into a small ‘o’ before reverting back to its usual, thin line; and he speaks, “I don’t just like you.”

Your fist tightens in his coat, fabric twisting to accommodate your grip.

“I. . admire you. Your strength, your weakness. Your baking. . Your smile, too,” He sighs, quiet and cautious. “Your laugh. I regret not telling you before. At first, I thought you were impulsive, and somehow abrasive, bu—”

You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings— you laugh when you’re happy, scowl when you’re angry, mope when you’re sad. So it’s no surprise to feel you smile; wide and unapologetic. It’s no surprise to feel the tremble of your fingers as they release his coat and land on his biceps. To feel the slow, shaking breath of air he releases at your silence— hearing his own slight sniffle at the nippy, cold breeze. You’re nervous, lips twitching as his chin dips, bashful as his lips intertwine with your own.

A kiss.

"’Nami," Laughing into his mouth, it meets the sound of your lips continuously meeting in breathless, heavy harmony. His lips are plush, soft and sweet, hungry and hasty, everything and nothing and all things in between. “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you.”

You feel it now— the warmth enveloping his chest, the hard hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "Shit," He whispers, incredulous, and before slowly pulling away, cradles your handsome face between his calloused “I like you too.”

౨ৎ

Kento owns silk pillows. You can tell they’re imported from home— as they disturb the uniform colors of the crisp, cream comforter set blanketing his bed. It’s the first thing you notice, head sinking into the fabric as your eyes flutter closed, thoughts and breaths stolen with each wet, heavy kiss being pressed against your lips. His breath is hot and heavy, small groans and grunts leaving his parted lips, and— he tastes of chocolate.

“Kenny—” You gasp, but the sound of his name on your lips only eggs him on. Hot heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your tummy, so deep, something you’ve never really felt before. It tingles, almost, right through your thighs and straight to your cock, plumping up with each passing second. And his hands, god, are so quick and skilled— shedding you of your clothing as if he’s done it a million times before.

“Kenny,” You repeat, much whinier than before, tiny sounds leaving your lips as you squirm in his hold. “Mm, wait,” and his response is barely committal, a low hum that melts into a breathy sigh as your bare skin is exposed and your leaking cock springs free against your tummy. He coos, peeling the sticky fabric of your underwear free. Cute.

“Use your words,” Kento mumbles against your skin, running his hands along the silky smooth skin of the back of your thighs. “I know you can, you’re a smart boy.” You squirm with every touch, plush skin bouncy as you press your thighs together, cock sliding by your navel. And, even when you hide, he can see the precum smearing against your stomach, the tightening of your balls, and, now, your exposed hole winking back at him.

Fuck.

“Mm, don’t look,” You’ve barely convinced yourself, a choked out moan leaving your lips as his big, warm hand wraps around your cock and pumps. “That’s— oh, embarrassin’!” Slow, at first, trailing up the sensitive shaft and rubbing circles into the overly-sensitive head. Until his hand is slick with precum and his own spit, until your thighs are convulsing and you’re close to covering yourself in your own cum. Until you’re sobbing, pulling at his wrist with weak, clammy hands.

“I know, sugar. I know,” And the stifled cry you've been hearing belongs to you. “Feels good, hm?” His free hand grazes down your waist, thumbing at the dip between your hip and your thigh, then cupping the soft, plush skin of your pecs. “Feels better than your own hand, doesn’t it?” Kneading until your nipples harden against his palm, soft skin swelling around his fingers. And, oh, how pretty you are when you cry, overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and incoherent babbles leaving your swollen lips.

“Uh— huh, yeah,” Is barely breathed out, and Kento watches pre leak over his knuckles. Creamy and thick, sticky and sweet as your hips rock back and forth, to and fro. You just can’t help yourself, greedy boy, fucking into his fist like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and— oh.

It is.

“Messy boy,” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own— damp and sticky. Your hand, preoccupied with fisting his sheets, is grabbed, and all you can feel is slick, hot heat. “Fuck your fist for me.”

“Wh- Huh?” It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to your hands, wrapped tightly around your cock as your hips buck— whines high and loud in your throat, keening like a puppy. It’s not at all paced, not like Kento, just pure desperation and need as your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull. Warmth rises in your face as your legs instinctively part, tingles spreading through your body and needy moans filling the air. Wet and sloppy, your hand is slick and soaked.

He travels lower, lips trailing down your throat, your collarbones— pausing at your chest. He watches the rise and fall, the slight bounce of your pecs as you pant like a dog. Pretty buds hard and sensitive, a gentle suckle is enough to make you arch from the sheets and keen.

“Good boy, that’s it,” You have the urge to get on your knees, to present all your holes to him, to spread yourself open with your fingers- fucking them in and out, in and out, just for Kento. It’s all too much, thinking of what’s next, what’s happening now, what’ll happen later.

Nanami lifts his shirt over his chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits as he keeps it pinned between his teeth, and you have no other choice but to flutter your lashes, watching as his pants are loosened and his cock springs free. Big. Thick and long— and, it seems his tan has traveled to his cock, too. Blushing at the tip, the sweet color of mocha, it disappears the further you look down. Curved, too, slightly past his belly-button and heavy against his navel. It's humiliating, the way your mouth waters almost immediately.

It’d feel so good weighing down on your tongue, fucking your throat fast and rough, making you gag and sputter— choking on your own tears and groans.

“Wanna. . I want. . .” You squirm where you lay, whining high in your throat as you find nowhere to hide— nothing to put your face against, nowhere to bury the drunk, hazy expression on your face.

“Want what?” He murmurs, pretty eyes trailing along the curves of your face before he places a sweet, soft kiss along the edge of your jaw. You take the grip on your waist as a slight indication— Kento’s patience is slowly waning.

“V’never. .” Your lips part into a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as his large hands travel along the expanse of your chest. “I wanna. . . feel you in my throat.”

The smart man he is, Nanami, never misses a beat. Pink lips splitting into a small smile, his thumb rubs circles against your skin. Still, you can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against your thigh, hard and almost leaking. “That’s ambitious, sugar.”

You don’t register scrambling up by your elbows, nor the amount of time it takes for your fingers to fail at wrapping around his cock. Your thoughts are muffled and hazy until a quiet chuckle sounds above you— rumbly and deep, and— ah, Kento’s hand is guiding your head back as he pulls your hands free. You’re panting for it now, mouth dropped open as the slurp and slick noise of his cock tapping against your tongue drops straight to your stomach. You could cum from this alone, without even a single glance toward the ache between your thighs.

"M'gonna be so good, promise, know I can do it! Want it, Sir," A clear habit of rambling when you’re nervous, a soothing coo leaves Kento’s throat. His tip smears along your pillowy lips, sticky and salty as pre paints your chin.

“Shit,” He groans under his breath, fisting his cock to ease the ache in his balls. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you. Gentle, remember?”

You don’t. You can barely think, let alone recall something from another day. But you nod anyway, eyes glued to his cock as it bobs to and fro— pretty and weeping. You bet it’ll feel so heavy, weighing down on your tongue and nearly crushing your throat as you gag around it. He’ll taste good, too, salty and sweet as he buries his cock down your throat. With your nose pressed into the blond of his pubes, and his balls slick against your chin as they tighten and clench.

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

With a whiny nod you take his tip into your mouth, pink tongue over your teeth. In your head, it’s much easier— you can sink down to the base no problem— but in practice. . . You sputter and gurgle, leaning into the gentle touch caressing your cheek as your tongue traces the pulsing, thick vein cascading down his shaft. Through your pathetic whimpers and whines he mumbles— but it falls on deaf ears.

You stick out your tongue, cute and pink, latches onto your bottom lip, slicking his slit as he blinks down at you, pupils blown and wide as he praises you, voice smooth and buttery.

Through your own jittery, inexperienced suckling, his tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail of creamy pre between them, as his dick slides in and out your hot, wet mouth. Spreading heavy along your tongue, swallowing around the head as his thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as they strain to keep still.

“‘Nami’s dick is heavy, sweetheart,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way his balls are clenched tight, his hand morphed into a fist— careful not to grip your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum, down his thighs. “And you’re taking it so well.”

Running your tongue along his big, veiny cock, his head falls forward— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock fills your empty mouth, stuffing it full like a pre-lubed fleshlight, his balls slapping against your chin in sticky, wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until your noises are sloppy and loud. “That’s it, good boy, take this load down your pretty little throat. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Kento’s hand holds you close, until you’re buried against his pubes, until your throat is squeezing and contracting and wrapped plush around the thick shaft of his dick. You can feel it, each and every twitch and throb, each hit, sticky rope that paints your mouth as he cums down your throat, ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You’ve done so good, such a good boy, marked for Sir, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before he pulls you off.

You’d rather he paint your face, but you trust him, swallowing the bitter, salty cream as he whispers gentle praises.

“You’re perfect,” Kento mumbles through heavy gasps, rubbing away the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. Such a sweet, pliant boy, leaning into his touch as he gently pushes you back down, off your knees.

Now he’s got you folded, knees bent back in such a slutty, shameless display. The blond squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his beading, shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. Yeah, that’s good, how it slips and slides with rhythmatic pumps. You’d like to imagine that’s how it’ll be when his cock is inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, sliding against your velvety walls until he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum.

“Spit,” he says, gentle at first, but hardening as your poor, pitiful attempt at spitting down your own cock turns into gurgles of drool and incoherent moans. He grips your jaw, angling it just right— till you’re resting back on your elbows and have enough space to land a warm, wet glob right down the slit. “Good boy. Look at me, pretty. Like this.”

You watch as he spits down onto his own cock, runny and wet, which stands as a reminder of its own. His fist is so big, but it’s not nearly enough to swallow his cock down. You watch it pop free from his tight grip, loud squelches with each and every movement. Every time he throbs, pulses, shifts— you hear it all.

“That’s it, atta boy, my good little cocksleeve,” You— it must be you, there’s no one else he’s speaking to. Still, with your hand squeezing your throbbing shaft there’s not much you can say, airy little moans and sweet, high gasps leaving your pouty lips as you buck— up, up, up. A thin trail of drool slips down your chin, warm and wet and— oh, that’s nice— trailing down your cock. “That’s it, stick your tongue out.”

You really do play the part, tongue on display as you fuck your fist silly, bumping slits with the blond. Soft and sticky, loud and wet squelching until his own large, warm palm envelops both your cocks, bumping and grinding and sliding so messy. You nearly burst into hysterics when the warmth is gone, and Nanami’s gaze tears away from the pre oozing between your shafts. “Ask Sir for more, angel.”

“Mm, waitwaitwait, don’t— don’t stop,” You keen, stumbling over your tongue. Your brows pinch, eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Kenny— Sir, please.”

“Good boy,” All but purring, his hands roam along the plush, round mounds of your ass. “Yeah,” His dick slips between the slick skin of your perineum, dragging along the sensitive skin— the head of his cock catching on your rim when his thrusts turn too eager. “You’re a good boy, asking like that.”

“You like grinding on Sir's cock don’t you? Getting me all wet. . .” Just as warm and wet as he’d thought, cooped up in his office and fucking into his fist, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, shallow rut forward. Your balls bounce and twitch, slick and shiny with a mixture of pre. Your moans, so pretty, high and nasally— incoherent and blabbering. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. And his grip, once gentle and steady, leads down to your ass, keeping it spread as he slides the big head of his cock along your pretty little rim, again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your fucked out haze you try to think; you want him to ruin you.

A knot tightens in your tummy, tingling in your balls as your thighs tighten and your legs tremble— fuck, you’re cumming, hard and all at once, it catches you off guard and a choked squeal is knocked from your throat, rope after rope spraying along your own chest.

“I—” You sob, cock convulsing against your tummy as Kento groans. “I didn’t mean to— didn’t know, m’sor—”

He hushes you, a low growl in his throat as his eyes roam up your tummy, past your hard nipples and land on the splatter of cum collecting between the plush hills of your pecs. “S’okay, it just felt too good, mhm? I bet your pussy feels so good, baby— perfect, pretty little pussy swallowing up my cock.”

You don’t expect him to say that— that’s the last thing you expect, eyes rolling back in your skull as you moan, wholehearted and slutty. With the wet squeeze of lube along your bottom half, slicker and sloppier than ever before, your hole winks back at him. Your perfect, pretty little pussy. “That okay, sweetheart? Can Sir pound this hole till it aches for him?”

Your response is barely coherent, garbled sounds and babbling that roughly translates to ‘please’ as thick fingers prod at your tight, puckered hole. Your loud moans are hushed as Kento leans down, close to your ear. His fingers slide against your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with them and connecting to your puffy rim. They feel so big, so long and thick when he taps them against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Gonna get you ready for Sir’s dick, gonna finger that cunt nice and slow, get that sweet boy-hole stretched out.”

“Kenny,” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach forward to press his fingers closer, a tiny gasp leaving your lips as your entrance is breached. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the man takes the opportunity to slip his fingers right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks the digits deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Can take it, pound it, Sir.”

“Look at me, watch me, sugar. Watch Sir fuck this little hole full.” You squeeze your eyes shut for as long as the reluctant, bratty little part of your brain lets you before staring down into hazel. Until his fingers have you seeing stars and rocking back into them like a cock hungry slut, you’ve never felt more full until his cock kisses your insides, leaving you sloppy and open and full.

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelch and slap of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. Your knees over his shoulders, Kento hauls your body up, and with a tiny, wee and pathetic ‘ah!’ you follow suit, your cute little hole clenching and fluttering around his thick, leaking cock.

“Give me a little more, just a little more of this pussy,” You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the blond pistons his hips, a bruising grip on your waist that only gets harder as he grinds his cock down into you. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. You can’t take it, hands scrambling to grab at something, anything that’ll keep you from screaming.

Pounding into you, your head falls back as you take it, nice and slow, stretching you out— fast and rough, steady and patient— Kento groans above you, bullying his cock inside, grinding while your hips squirm. Mouth open with an unending stream of moans, he breaks you in, turns you into his good boy— his perfect fleshlight. Wet little hole clenching and spasming, his weight pins you down as your greedy hole milks him for all he’s worth.

“Cummin’, Nami, s’too much— M’can’t—” Whining and crying, his touches go right to your head as much as they do your puffy hole."Kenny," you whine, long and pitiful, a pout of a noise that hits him right where you want it to, just as his cock does inside of you. You whine again when your rocking turns into frantic overstimulated grinding, reveling in the stretch of his cock and the rub of your prostate. He groans, thick and gravelly, hands coming up to squeeze at your chest.

“I’ve got you, c’mere, hold Sir’s hand,” He chokes out, feeling it too. The tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are hard and deep, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. “So good for me,” You never want it to stop, not the pump of his cock, not the drag of his tip against your entrance, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. Your grip on his knuckles is tight, nails digging into the skin of his hands. “That’s it, such a pretty boy, cumming on my cock.”

A searing knot of pressure grows in your stomach, filling as you bear down on his cock and sob on your whimpers. For a minute you think you’re going to pass out, everything going dark as you spurt all over yourself, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chin and splashing back on the blond. He makes you ride it out, offering hard, shallow thrusts to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few sweet, tender kisses to your sweaty jaw.

౨ৎ

You wake with a small moan, limbs racked in small aches as your body melts into silk sheets. It smells like him: warm, cozy, and comforting, like a hug. Grateful for the dim, ambient lighting of his bedroom, your eyelids flutter open slowly, and there’s not much to adjust to. You’re clean— its the first thing you notice, a faint scent of soap lingering on your skin as your aching body scrambles for Kento’s warmth.

“I’m here,” He says behind you, hairs on your neck standing straight as you blink at him. Carrying a glass of ice water and a plate of meringue cookies— whisked perfectly. Cute, cloud-like spirals that sit on a porcelain plate— the same ones he watched you make, a smile pulls at your cheeks. “Hungry?” The muscles of your biceps flex as you push yourself up, body subconsciously leaning toward the blond until he’s sat next to you, his touches gentle and fleeting.

He feeds you a cookie, watches your teeth sink into the sweet, then wipes away the remnants of sugar from your lips. So tender, your heart flutters when he takes a bite after you— an indirect kiss.

He swallows, throat bobbing, lashes batting against his high cheekbones, before parting his lips, “I was thinking of extending my stay.”

The room feels ten times brighter, ten times louder, and yet, your heartbeat overpowers it all.

“I like you,” The words tumble from your mouth, almost as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart and building you back up. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “I more-than-like you, Kenny.”

And, without missing a beat, Kento answers truthfully this time.

“I love you too.”

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1800titz · 2 months

Text

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin.

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places.

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter.

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals.

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents.

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes.

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.”

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder.

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band.

“Can I grab you another?”

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip.

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth.

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?”

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice.

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures.

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc.

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation.

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth.

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again.

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split.

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation.

It’s a different story behind the door.

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges.

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?”

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again.

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together.

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.”

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.”

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.”

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway.

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet.

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters.

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing.

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to.

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana.

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.”

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph.

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough.

Eventually.

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat.

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock.

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.”

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing.

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head.

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader

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paperultra · 9 months

Text

mise en rose.

Pairing: OPLA!Roronoa Zoro x Reader Word Count: 3,806 words Warnings: Swearing, alcohol use

The tune that your father used to whistle now leaves your lips the same way it left his.

Notes skip offkey across the water as your boat rocks gently, waves lapping up against the wooden sides. The moon shines brightly overhead. You shift in place and wait for a tug on your fishing line, the basket at your feet waiting patiently for its first meal.

Archy will be happy if you actually catch something for once. There’s not a lot of fish around here, and you’re not exactly sure why; something about the aquatic plants in the area, or if you were to believe the old man in the village square, a curse that swallows anything with fins that swims too close. The last time you caught something was months ago, and it was tiny and more bone than flesh.

You don’t really care. It’s enough to just sit out here and feel the waves.

Cheeks puffing up with air for another round of music, you let your gaze drift out towards the ocean and abruptly freeze.

There’s something floating in the distance.

A piece of debris. Wood from a hull, a scrap of sail perhaps?

The thought that it may be the remnant of a ship destroyed at sea is enough for you to reel in your line and start rowing towards it, anticipation bubbling up and drowning out any thoughts of a midnight snack.

You get close enough and your anticipation gives way to shock.

“Oh, shit.”

The guy clinging to the chunk of wood stirs and lifts his head, and you almost hit him upside the head with your oar.

“Oh, shit. You’re alive.”

—

“You say you’re going out fishing and you come back with a half-dead man with three swords?” Archy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, but this time, you don’t blame him. This is certainly uncharted territory and your older brother is hopeless without a map. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What was I supposed to do, leave him to die?”

“I dunno! Yeah!” he gestures to the waterlogged man lying halfway on the living room couch, one arm and leg hanging off the side. “Look at him. He’s probably a pirate!”

“Damn, you think?” Crouching down, you drag your eyes across Swordsman’s ragged clothing and grin. You might’ve just rescued someone with a bounty on his head. “That’d be so cool.”

“That would not be cool.”

You shrug. “Well, I brought him in already, so you might as well help me unless you want a dead body in our living room.”

“You little –” Taking a deep breath, Archy pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, loud groan, and you know that you’ve won once more. “Fine. But as soon as he’s even a little bit better, we’re calling the Marines.”

“Okay,” you agree amicably. “So, what do we do first?”

“We have to undress him and warm him up.”

“Got it.” Your eager fingers go straight for the swords.

The man comes to life without warning. Seizing your wrist, he cracks one eye open and speaks in a low and rasping voice.

“Don’t. Touch. My swords.”

“Uh,” you say.

“We got to get everything off, mate,” Archy grumbles, and your guest turns his glare onto your brother. “I know how to clean swords and scabbards. I’ll dry them off and put them under the couch afterward.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

With a grunt, Swordsman pushes you away and attempts to sit up. He struggles for a full minute, jaw clenched and muscles trembling; his arms, strong and sturdy as they are, look like they’ll buckle at any moment.

Your eyebrows shoot up to the ceiling when he actually manages to prop himself up.

“Well, that’s impressive,” you mutter, making eye contact with Archy. He rolls his eyes. “Can you remove your clothes and wrap yourself up too?”

It takes a few moments before Swordsman has enough breath to respond. “I’m fine,” he says once he can.

“You’re really not,” Archy replies.

“You’re probably really dehydrated,” you say. “How long were you out there?”

The man stares at you, opens his mouth, pauses.

“Three days. Maybe.”

You gape. “You spent three days floating in the East Blue and you’re not dead?” You look at his neck for gills. “Are you a fishman or something?”

“No.”

“Really? I mean, I never met any fishmen before, so …”

His eye twitches. “I’m not a fishman.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.”

What a weird guy. Then again, you’ve heard that all sorts of characters traverse the Blue Sea. Devil fruit users, talking animals, clowns. A person who can survive the ocean for a couple days on a piece of wood is hardly out of the question.

“You’re dehydrated, in any case,” you conclude. “I’ll get you some water.”

—

After gruffly accepting a glass of water and putting on some dry clothes, Swordsman proceeds to “sleep it off” for the next twenty-four hours. When he finally wakes up, it’s in the middle of the night and you’ve just started rereading your favorite book.

“Oh, he’s awake,” you say when he stirs, swinging your feet off the coffee table and leaning forward in your chair to observe.

He grimaces under the dim light of your lamp, lifting an arm to press it over his eyes. “How long was I out,” he grouses.

“’Bout a day.”

“Shit.” He wriggles around in the fuzzy blanket you’ve wrapped around him. Once he’s loosened its hold enough, he sits up slowly and looks around, expression equal parts drowsy and wary. “Where –”

“Archy took your swords and cleaned them. They’re under the couch.”

“I told you not to touch them.”

“I didn’t. My brother did.”

Casting you the most unamused glare, Swordsman bends over to look underneath the couch. He pulls his swords out and places them in his lap, inspecting the white one first with a care that makes you rest your chin in your hand, curious and charmed. His brow furrows and you know that he finds your brother’s work to be satisfactory when he moves on to inspect the other two.

“Our uncle was a bladesmith in Loguetown. He taught Archy a thing or two before he passed.”

“You’re bladesmiths?”

“Coopers. Uncle was the rebel, I guess.” You close your book and stand up. “There’s leftover soup in the fridge. I’ll heat up the broth for you.”

This time, the man does not refuse your help and only nods. As you head to the kitchen and start to reheat the soup, you glance over and catch him sipping from the glass of water you’d topped off while he was asleep. Somehow, even that small action intrigues you. You smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ladling the steaming broth into a small bowl, you stick a spoon in and walk back to where Swordsman is, sitting beside him. “Here you go. Don’t drink it too fast, and all that.”

He takes the soup, blows on a spoonful, tastes it. His eyes close, and something funny happens in your stomach when he opens them again to look at you.

“’S good.”

“Really?” He nods and puts the bowl to his lips to drink directly from it. “Thanks.”

You let him finish the miso broth in silence. It gives you time to stare at him some more; even with the horrible sunburn and petroleum jelly smeared everywhere, he’s a very handsome man, that much you can tell, with broad shoulders and a pretty face and hair as green as forest moss. The three earrings on his left ear gleam gold and sway with every movement he makes.

“Are you gonna keep staring at me, or are you gonna ask me questions?”

“Hm? Oh!” Shaking your head in slight bewilderment, you smile. “Yeah, I guess it would be good to ask some questions … so, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Roronoa Zoro.”

You tilt your head with a frown. “Roronoa Zoro.” You taste the name in your mouth. “That sounds really familiar. Are you a pirate?”

“No. I hunt them.”

“You hunt them?”

“That’s what I said.”

You look at his swords again. His earrings. Three and three.

Shooting up from the couch, you dash to Archy’s room and slam the door open.

“Archimead! Wake up!” You grab your brother’s shoulders and rattle him.

“Shit – what?!” he gargles, pushing your face away with one meaty hand and sitting up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“It’s Roronoa Zoro!”

“What?”

“The guy in our living room,” you shriek at him, practically shaking, “is the Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro. I fished Roronoa Zoro out of the fucking ocean.”

Archy stops rubbing his eye. “What.”

Soon enough, Zoro faces both you and your brother in the living room once more.

“You’re Roronoa Zoro? For real?” Archy asks him.

Zoro blinks up him. “Yeah.”

“Can you prove it?”

“‘Can you prove it’ – Archy, look at him. He’s got three earrings in his left ear and three fucking swords.”

“He could be some sort of copycat. We have no idea what Roronoa Zoro actually looks like.”

“You’re such a pessimist. Nobody would lug around three swords if they couldn’t use all of them at once.” You turn your attention back onto Zoro. “How the hell did you get stranded out there?”

He looks between the two of you, waiting for a moment before crossing his arms. “I was headed to Mirror Ball Island, but the boat I was on got caught in a whirlpool,” he says, displeased. “Then I got separated from the rest of the crew. Don’t know if they survived or not.”

“Mirror Ball Island?” you repeat. “That’s a three-day journey from here, at least.”

“Where’s here?”

“Dokusha Village.” You open one of the books on the table and point to a tiny strip of coast you’d labeled on the edge of the East Blue map. “Right there. You could buy a boat and sail west, straight to Mirror Ball Island.”

“I don’t have any beri on me right now,” Zoro says.

“Oh, yeah. Of course you don’t.” Archy puts his hands on his hips. “Well, the merchant ship is coming by in two weeks. If you’re all good by then, you can hitch a ride.”

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow night.”

You snort, closing the book and reclining back. “The rate you’re going, I don’t doubt it. Does that mean you want to leave earlier? You’ll still need a boat and supplies. Food, water, towels, sleeping gear. That all costs money. I mean, we could lend you some, but still.”

“I’ll work for it,” Zoro replies. “I don’t take and give nothing in return.”

Both you and Archy give a hum of approval.

—

True to his word, Roronoa Zoro is up and off the couch by the fourth day.

He doesn’t have a clue as to how to make barrels or buckets, which is expected, so he ends up helping with the grunt work of carrying staves into the workshop and stacking finished barrels. Other than that, there’s not much for him to do.

“Sorry if it’s boring,” you apologize during lunch, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich. “You’re kind of just hired muscle.”

Zoro shrugs, chewing on his own sandwich. Two girls walking by – Phoebe and Iris, the blacksmith’s daughters – spot him on the bench and giggle, hurrying past with glances over their shoulders. He appears not to care. “It’s fine.”

“I think you’re even stronger than my brother. Is it because of your training as a swordsman?”

“Probably,” he says.

“When did you start?”

“When I was eight.”

You nod sagely. “Not surprised. I’ve been helping around the workshop since I was a kid, and I only just finished my apprenticeship a few weeks ago. It’s good to start young.”

It seems that Zoro agrees by the way he grunts, stuffing the last piece of crust into his mouth.

When he’s done, you muster the courage to ask, “What’s it like, being a bounty hunter?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow at you. Then he gazes back out at the street. “It’s fine,” he responds. “Makes good money.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Yeah, but, like, is it fun? Do you spend a lot of time at sea? See a lot of different places? Stuff like that.”

“I don’t do it for fun. My only goal is to become the world’s greatest swordsman.” He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “It’s a shitton of traveling, both on ships and on land. I’ve been all over the East Blue.”

“Wow.” The word comes out as a sigh. You crunch longingly on a carrot stick. “That sounds amazing. It’s my dream to travel all over the world on a ship.”

“How come you’re here, then?”

You wince, hushing him hastily. Glancing behind you, you clear your throat and lean in to speak softly. “Archy hates the ocean. He worked on a merchant ship for a few months when he was eighteen and got super sick.” Upon reading Zoro’s blank expression, you clarify, “I can’t just leave him. I’m the only family he’s got now, and his younger sibling to boot. So Dokusha Village it is.”

“You’re staying because of your brother.”

“Yeah. I love him, so it’s fine.” There’s a familiar ache in your chest, but you push it down and elbow Zoro’s ribs in jest. (He doesn’t even move a muscle. Geez.) “Makes okay money. I got a bunch of adventure books to live through, anyway.”

It’s a little hard to meet your lunch companion’s eyes after that. You eat the rest of your carrots in silence, pretending to be occupied with finishing them. Zoro doesn’t utter another word.

But as the two of you get back to work, he seems a little warmer, a little less stiff. You make a silly joke and Zoro huffs out something that almost sounds like a laugh while Archy threatens to stick you in a rum barrel and roll you down a hill.

Perhaps you’ve made another friend.

—

“What are you making?”

You blow off the wood dust, closing one eye to cut a fin just right. “Shark. See?”

The bonfire you’d made crackles just a few feet away as you place the half-finished carving into Zoro’s palm. He picks it up with his other hand and twists it around, touching with intention, and you almost feel self-conscious with the way he’s examining it.

“Nice,” he finally says, and the praise makes you giddy. He hands the shark back to you.

“Thanks. I had a lot of practice.”

Zoro rests his elbows on the rock behind him and takes another swig of sake. You resume carving the shark’s fins, bare feet buried in the cool sand.

Archy’s on a date for once, so he left the two of you to your own devices for the night with a distracted wave goodbye and a warning that he’ll be back late. You took that as a chance to break into the alcohol after supper and drag Zoro down to the beach. The swordsman was willing to come along, though you suspect it was mostly for the sake.

“Ain’t that your third bottle?”

“I can hold my liquor.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “No need to brag.”

He wipes his mouth, dark brown eyes black in the firelight. They glint like steel when he looks over at you, but he doesn’t say anything – not that you’re surprised; sometimes Zoro just looks at whatever he wants without any reason. He’s not particularly complicated in that sense.

(You like that. Too many things in life are complicated.)

“Hey, Zoro.”

“Hm.”

Your lips purse. “Do you think my brother will get married one day?”

“How am I supposed to know?” His tone is flat.

“Well, I dunno! It’s just a question.” You frown, slowing in your work. “It’s just that after our parents died, he’s been too busy looking after me and the shop to court someone. He’s turning thirty next year and most people his age have settled down already. I feel kind of bad.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zoro says. “Wouldn’t he have more time now, anyway, since you can take care of yourself?”

“I think he’s been out for so long he doesn’t know how to date anymore.”

Zoro downs the rest of his sake. You know that there’s no advice he can give you regarding Archy’s marriage prospects, which doesn’t surprise you either. You suppose you just need someone to listen. It’s not like you can talk to Archy about it.

“Hell,” you remember, “I’m expected to be married by now, too. I’ve never even been on a date.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Why, are you surprised?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Zoro yawns and closes his eyes. “You just seem like the type.”

“What do you mean?”

“You talk a lot,” he says.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah, I do. Would that make me a good date?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never been on one, either?”

Zoro shrugs. He doesn’t look too torn up about it. “Waste of time,” he mutters.

Your grin widens. “Figured you’d say that,” you drawl, digging your blade into the shark’s mouth. “Dating doesn’t really help you become the world’s greatest swordsman, does it?”

“Nope.”

“I still think it might be fun, though. If you’re with the right person.” With that, you brush away the last curl of wood from your carving. After admiring it for a few seconds, you offer the shark to Zoro, bumping the nose softly against his cheek. He opens his eyes and turns his head to squint at it. “Here you go. All yours.”

His brow furrows as he takes it.

“It’s a going away gift. Since you’re leaving tomorrow,” you say. Folding your knife and putting it down beside you, you grab your bottle of sake and gulp down half of what remains. “Don’t forget it.”

One of the logs in the bonfire crumbles, falling into the coals. Orange sparks fly up into the smoke and disappear just as quickly. You poke at the fire with a stick, trying not to think about how sad you’re going to be tomorrow morning.

“I won’t forget,” Zoro says.

“I know.”

—

It’s almost dawn, and the family boat is packed up and ready to set sail.

“Got everything?” Archy asks, lowering into a squat to scan over all the supplies.

“Yeah.” The swordsman drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks again for the boat.”

“It’s nothing.” Your brother elbows your arm, and you sway. “Oi. He said thank you.”

“I know,” you mumble. For the first time this morning, you spare Zoro a glance and smile at him, but it’s shaky and fake and you really hate how your voice wobbles when you say, “You don’t have to thank us. Just have a safe – have a safe –” Your voice cracks, and you look down at your feet, eyes burning. “Have a safe trip,” you finish quietly.

You can feel two pairs of eyes on you as your vision goes blurry. Shit. This is so embarrassing.

The fact of the matter is that Roronoa Zoro has been in Dokusha Village for only a week, and you’re already missing him like he’s been in your life for years. You’re going to watch him get into your family’s fishing boat and sail away, the wind at his back, the East Blue before him, and you will remain on the dock with your big brother beside you and your dream in your head.

You’re being selfish, but it’s not … it’s not fair.

Archy puts his hand on your shoulder and says your name.

You wipe your nose. “What?”

“… I’ve been thinking.” He sounds hesitant, taking in a deep breath and letting it go slowly, carefully. “You’ve always wanted to travel the world on a ship.”

It’s like the world tilts on its axis.

Rigidly, you look up at your brother, eyes wide.

“I’m not dumb, you know. You’ve only stayed here because of me,” Archy says. “I’m the one who’s supposed to look after you and protect you. But you’ve been able to do that for yourself for a while, now. Right?”

“Archy.” You swallow. “What are you …?”

“I talked with Zoro last night. He’s willing to take you to Mirror Ball Island, if you want.” His smile is crooked, but it trembles at the corners as he continues. “You know how to sail, how to navigate. We’ll just have to add some extra stuff to the boat.”

You can barely breathe.

“There’s plenty of merchant ships there,” Zoro adds, leaning on his sword. “Your skills are valuable. Just be willing to pull your own weight, and they’ll take you on board. If not, I’ll tell them to.”

“You don’t have to –” Now you’re full-on bawling. You throw your arms around Archy, who wraps you in a bear hug, and then around Zoro, who stiffens. “Thank you so much. Thank you thank you thank you.”

“No problem,” Zoro mumbles, patting you on the back. When you let go to beam at him, he averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “Just hurry up.”

Nodding, you dash back up to your house, Archy following close behind. You grab your bag, throw what you need into it, snatch your hat from your bedpost. Less than twenty minutes pass before you’re all ready to go.

“Got everything?” Archy asks once more at the dock. You nod and look at Zoro, who nods as well. “All right.”

You hug Archy for the last time. Tears spill over and down your cheeks. “Thank you for everything, big bro. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, kid.” His voice is rough and trembly, muffled against your head. “Come back to visit sometime, okay?”

“Okay.”

Getting into the boat with Zoro, you help him check the rigging and hoist the sail. Archy unties the vessel and pushes the two of you off. As you float away, he waves, and you wave back, staring as he gets smaller and smaller.

“I’m not turning back,” Zoro tells you as you eventually settle in your seat. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Is it?

You cast one last glance back at Dokusha Village, at the small point of your brother. Then you look out at the broad expanse of the ocean. And you feel many things – joy, sadness, apprehension – but above all that, you feel –

Free.

“Yes,” you say firmly. You push your hat down and smile at Zoro, and this time, it’s genuine. “It is.”

Zoro smiles back. And as the sun begins to warm your face, you whistle your father’s song and think about the journey to come.

#opla #one piece #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro #opla zoro #one piece live action #opla fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #fluff #once again i underestimated how long this would take. hoowee #opla zoro my grumpy old man :)#good thing reader is coming along otherwise he'd NEVER make it to mirror ball island rip

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chrisevansonly · 5 months

Text

𝐕𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐏𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐲

𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when the cold winter comes, lando’s quick to bring his little family back to the sunshine and warmth

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, very fluffy

𝐚/𝐧: okay im sorry im so slow, my mental health has been taking a serious hit recently, and it still is but i really wanted to get a little something out for you guys, this is very small and im so sorry for that🩷

Baby babbles and gurgles filled the space under the pale yellow beach umbrella, the Cuban air warm and fresh against your skin as you watched your little Poppy smile and flail her arms, laying on the soft white towel you’d put down for her.

Lando off in the distance enjoying the water as he cooled off, as soon as the bitter cold and snow hounded England. It wasn’t as if you all disliked winter, but it was nice to get into the sun and sand, especially for your little girl.

Poppy smiled up at you, her teeth still not in yet, you couldn’t resist picking her up and holding her to your chest, pressing kisses across her face.

“My little sun baby, you’re so cute!”

Happy squeals leaving her lips at the attention of her mum, her eyes only lit up more seeing Lando walking towards the two of you.

“Here comes daddy, I think he’s done swimming!”

“Hi petal!” came Lando’s voice full of love as he reached to pick up the 5 month old, who immediately scrunched her face up at her fathers wet hair, dripping onto her

“Lando look at her face”

You laughed noticing the displeasure on Poppy’s face, clearly not appreciating the chilly ocean water

“Oh sorry my love, not a fan of the water?”

Lando smiled as his little girl tucked her head into his neck, almost as if to say yes to his question, but she soon relaxed, her eyes drooping ever so slightly as his hand began rubbing up and down her back softly

“I think your lulling her to sleep there baby”

When he looked back down, Poppy was very much asleep which allowed him to carefully sit next to you, your head finding its usual place on his shoulder

“This is nice isn’t it?” he said softly after a few moments

“Absolutely perfect…thank you Lan”

A kiss was placed to your forehead, his arm squeezing you a bit tighter

“Anything for my girls”

If anyone asked you what heaven felt like, you’d say this moment right here; cuddled up with your husband and baby girl, as the waves crashed gently onto the shore and the sun shone down warmly.

This right here, was heaven.

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seattlesellie · 1 year

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You x loser!ellie go to the beach and ellie is already freaking out because you’re in a bikini but then you get hit by a really strong wave and your bikini top flies off 🤭

that is soooooo ᰔ ᰔ ᰔ

🌊🌊🌊🌊

like you and ellie go to swimming together in the deep ocean water away from all of your friends. and she has this little … salt water stache sparkling under the sun right above her top lip !! she licks it as you move deeper and deeper into the water, the sand massaging your feet slightly and the sea algae scaring you to death !! every time you squeal she cant help but laugh at you … maybe thats a little mean, but shes so so nice when she holds your hand as she guides you through the rocks <3

and imagine how cute shed look squinting because the sun is too bright !! tiny little droplets of sweat all over her forehead … maybe shes also a little sunburnt on her cheeks ,,, because she definitely refuses to wear sunscreen… and so as the shore seems further and further away, the parasols looking like little colorful globs the more far you stray, you offer her to jump the waves with you … and she obviously happily obliges !!

you have a casual convo about sea turtles and sea animals (ellie either is obsessed with sharks or she has a really intense obsession over some weird unknown fish. imagine like,, leafy sea dragon… and she has about 90 interesting facts to tell you about it too) and so— you’re jumping up and down, she obviously tried to drown you two times but we will ignore that !! and suddenly you get hit by an intense, large wave that makes you go completely blind… and the salt obviously gets inside your eyes and you cant see shit, you’re both coughing trying to balance on each other and then — shes the one who realizes.

you’re completely topless. she realizes because now, the strings of your bikini aren’t visible to her anymore over the water… and she’s just floating there (still rubbing her eyes) her face is all red wearing this panicked expression… so she goes like “y— your top” and you’re still kind of dazed…. so you ask her very loudly “what??” (because maybe some water got in your ears) so she stutters “your bikini… flew off” and you start running your hands all over your chest because how the fuck are you supposed to find it ?? and ellie cant even MOVE let alone maintain her feet kicking to keep her afloat. she can’t see them very clearly but as soon as the sea goes tranquil and the waves stop hitting ,,, she sees your the top of your nipple just above the water … and she feels like she might stop breathing. maybe shell drown, maybe shell get a heat stroke!

she lets out a long shaky breath and tells you “i can help you… look for it” and when you tell her she’ll never find it shes like “no— no its fine i’ll look under water dont… fuck— dont worry about it” so she takes a dip inside… and her heart is beating so so fast. you drop your hands from your chest because the last thing thats on your mind is the possibility of her seeing, or trying to look at them underwater… but god, you barely know her do you? because when shes deep in there, and sees you drop your hands to meet your waist— it’s like she needs to ask joel to give her swimming lessons again.

she suddenly forgets why she’s even under there … what… bikini? what even happened? the only thing thats on her hazy mind, is the two beautiful mounds and the hard nipples poking through, her vision is a little blurry, yeah, but she’s still seeing them, and that’s enough for her to start choking under water again, and feel her pussy twitch inside her blue palm trees printed shorts … she almost wants to just … pretend to be a sea algae. maybe you won’t notice its her hands caressing your tits, maybe she could get away with it. thankfully, she’s not… that much of a perv, so she just stays there for a second, feet kicking inside the water, and it’s only when she cannot breathe anymore, that ellie breaks her own trance and goes up for some air.

“didn’t find it.”

“want me to look for it again?”

⋆˙⟡♡

#𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 anon 🎀#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x you #ellie williams smut

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tw1l1te · 2 months

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In your opinion who do you think in the chain in most flusterable to the guide showing skin and being flirty?

OOhhhhh This is gonna be funnn~

Based on my personal headcanons and others' fanfics I've read, I think that Sky, Hyrule, and Wild would be the most flustered at our guide being flirtatious and showing more skin than they're used to.

However, that's not to say they're the only ones, the others are just better at hiding it.

Let's take it from the top!

Warnings: VERY SUGGESTIVE, NSFW

Minors do NOT interact

Sky

Our cute sleepyhead is beet-red. Absolutely in flames.

It was supposed to be a quiet, typical morning in Skyloft. He would get up and make some tea and look at the Sky before meeting up with the rest of the Chain.

But of course you decided to go on a jog that morning, wearing nothing besides a sports bra and shorts, as you tended to overheat during exercise.

Being so exposed in any of their eras was unheard of, so of course it was a sight to see, particularly for Sky.

The way your chest bounced with every movement, pearls of sweat dribbling down into the crevice between your breasts. He wondered what it would taste like on the tip of his tongue, licking each bead of salty sweat.

The way your hips moved in tandem with your jogging, expertly keeping up with the movement of your legs. Hips that he would grip while he rammed his cock into you, hitting the spongy spot every. Single. Time.

The way your face was pink and rosy from the slight chill in the air, but also running for so long, nearing exhaustion. Your tear-brimmed eyes looking up at him as you took him entirely in your mouth, whimpering at how full you felt.

You suddently waved at him, smiling and yelling something you taking a shower.

You threw a wink over your shoulder at him as you left him behind

Was that an invitation?

Hyrule

He wasn't sure if he loved or hated Wind's era for this.

Going on Tetra's ship for a side quest was the last place he expected for something like this to happen but... he wasn't complaining. Hell, none of them were.

You saunter out from under the deck, wearing nothing but a "string bikini" (as you call it)

Hyrule.exe has stopped working

Wars had to snap him out of his staring, as he was starting to drool

You walk up to him and sit down, looking out onto the ocean

"Eyes up here, Fairy boy."

He fumbles around trying to come up with an excuse while you double over in laughter, he was too in shock to process anything

Once he calms down, you both continue looking out onto the expanse of the horizon, sun begininng to set

He tried to ignore the way the sun illuminated your body, all the small scars and curves in your body highlighting your features

"You know.... I wore this lil' number particularly for you, Rulie. Seems like you like it." you whisper, nipping lightly at his ear.

Before he can respond or formulate a thought, you get up and hold out your hand

"Care to go for a swim, Fairy boy?"

You were gonna be the death of him.

Wild

Wild liked to think he was pretty good at keeping his composure, after all, he was a stoic knight in his past life.

That's not to say he doesn't show emotion, he's so much more open know and genuinely laughs and smiles ever since he woke up from his century long slumber.

So when all of you returned back to his era, he was ecstatic to show you around more, as last time you dind't get much of a chance to.

What he didn't take into account is that you would be sharing a bed with him.

Sweet goddesses, he wasn't gonna be able to sleep for days.

He was right

The first night cam around and the Chain setup their sleeping mats on the lower level of his home, shifting some of the funiture to make sure they all fit, while you went under the stairs to change

Wild was anxiously pacing upstairs, biting his finger nails.

This is fine, its fine! There's nothing weird about two friends sleeping next to each other, if that's what you can call your situationship with him and the seven older boys. It's fine! It's only a night- oh sweet Hylia you were wearing the shortest nightdress he's ever seen-

You yawn as you stretch, one of the straps falling off of your shoulder.

Mother of- he's done for. He's so done for.

You make your way to his bed, crawling up to the side closest to the wall. Peeking over your shoulder, you look at him, his face illuminated by the candle on the nightstand.

"You getting in bed with me or what?"

#yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe x reader #twilite answers

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the-iceni-bitch · 4 months

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𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕲𝖔 𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖘, 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖆𝖒 𝕴 𝕾𝖚𝖕𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝕾𝖆𝖞?

𝙼𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝙾𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚗

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛.

𝙰𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

Relationship: merman (havmand) Thor Odinson c princess!reader

Words: ~2.2k

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected vaginal and anal sex, size difference, multiple orgasms, double penetration), pet names, dub-con, SMUT!! 18+ ONLY!!!

A/N: I know it’s not October or 2023 anymore, but let’s not all about that. Let’s just talk about the fact that Thor is big and beefy and has two dicks.

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all my fics, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library .

You felt as though you didn’t have any tears left to cry while you stayed curled up in your bed. You could still hear your mother shouting at you through your door, though it did seem as though she was finally walking away as her voice was getting quieter. Perhaps she was finally going to leave you alone.

The thought of having to leave your home made you sob again in spite of your lack of tears. Leaving the sea and the cliffs you were used to and having to be surrounded by mountains sounded like torture. You needed the sound of the waves crashing against the towering rocks and the smell of the salt air as the wind carried its spray against your face. What were you supposed to do with the scent of snow and pine?

At some point your eyes drifted closed, and when you opened them again it was the middle of the night. The moon was reflecting off the sea below your window. You rubbed your eyes as you rose to your feet to open it, sighing at the scent of brine and frozen air made goosebumps rise on your skin. Another hour passed with you just staring at the ocean, the movement of the waves and the silvery light of the moon stirring something deep inside you. That was when you made your decision. You couldn’t be the wife to some king in a frozen, rocky wasteland. The sea was your life, it meant everything to you.

Your dressing gown slid to the floor so you were standing in nothing but your shift. A few steadying breaths were all you needed before you climbed out of your window and found purchase on the notches in the stone wall of your tower that you had scrambled down so many times before. Even though it was slick from the spray and starting to get icy, you still made it down in one piece. It was freezing, but it made you feel alive.

As soon as you reached solid ground you didn’t hesitate, running the few meters to the cliff’s edge and diving off into the empty air. Wind whipped around you for the perhaps three seconds before you entered the water and the shock of cold forced all of the breath from your lungs. There was no time to adjust, though, you had to start swimming. You breathed deeply when you resurfaced, your limbs fighting against the brutal push and pull of the waves as you made your way to deeper waters.

Every time your body was rocked by the waves your breath caught in your throat. It was like the sea was calling your name, desperately trying to pull you under and make you one with its murky depths. If you didn’t have a goal in mind you may have let it, but your eyes were fixed on the massive rock that rose from the waves a few miles from the coast, the one that was almost an island unto itself. His rock.

You were almost there when something wrapped around your waist and pulled you under the waves, making you scream as seawater burned your throat.

“Do not scream, kjæreste,” the sound of his voice immediately soothed you, your face tucking perfectly into Thor’s neck when he rolled onto his back and carried you towards the rock that was his home above the sea, “swimming in the middle of the night, there are far more dangerous things then I that rise from the depths at this hour, little princess.”

“I don’t care,” even in the freezing cold water he was warm, as was his smile when you peeked up at him through your lashes. “It would be better than what my mother has planned for me.”

“She still intends to marry you to the inland princeling, then?” Thor lifted you onto the slick black stone and climbed up after you, hushing you when you immediately crawled into his arms and buried your face in his chest. “My sweet little princess, you haven’t even met the man, you may like him.”

“No I won’t,” you gave him a stubborn pout. “I need the sea, I need you. I love you, Thor.”

“Little one…” Thor kissed the top of your head when you pressed your body even closer to his. “You may or you may not, kjæreste. Give it time. When you have been married to your princeling for a few years it will pass.”

“Don’t say that!” Your wail was truly miserable, your tears falling freely as you looked up at Thor with a wretched expression. “I don’t want to marry him! I want to be with you! Don’t make me go back, please.”

“You do not realize what you are asking, princess.” Thor stroked your hair and let out a deep sigh. “You would never be able to go home. You would never see another human being for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t want anything except you.” You clambered so you were straddling his tail, running your fingers through his golden hair and grinding against his sheath. “Only you, Thor. You’re all I need.”

“You are such a tenacious little thing, I do not believe I could ever say no to you.” Thor pulled you close and kissed you deeply, groaning into your mouth as he felt his cocks sliding from their sheath and growing hard under your ass. “You must be sure though, little one. You must tell me now that you can give up your family, the land of your birth, and all of your friends to be mine. That you will stay true even when I must stay beneath the sea for weeks at a time. Can you promise me, kjæreste?”

You felt your lower lip starting to quiver as you gazed at him. Of course you would miss your family and your friends, and the thought of not seeing them ever again gave you pause. But you really did love Thor. He was like the sea brought to life, and you could no sooner live without him than you could the sea itself.

“I promise, Thor.” You moaned into his mouth and fluttered your eyes when he kissed you deeply, one of his large hands gripping the edge of your shift and dragging it up your hips. The fingers of his other hand were suddenly filling your mouth and you sucked on them greedily, making sure to soak them with your spit as they muffled the sound of your voice. “I love you.”

“And I love you, little princess.” Thor smiled warmly as he dragged his fingers out of your mouth and kissed you again, his tongue tracing the curves of your lips as he slipped his spit-soaked fingers between the cheeks of your ass and teased them over the satiny skin of your asshole. “Just remember to keep breathing for me.”

Even though you nodded you couldn’t help but choke on your tongue when suddenly both of the trembling holes between your legs were full of him; your pussy with one of his thick cocks and your ass with two of his fingers as he stretched you in preparation. He swallowed each pathetic, desperate noise that fell from your lips when he started to move, cooing softly when your cunt fluttered around him and your fingers gripped his hair at the base of his neck. It was exceptionally adorable how quickly you turned into a whimpering mess once he started to fuck you, but he found it endearing.

You were very quickly starting to fall under the same spell you always fell under once he was inside you, murmuring nonsense words in between your whimpers while you struggled to move your body on top of his. He was so big, he always made you feel so tiny but never more so than when the two of you were locked together like this. The way he stretched you open to take him was almost painful from the strain but you secretly loved it, and when he removed his fingers from your ass and replaced them with his second cock you couldn’t do more than let out a garbled scream of pleasure as an orgasm raged through your body.

Thor took control when your body succumbed to the unimaginable bliss he always inflicted on you, kissing you gently in a way that contrasted beautifully with the sudden sharp and brutal movements of his hips. You were lost in a warm, gray haze when he rolled the two of you so he was on top, mumbling when you felt the sharp scrape of his teeth along your jaw as he fucked into you with abandon. Even in your incoherent state you still rolled your body to meet his, your breasts pressed against the smooth plane of his chest and your fingers clawing across his back as they struggled to find purchase on his slick skin.

Even though he made his home in the arctic waters of your country, Thor was so warm. Slippery and warm and large all over. It was addictive, like bathing in the volcanic pools and hot springs you had enjoyed in your youth. But in truth they were nothing like having Thor fuck you. Both of his cocks seemed to fit inside you perfectly, drawing orgasm after orgasm out of your body until your own body was almost as slick as his. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once; cupping your breasts and squeezing your ass, gripping your hips and massaging your thighs. Then suddenly they were holding your face tenderly as he kissed all the breath from your body and fucked you so deep you could feel him in your throat.

When he ground against your clit you sobbed, your pussy fluttering wildly and your asshole clenching around each of his cocks as he kept moving faster and deeper. Your eyes stayed fixed on his even as they grew glassy and unfocused, your lips moving as though in a silent prayer as he growled into your mouth and began to thrust even more wildly. Thor’s lips trailed down your throat as you squirted and writhed against him, the low timbre of his voice vibrating your whole body and making everything even more intense.

You let him move your body however he pleased, putting up no resistance when he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. When he bit your shoulder you just whined, shaking when the sudden sharp pain drew another climax from your exhausted body. It had never been like this before. It had always been intense and passionate but not like this. It was as though he was doing everything in his power to make his mark on you, and you were accepting it without protest.

All of your focus suddenly snapped to the sensations between your legs, one final, practically painful orgasm ripping through your body and making you scream so loudly the rock shook from the sound. And then his cocks were swelling and stretching you even wider and you could feel yourself about to pass out, the sudden warm rush of his cum into the deepest parts of you finally pushing over the edge into pitch black emptiness. Thor sighed as he watched your body sag and your eyes roll back in your head, smiling at you and gently cupping your cheek as you slid into unconsciousness. He took a few minutes to enjoy the sight of your sleeping form before carefully pulling out of you, chuckling when your pussy and asshole clenched around the emptiness and his seed dripped from your wide-stretched holes.

He pushed you into a corner near one of the steam vents to keep you warm while you slept, kissing your forehead before sliding back towards the sea and silently slipping into the water. It didn’t take him long at all to reach the murky depths, swimming through the algae as he sought the underwater cave he needed. Brunnhilde was there waiting for him, grinning wickedly as she flexed her tentacles around the stone she was reclining on and toyed with a brightly colored anemone. It was rare that she traveled this far north, but they’re kingdoms were friendly, and the sea witch would always be there for her friend and whatever assistance she could lend to his sinister ambitions.

“I take it your little princess gave her consent?” She chuckled darkly when he nodded, swirling her fingers through the cold water and sighing when it glowed with her magic. “How many have you collected now, seventeen?”

“Nineteen.” Thor found his own rock to rest against, burrowing his tail in the volcanic sand and beaming at his friend. “One for each of the rocks in the bay. Though I do find myself growing incredibly fond of this one.” A seahorse made the mistake of swimming too close to the havmand and he snarled as he snatched it from the water and ripped it in half with his teeth before chewing and swallowing. “If I sacrifice the others do you think you could work up a spell that might allow me to keep her?”

#natalie writes #monstrous mayhem #kinktober 2023 #merman!thor odinson #thor odinson #thor #thor odinson x reader #thor odinson x you #thor odinson x y/n #thor x reader #female!reader #marvel au #eighteen plus #thor odinson smut

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un-officql · 3 months

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Encounter by the Beach

NSFW 1.7k word count tentacles x male!reader

REBLOGS APPRECIATED, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS POST

On the beach, the sand is warm and the waves ebb and flow. It is a nice day out, not too hot, and you decide to visit the ocean today. The waves kiss the shore as you walk beside the edge where the sand meets the sea. You walk closer to the water and feel that the water is cold. It isn't freezing, but you find that the deeper you went, the colder it got. Finding the strength to push forward, you go further into the water. The floor beneath you is a mix of rocks and sand.

As you continue to venture out to sea, you feel something slimy touch your toe. Alarmed, you immediately move back, thinking, 'Gross!' As quickly as you backed away though, you forced yourself to calm down and assume it was just a rock with algae on it. Brushing it off, you do as you have been until your foot touches another slimy thing. It felt exactly the same as the last, if not a little bigger. More slime did seem to mean it must be a bigger rock. You remove your foot once again and continue forward, until you encounter another rock, and another. You think, if you continue like this, there will just be a bigger scale of algae covered rocks. Not wanting that, you turned around and began to retreat back to where you came.

You stepped a few times in another direction until you felt something wrap around one of your legs and yank you back. You stagger, kicking away whatever caught onto your leg. It was a bit tough, but you managed to get it away. You make a face of disgust. It didn't feel like kelp or seaweed. In fact, it felt just like those slimy rocks.

Before you can attempt to take another step again, the unknown appendage finds its way back and wraps around your other leg. You yelp, kicking away at it. But this time, it didn't budge. Instead, you felt its grasp become tighter. You struggle and kick, still finding that your efforts are useless. You take a moment to catch your breath, moving your arms a little to help your head stay above the water. Seizing this chance, another similar unknown appendage coils around your other leg, now making both legs unable to move.

You panic, now making your arms work double to try to get you out of there and move closer to shore. But the more you try to swim away, the more the slimy appendages drag you away, deeper and deeper until your head is fully submerged into the water. Your arms struggle to move, much less help your head reach air. You open your eyes under the water to see what exactly was dragging you into the water. Two glowing light blue tendrils that looked almost see-through were what had a hold of your legs. They were both wrapped tightly around your calves and reaching just above your knees, but the most important thing you realized was that they had felt the same kind of slimy feeling that you got when you touched the rocks. Your eyes widened. They weren't rocks.

They're tentacles.

While you were distracted, two more tentacles latch onto your wrists, seizing any movement completely. No matter how much you tried to fight back, it wasn't long before your strength had left you and you couldn't hold your breath any longer.

You feel lightheaded, and your immediate thoughts are that you're going to die. But to your surprise, the tentacles move your arms up to the surface for you to breathe again. You cough, trying to get all the water out of your system. You feel another tentacle slip onto your back and rub it gently, as if trying to soothe you through your coughing. When you're done, the tentacles drag you away again, making sure to keep your head above the water but occasionally making water splash into your mouth anyway. Not even a minute away, you reach a stone cavern near the shore. Somehow, you noticed that the cave still managed to be deep enough for your legs to not reach the bottom.

The tentacles prop you up against the wall where there's a small ledge of rock for you to sit on. Pinning your arms above you, the tentacles begin to rearrange themselves. One keeps your wrists bound above your head while two of them spread your legs apart. You whine and squirm, hating the feeling of the slimy tentacles against your skin. The tentacles tighten their hold on you just as they did before, and it makes it much harder for you to move much at all. To make things worse, a thicker tentacle appears near you and slithers its way under your clothes, and you gasp as it slowly runs up your waist and eventually wrapping itself securely around your chest. With your arms, legs, and torso bound, you can't move anything but your head.

Just then, the water surrounding you begins to make little bubbles and ripples in the water. When you look down, you watch in horror as what looks to be about ten more tentacles emerge from the water, all light blue and glowing and semi-transparent. Something else you notice though is that they all varied in size. The tentacles approach you slowly, and you almost scream. One tentacle shoves itself into your mouth, preventing any loud sounds to come out from you. The only sound that could be heard was your muffled yells and screams.

While you screamed and tried to call for help, the other tentacles began to wrap themselves around your body, rubbing and caressing any skin they could touch. They poked and prodded at your clothes, eventually deciding on their own to rip them off you. You jolt at the sound of your clothes being torn apart, terrified of the strength of the tentacles that have you in their grasp. A small gust of wind brushes against your newly bare body, and you shudder and struggle, trying anything to squirm away. While you were focused on struggling, a tentacle wraps itself around your dick. Slowly but surely, it starts to squeeze gently and cover your whole length as it hardens. Tears prick in your eyes, your moans muffled by the tentacle in your mouth. The tentacle around your member kept a slow and steady pace for you, then went faster the more you moaned.

Another tentacle caught your eye when you looked down, and your eyes widened as you watched it breach your entrance. It pushed itself inside you with some difficulty. You felt a burning in your lower body as you felt the tentancle inch its way inside you. Spurts of milky white cum dripped from your dick as you moaned and sobbed, tears falling as your muffled wails echoed the cavern. Your cum spread on your thighs and knees, and some of the rock you were positioned on had drops of your cum too. The tentacle wrapped around your dick didn't stop moving, but it slowed down jerking you off so you could adjust to the tentacle entering your tight hole. After you've adjusted, every tentacle surrounding you, inside you, wrapped tightly around you, moved in a way that you could only feel pleasure. It started of slow, but even when it barely sped up, you came a second time. Then a third time. By the fourth you felt like you were going to pass out.

Unbeknownst to you, whenever you came, the tentacles gradually got thicker in size and grew slightly in length. By now you were practically choking on the tentacle playing with your tongue while you were fucked senseless by a tentacle thicker than your own cock down below. The sensation was unlike anything you've ever felt. Pleasure and pain mixed together and blurred so much you couldn't tell which was which anymore.

୨୧

You're unsure of how much time had passed, but the brighter the tentacles became, the darker the cavern was. You must've been fucked for an hour, maybe two, maybe more. The relentless poking and prodding being done to your body, the choking and rubbing and squeezing and pounding, the way you twitched and went limp only to be jolted awake again for a hundredth round... it was too much. It was so much you felt you could die. But it felt so good. No, it felt too good. It was too much, you wanted to cry out. It's all too much.

It was completely dark. Or at least it would've been if the tentacles in and around you didn't glow. They were so bright in the stark contrast of dark that you could see the tentacle in your hole pumping in and out, reaching your prostate almost every time. Your body felt sticky and slimy all over, and you're not sure if it's because of how much you came or if it's the tentacles' fault. You were too exhausted to care, too out of it. Your mind became mush and at some point the tentacle in your mouth removed itself, joining inside your ass with the tentacle who was already in there. How both of them fit inside you, you couldn't be sure.

୨୧

You pass out and wake up and cum and cry multiple times in one night, and eventually you just black out completely, not waking no matter how much the tentacles pump into you or rub you or squeeze you. You're completely down for the count until you wake up the next morning.

୨୧

When your eyes finally open, you feel as though you want to go back to sleep. You are still positioned on the rocky ledge in the cavern, but your hands are to your sides instead of being pinned above your head. You ffeel sore all over and feel almost heavy. You looke down to find that your body, as well as the rock ledge you're on, is completely covered, practically soaked, in milky white cum.

The tentacles had left you, left naked and covered in your own cum. You feel yourself on the verge of passing out again, and when you hear the shout of someone familiar, you close your eyes once again for just one more nap. The familiar voice rumbles in your ears, growing louder and sounding more panicked as it got closer. You don't register any of their words. You fall asleep.

#💌#monster fucker #exophilia #terato #tentacles #tentacle monster #monster x male reader #tentacles x male reader

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yeyinde · 11 months

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WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." "Why?" You asked, blinking at her. "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore.

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach.

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap.

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement.

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it.

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him.

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home.

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear.

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz.

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores.

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches.

Gaz was unique, different.

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community.

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood.

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright.

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it.

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant.

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him.

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear.

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head.

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon.

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten.

You think about him often.

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name.

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play.

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull.

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere."

You leave, and you don't look back.

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed.

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat.

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead.

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to.

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you.

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses.

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed.

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing.

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her.

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror.

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away.

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay.

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea.

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet.

It's a dangerous place to get caught in.

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock.

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen.

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst.

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil.

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head.

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock.

All is quiet—except the sea.

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea.

Another step. Another.

For a moment, you're free.

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality.

It's peaceful.

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back.

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing.

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine.

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue.

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love."

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself.

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw.

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic.

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue.

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?"

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face.

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet."

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time.

You blink. Blink again.

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before.

They didn't say anyone new moved to town.

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?"

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him.

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar.

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard.

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway."

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty.

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins.

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay.

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do.

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm.

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north.

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company.

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think.

You wonder if he was expecting you.

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question.

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts.

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water."

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big.

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick.

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body.

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders.

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory.

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly.

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice.

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh.

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath.

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you.

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush.

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud.

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you.

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire.

You should.

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer.

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own.

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest.

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words.

"So I did."

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil.

"Got some time tonight?"

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read.

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love."

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?"

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead.

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of."

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes.

And so, you kiss him.

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips.

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you.

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest.

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw.

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm.

You never want to let go.

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left.

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth.

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking."

Price shudders.

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips.

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you?

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls.

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver.

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no.

It can't happen. It can't.

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together.

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out.

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor.

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag.

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more.

"Waiting for a ride?"

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears.

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead.

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat.

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision.

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe.

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark.

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you.

Like he knows.

And maybe, he does.

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell.

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard.

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom.

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror.

You can't remember if it's you.

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic.

Stupid.

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths.

The door rattles. Clicks.

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke.

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror.

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him.

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared.

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders.

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price."

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so.

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out.

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter.

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear.

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees.

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner.

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does.

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much.

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern.

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend.

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know.

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers.

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter.

The woods are dangerous.

You don't want to go.

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together.

"You want to, don't you?"

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway."

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering.

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea.

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion.

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato.

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision.

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry.

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase.

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head.

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it.

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge.

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge.

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed.

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave.

One slip, you think. Just one.

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince.

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him.

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest.

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go.

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces.

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to.

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet.

Two more. Two more.

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go.

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside.

You don't know why you're here.

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body.

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead.

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived.

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic.

You are—

"Foolish."

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug.

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb.

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear.

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped.

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves.

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure.

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?"

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw.

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love."

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all.

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears.

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know.

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep.

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers.

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine.

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?"

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams.

"Did you ever give me a choice?"

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head.

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine.

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin.

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you.

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair.

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance.

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood.

When he speaks, the world falls silent.

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go.

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins.

You don't know what you're doing.

The whispers in your head go silent.

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go.

You think of him, and you know.

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there.

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems.

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go.

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee.

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly?

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul.

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever.

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm.

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home.

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting.

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow.

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver.

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow.

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin.

"Welcome home."

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her.

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name.

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse.

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me?

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

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suguwu · 6 months

Note

Mer!jing yuan save me … mer!jing yuan … save me mer!jing yuan

listen i know this is a meme but—

gn!reader, shipwrecks, yandere. minors and ageless blogs dni.

he's been watching the ship.

it moves smoothly through the waters, parts the waves and leaves a quiet trail in its wake. the sails ripple with the wind, a disturbed pond, until they balloon out, full-bellied like the moon. it's well-made, the ship, and well-loved. jing yuan has seen enough ships to know.

and its captain is just as loved.

he's seen how your men respond to you, the way they laugh merrily but follow your orders without question. they cheer your name after you take the helm during a summer storm, the hungry sea breaking against the hull, lightning forking through the sky. after the storm passes, you stand on the deck, chest heaving. the sun peeks out from behind the distant clouds, and you turn your face up towards the watery light. it burnishes you, warms your wet figure into something more.

the ship sails on.

jing yuan follows.

it's easy to keep up despite the wind catching in the sails, his powerful tail coiling and bunching with muscle as he swims, the scales shining like moonlight beneath the water. he keeps his distance, for now.

the ocean favors you, he thinks, with the way sea spray kisses your lips like a lover, catches in your hair, crystalline droplets crowning you. the salt gleams on your skin when you're on deck, glittering in the sunlight as you weave your way through the deckhands.

he has heard the sirens before, the wailing echo of their enchanting song, and he hears them in your voice. it draws him near, closer than he should, peeking out of the water like the moon rising over the horizon to watch you as you get ready for bed, your windows open wide to the expanse of the sea. he watches, and watches, and watches.

the sound of your voice sinks into his bones, slips silken through his blood. he would know it anywhere, can unwind the thread of it from the patchwork quilt of the sea shanties you sing with your crew. he contemplates speaking to you, but he can wait. he knows the path you are taking, his fingertips weaving a current. he knows where it ends.

jing yuan knows patience well.

your laugh shimmers like moonlight on the water as you dance a jig with your first mate, bouncing merrily. the sea laps at the hull of your ship, peaceful and sweet, belaying the tempest it can whip into.

he can taste the storm coming.

it hits that night, the bruised clouds swallowing down the moon, the sea churning, white-capped waves like teeth. the ship is buffeted by the howling wind, sent skipping forward as you yell to your crew, voice firm. it is only because he knows you so well that he can recognize the waver to it.

the storm grows.

it catches the ship in its teeth, drags it to and fro like a dog with a bone. you yell until your voice goes hoarse, rasps like the waves against the pebbles of the shore. the ship keels under the press of a hungry wave. jing yuan hums to himself, the sound lost to the storm, and dives.

beneath the roiling surface, the ocean welcomes him, the currents tickling against his powerful body as he keeps pace with the ship. the current he'd spun swirls around him like a tapestry, warm and familiar.

it does not take long to see them.

his mother the sea has whittled the rocks into gravemakers to feed her unceasing hunger. beneath the surface lies the wreckage of several ships, rotting in the ocean's maw. they are barnacled, wicked-mouthed things, the gravemaker rocks, pointed like spears and dark enough to meld with the ocean's blackened surface. the current ripples around them.

they rend your ship asunder.

they tear through the wood like teeth to meat, ripping through the hull with a ravenous bite. the sea howls her delight as the hull splinters; the water rushes in, eager to devour. as he surfaces, watching, waiting, jing yuan can hear your voice pitched with fervor, lined with a well-hidden panic.

a wave rises and crashes into the ship, pinning it further onto the rocks. the hull gives. it folds into itself like a paper crane crushed in clumsy fingers; the water swallows it.

jing yuan knows the second you hit the water.

he calls the current to him, following its beckoning fingers with just a few pulses of his powerful tail. he surfaces to find you floating amid the wreckage, blood seeping from a few scrapes and scratches.

he hums and gathers you into his arms; lets the warmth of your skin sink into him. you stir for only a breath before sinking back into unconsciousness. but your heartbeat is strong and steady.

jing yuan wraps himself around you and dives again. he has been patient enough.

this is always where your path was leading.

#bee writes hsr #yandere tw #fellas is it saving someone if you cause the problem in the first place #jing yuan x reader

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beom-pyu · 1 year

Text

like the moon ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ huening kai

huening kai x gn!reader , tags; mermaid!kai , human!reader , modern fantasy au , fluff , courting , slightly inspired by the little mermaid ofc , rejection , angst , getting together ? in a mermaid way , mates/soul ties , reader is sleep deprived , taehyun is a smartass , totally not stealing outfit inspo from sugar rush ride as an addition to the plot wdym haha

warnings: making out , reader's gender isn't specified but you wear dresses , near death experience? reader almost drowns

a/n: hiiii! sooooo i tried something a little different this time for my fairytale-esque fantasy lovers??? lmk how u guys feel about it :] i hope you enjoy!!! (edited but not beta read so pls excuse any mistakes aaaa)

wc: 8.4k+

you love the ocean more than anything else in this big, wide world. you treasure the crisp air and the salty, but comforting scent of the atmosphere, the way the rays of the sun would bounce off of the rushing waves and onto your skin fills your heart with an uncontained warmth, and the sunset reflected on the surface brings you a sense of serenity. you have loved the ocean since you were little—growing up on the coast, the sea was basically your backyard.

your mother had nicknamed you “droplet” from the way you would always run into the house dripping with ocean water, spending most of your days out at sea swimming—your favorite thing to do was pretend to be a pretty mermaid, chosen to protect the reef from any bad guys nearby. the ocean is your home, your sanctuary… where you belong.

ever since you moved towards the inner, bustling part of your town, you have made it your mission to visit the beach every few days if you can, whether it be to stay for three minutes or three hours. so here you are, stepping onto the sand with bare feet in a secluded area of the beach, jacket discarded on some random rock, notebook and pen in hand. you prefer writing your lyrics out here; the sounds of small waves hitting the shore and the occasional squawk of a passing seagull always seem to calm you, letting you release any tension in your muscles. you have been overworking yourself lately, staying up all night to produce and write songs, barely having any time to yourself to just be.

you settle down into the sand, resting your back against a washed-up long, and from there, you let your pen do all of the work. the air is a bit harsher than usual, the breeze whipping around you, knocking the bottom of your dress up slightly with the movement. you cross your legs, digging your toes into the sand as you look up at the sky—it’s a dull gray filled with heavy clouds making their move toward your small town.

a faint frown makes its way onto your face; a summer storm must be coming soon. the clouds are still a ways away though, so you bask in the small time you have left to relax, writing down a few more lyrics as you listen to the quiet song of the sea.

words flow easily onto the page as you let your train of thought take the reigns, a familiar serenity washing over you. the wind, although slightly aggressive, feels nice on your skin—it’s a little clammy outside, the humidity of summer lingering in the atmosphere. everything is hushed, peaceful, and you think you can fall asleep right here on the shore.

the calmness in your body only lasts for so long—your body snaps to alert as a loud, echoing shriek interrupts the quiet. you tuck your legs into your chest as your eyes scan the beach, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, save for a forgotten towel a little further down the shore and the heavy clouds above you.

you squint a bit as you look out onto the water and a beat later, you notice a head peek out from under the deep blue surface. it’s not alarming in the slightest, though—divers do frequent this area during this time of year. brushing it off, you let your body relax as you settle back against the log, watching the diver go back under the water.

for a while, things go back to the way they were, your pen writing down as many lyrics as possible, tapping your foot in the sand as you hum a quiet tune to yourself. figuring out melodies has to be your favorite part of songwriting—hearing the words on your page come to fruition is a beyond-satisfying feeling. it isn’t until a few minutes later that your groove is heckled once again, that same shriek you heard before ringing through your ears.

your eyes immediately find their way to the water, your heart nearly stopping in your chest as you lock gazes with the same head you saw a moment ago.

you’re quick to realize that whatever you’re seeing isn’t a diver. the man, or rather… creature has emerald green eyes, almost glowing as they glare from above the water, its dark hair wet and pressed down against their forehead. something akin to white, fish-like scales line the side of its face, flashy and sparkling. you can’t see the rest of the face due to the waves, but the head goes back under before you can fully process what you just saw.

you’re frozen still—those unnaturally green eyes send a chill down your spine. there’s no way that was just a diver, or a passing fish. whatever it was, it freaks you the fuck out. maybe you’re just imagining things. you’ve been running on less than three hours of sleep a day, staying up late to write and produce. you have over 20 commissions to complete in the next two months, so to say you’ve been neglecting your health would be an understatement. thinking of the fact, you decide it’s best to head home early; not only to avoid the soon-to-come storm but also to possibly squeeze in a quick power nap before the all-nighter you’re about to pull.

shooting a quick text to taehyun about how you’re so looped out, you’re starting to hallucinate (and receiving a lengthy scolding of a text back), you make your way home—and you don’t let yourself look back onto the water after a third noise sounds from behind you. must be a dolphin mating call.

or something like that.

the clouds have parted for the sun the next day you make it onto the beach. the wind is still persistent, but it’s not as bad as the day before, so you simply zip your jacket up to your neck as you walk through the sand. you didn’t bring your lyric book today—partially because taehyun had chastised you over the phone about your workaholic tendencies—but you really just wanted to relax. there’s a slight crook in your neck from the awful sleep you had last night, your eyelids heavy and your movements nearly sluggish. this lack of sleep has really been doing a number on you, but you know the sound of the ocean waves can help you de-stress, even just a little bit.

as you make your way to your usual spot against that big, washed-up log, you notice things sparkling in the sand right where you normally sit. you tilt your head in confusion, making your way over with a little more ferver in your step.

a small circle of pretty shells rests in your secluded spot, sparkling as the sun hits their smooth surface. they twinkle like stars in the sky and you can’t help but gasp at how beautiful they are, luminescent and bright. in the center of the circle sits a small, rusted gold necklace with an attached hand-carved pendant—the symbol is a crescent moon with faint initials at the bottom that you can’t quite read. you look around to see if anyone is around to claim the necklace, frowning a bit at the deserted beach. someone must’ve forgotten their things.

you take a closerlook at the beautiful array, running your fingers over the awe-worthy shells—and one, in particular, catches your eye. it’s a pristine white, so rich you’d think it were manmade. it glimmers as you gently pick it up, holding it up to the sunlight. the color reminds you of those scales you had seen above the water the last time you were here.

it’s odd—whatever you imagined seemed so vivid and true. you can still physically feel the intensity of those green eyes, sharp and prying from where they watched you over the colliding waves. the sight had been so jarring that when you closed your eyes to rest that night, a pair of verdant ones glared back at you in the darkness. you don’t get enough sleep as it is, but you were barely able to get a wink of it with that image in your head.

you take a good look at the shell one last time, declaring it too beautiful to leave here all alone on the deserted beach—you slip it into your tote bag before taking a seat a few feet away from the necklace, just in case anyone comes back to retrieve it. the waves are gentle as they crash onto the shore, leaving seaweed, pebbles, and little crusteaceans in its wake. the sound is lulling as you settle your back against a nearby rock, letting your eyes slip shut to bask in the peaceful bliss.

you may have underestimated just how tired you really are, because as you blink your eyes open with a tiny yawn, you realize you had fallen asleep. the hidden gleam of the sun has moved towards west and you aren’t sure how long you’ve been here, but the uncomfortable pain in your lower back from the sharp rock behind you is telling enough.

it isn’t until you hear a small, surprised noise next to you that you actually will your brain to wake up. the scream you let out at the sight of a man crouched down next to you is absolutely embarrassing—especially with the way he simply fliches back a bit, his eyes widening at the sudden noise.

his eyes.

they’re a shockingly vivid green, round and dilated as he blinks owlishly at you.

they look incredibly familiar.

he seems to be just as startled as you are, and as your vision focuses a bit more, you notice the pearly white scales that sit on his face, glistening in the sunlight. tiny, pointy fangs peak out from his slightly ajar mouth, his black hair fluffed up and sun dried as it falls in waves on his forehead, framing his face prettily.

he’s very pretty.

but holy shit—you gasp as he blinks at you again, finally remembering where you’ve seen those eyes from.

well, this is great. you are so sleep-deprived that your imagination has now festered into some sick lucid dream.

wake up, y/n!

the man—the thing—seems to sense your disarray, a quiet noise sounding from the back of his throat as he reaches out to you with furrowed brows. you jump, moving back from the sudden movement, eyeing the fangs that rest on his bottom lip.

oh god, this dream feels all too realistic and now you’re about to get eaten by some sexy monster man! this is why it’s important to have a consistent sleeping schedule, y/n!

you can hear your heartbeat in your ears as he stands to move in front of you—from this angle, you can get a good look at his figure. he’s incredibly tall, with long legs that go on for miles. his frame is covered by a tatted black and white sweater that just barely hangs onto his shoulder and a satchel across his frame, his upper body completely exposed to the slightly chilling air. he wears loose white shorts that reach just above his knees, littered with holes and tears—as if they had been washed onto sea after a treacherous journey across the ocean. that gold necklace from before rests in his hands, the chain dangling down and clinking softly in the wind. it must be his, you register. you open you mouth to defend yourself as not-a-theif—but you’re quickly cut off.

he doesn’t speak other than to hold out the necklace to you with a small and insistent noise, his green eyes flitting quickly between yours. the pounding in your chest is incredibly persistent, every single bone inside of your body urging you to not take it—but your hand seems to have a mind of its own, reaching up to grasp the damp gold, your fingers shaking as they brush over the green-eyed man’s.

you can see the way his eyes glimmer as you warily hold the necklace against your chest, your breath stuck in your throat as he digs around in his satchel again. there’s no way you aren’t dreaming, everything seeming like a haze around you as you inspect the scattered white scales on his cheekbones, eyeing the fangs that slightly peek out from his mouth which leave shallow indents on his bottom lip.

his head turns towards you again and you feel your neck heat up from being caught staring, your gaze shooting down to your lap. you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to wake up from this lucid dream, ignoring the way you can hear the man so clearly shuffling around in front of you.

you’re lucid dreaming, y/n. you really shouldn’t have eaten right before bed! wake up, wake up, wake up.

you count to ten in your head before you open your eyes again, flinching back as you find emerald green staring directly into yours. he’s kneeled down in front of you now, one of his hands in the sand next to your foot, his head cocked curiously as he scans your face—his thick, black hair falls into his eyes messily and up close, you notice the tiny beauty marks littered across his face and neck, the way his lips are bitten red, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

so you aren’t dreaming? then that means…

the man is cautious as he raises a hand to his chest, pressing over his heart before he bows to you. your mouth is dry—what the hell is going on?

you have no time to think before he lifts his head again, gazing up at you through his impossibly long eyelashes, the tiniest shadow of a smile slipping onto his lips.

“i am kai.”

his voice is clumsy and horse, almost as if he doesn’t use it much, and a heavy, unknown accent paints his words as he speaks. the white scales on his face gleam in the sunlight and you find yourself slightly intrigued, wanting to reach up and feel them, but stopping yourself from doing so.

the man… or rather, the creature seems gentle enough—if he had planned on biting your head off, he surely would’ve done it by now. you let your guard lower as you sit up a bit, the necklace still clutched tightly between your fingers.

“my name is y/n,” you respond quietly—and the way his face lights up is absolutely blinding, a broad gleam taking over his initially shy smile, his scales twitching in an almost cute way. you watch as his hand drops from his chest, moving into your space to cup the side of your face. your body immediately tenses at the unexpected touch, a noise of surprise leaving your lips.

he leans forward as if to kiss you and a surge of panic courses through your body, cringing away from his hold—but he does no such thing. instead, he rests his forehead against yours, mumbling something in an unrecognizable language as his eyes flutter shut. you’re frozen in slight shock, but the lack of fear in your body confuses you to no end. you should be trying to run away from this strange creature, but instead, you feel… relaxed. a calm washes over you as his skin touches yours, feeling yourself be lulled by the quiet words he speaks to you.

when he pulls away, the grin is still on his face, running his finger down your cheek before moving out of your space. you try not to acknowledge the slight emptiness that fills your chest at the loss of touch, a faint and warm trail lingering from where is finger had traced.

“you took… you took one of m-my shells,” kai speaks with an eager bounce in his tone, gesturing toward your tote where that glimmering white shell still remains. your eyes follow his hand, quickly reaching for your bag to pry it open and search for the shell.

“oh, i’m sorry! i didn’t know it had an… owner…” you trail off as his eyebrows furrow, his lips twitching downwards as you grab the shell out of your bag. “you can have it back if you want…?”

the creature’s eyes comically widen, shaking his head at your words. he pushes your hand back towards you, a small whine emitting from his throat.

“gift,” he states firmly, nodding towards the shell. you look down at the shell quizzically, everything slowly piecing together in your head bit by bit.

“you… did you leave all of those shells for… me?”

the bright smile quickly returns to the creature’s face as he nods fervently, his scales rippling in excitement. while you finally got answers to the weird phenomenon, you’re still full of bewilderment—what is this creature and why is he giving these gifts to you out of all people? it simply makes no sense.

“for you,” kai confirms, leaning into your space again now that you seem to understand. you catch the way his verdant eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t quite read.

offering him a genial smile, you gently place the shell back in your bag. “thank you… but… why?”

the creature cocks his head, confusion overtaking his charming features at your question. he turns his head to glance back at the water before meeting your gaze again, pointing in that direction.

you blink at him a few times, trying to understand what he’s referring to, but nothing comes to mind. seeming to sense your puzzled state, kai reaches into his satchel again—his eyebrows are furrowed with concentration as things clink and clang around in the bag. all you can do is sit and watch as he hums with contentment, pulling out a tiny metal ring before setting it in the sand before you.

you gape at the object, glancing down at the ring and back up to his eyes a few times—because if this is what you think is happening… and if this isn’t a dream… then you’re definitely hallucinating. you aren’t ready to get married! especially not to some strange being who clearly doesn’t know the concept of personal space.

“what is… what is this?” you ask quietly, your voice wavering slightly. kai smiles at you, nodding towards the ring gently.

“for the humans to know y-you are my mate, y/n.”

you blink at him, feeling your breath catch in your throat.

his what?

“i’m sorry… i’m not your… uh, mate. i—i think you’ve gotten me confused with someone else…” you begin slowly as you move to stand and get the fuck out of here; something you should’ve done when he first approached you. kai is quick to shake his head, his vibrant eyes dulling with something melancholic and heavy, reaching out to grab onto your bag so you can’t go.

“i am not confused. you are my mate,” kai speaks desperately, still kneeling down with the ring now slightly buried in the sand. you don’t know what type of creature he is, or what is even going on, but you are certain this doesn’t have anything to do with you.

you’re a human and he’s a… whatever he is. there’s no such thing as mates. he’s surely one hell of a hallucination. next time, you’ll actually listen to taehyun’s lecture about the side effects of sleep deprivation and too much caffeine intake.

“this is… this is crazy. i have to go,” you respond sharply, ripping your gaze away from his distraught eyes—something in your heart pangs deeply at the pure sadness on his beautiful face, your gut twisting with something sticky and vile.

kai’s fingers hesitantly let go of your bag with a quiet, pained noise, shrinking in on himself as you give him one last glance before quickly heading towards your car.

when you take a glimpse back to the shore as you begin to pull off, the man is nowhere to be seen—except for a slight glimmer of a white scale disappearing beneath the tide.

for the next few days, it rains—thick and heavy clouds cover your small seaside town, drenching every bit it can reach. the beach is closed off due to high tides, the waves all too harsh and cutting to be safe for visitors. being cooped up in your apartment is starting to drive you crazy—you already miss the salty smell of the water, the softness of the sand between your fingers…

and the calming touch of the strange creature you encountered.

it’s something horrible in the way that this… thing has been overtaking your mind, tainting your mind with emerald green every passing second. every time you sit down to write a new song, your pen develops a mind of its own; going on about the ocean’s waves, and glittering white scales, and vibrant eyes. it’s like a curse, the way you can only think about kai and nothing else.

after ruminating in your thoughts as the rain continues to nearly flood your town, you’ve come to the conclusion that kai wasn’t a hallucination. that shiny white shell sits nicely on your dresser, right next to the gold necklace you had been so selflessly gifted.

you try not to let the guilt eat away at you—the creature had been nothing but kind to you, but the uncertainty is too much. what, with the talk about mates, the gifts, and that eerie calmness that overtook your body as he whispered those foreign words to you… it sounds like something straight out of a fairytale.

it’s late when you settle into bed, your laptop resting in your lap as your phone sits on speaker next to you—they say curiosity killed the cat, but you need answers. sleep be damned.

“so what you’re telling me is that a strange, sexy man with scales on his face gifted you random shells and an old ass necklace before claiming you to be his mate?” taehyun recaps through the phone, voice coated in monotone incredulity. it sounds absolutely ridiculous when he puts it that way, but you’re having a hard time believing it even happened yourself, so you can’t blame him.

“i said a strange, sexy creature, not man.”

the line is silent for a second.

“y/n… i know you’ve been stressed lately, but don’t you think it’s time to bring these delusions to a licensed professional—”

“taehyun, this isn’t a delusion! it actually happened!” you huff out, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. you try to put yourself in his shoes—if your friend told you they’ve been approached by a majestic creature, you’d also recommend them to get help—but you know what you saw. what you felt.

“that’s exactly how delusions work, sweetheart. we may think things are real, but—”

“hold on, shut up. listen to this,” you click on a link to a news page set in your town, the article dated back to 2007. “two foreign aquatic creatures were spotted near the shore on june 6th, at approximately 3 pm. they are described to be humanoid beings, with scaly, fish-like features.”

“y/n, that’s literally like every fish ever.”

“since when were goldfish considered to be ‘humanoid-beings’,” you quip, actually rolling your eyes this time before you zoom in on the blurry pictures provided on the site. It’s hard to make out in the 480p photo taken from a distance, but there seems to be two people, a male and a female, washed up on shore. they have long, shiny fish-tails that glisten in the way the scales on kai’s face did, their torsos completely human save for the gills on the sides of their neck.

it’s all too jarring, all too real—and in your mind, right then, it clicks.

“please don’t tell me you think—”

“i think he’s a mermaid, taehyun.”

back when you were young, still the little “droplet” everyone knew, your grandmother would tell you and the other kids in your town stories about how she once fell in love with a mermaid when she was young. they’d met on the same beach you frequent and pursued their love in hiding. she’d go on and on about how he was the most beautiful person, or rather, creature she had ever laid her eyes on. how he was gorgeous and alluring—and the way his green scales sparkled in the sunlight.

you seemed to be the only one to ever believe her stories, even in the slightest. you already loved the sea, and the prospect of mermaids, real-life mermaids, inhabiting the waters you adored so much intrigued you to no end. you would stay at the shore with your grandmother after all the other kids had gone home for dinner, begging her to tell you more stories about this mysterious mermaid who held her heart.

she had said mermaids were forbidden to interact with humans, let alone be with one—but the two of them didn’t care. they had believed their love was too strong for even the wind and sea to tear apart. she spoke of how after the fishing industry became prevalent in their town, she had begun to see him less and less, until one day, he had stopped showing up at all—thus being the dull end of their story.

thinking back on her words now as you stare at the pixelated photo, things slowly begin to come together in your brain. he’s a mermaid. he has to be. there’s no other explanation.

“you’re still stuck on that? you know your grandma once told me a watermelon would grow in my stomach if i ate the seeds? i was scared for years, y/n. years! i don’t know if she’s the most reliable source—”

“this is the only thing that makes sense though,” you mumble as a pair of bright green eyes fill your thoughts.

it’s like something is calling you from deep inside your soul, something anguished and distressed—and it’s calling you back to that beach. you know answers are there. even if this all turns out to be some weird, ongoing delusion, you need to find out the truth—for your own peace of mind. (and maybe taehyun’s as well, seeing as he’s still rambling on about his fear of being pregnant with a watermelon.)

and in all truthfulness, you want to… need to see those eyes one more time.

it’s a horrible idea. actually, it’s in your top 10 most stupid y/n moments.

sneaking onto the shore is easy enough. there’s no lifeguards on watch, or any lingering public safety employees as you step onto the sand. only a sliver of it is visible—even your usual spot is covered with water as the waves crash against the shore with untainted vigor. the rain is heavy, grimly pouring from the sky in buckets. your jacket isn’t doing enough to block it from seeping through the fabric, making your clothes cling to your skin uncomfortably.

honestly, you pitched yourself to be smarter than this–-everything in your body, ever nerve and muscle screams at you to run around and go home. there’s no point in trying to prove something that simply doesn’t exist. they say the human body can only run on so much sleep before you start to feel out of character; and you already feel like you’re outside of your body.

it’s like you’re in a trance, under a spell as your feet keep on walking, your vision completely focused in the darkness of the night as you scan the water for anything. it feels like something inside of your body is calling for someone, the feeling profound and wretched to the point where it makes your heart heavy and raw.

that feeling tugs you like a magnet, past the public part of the beach and to a more vacant, woodsy area where trees and bushes reside, the branches hanging over and dipping into the water, leaves being whipped up by the unforgiving breeze. you’re close—you can feel it, deep inside your soul.

the waves are unrelenting as they tumble over eachother, some shallow ones hitting your ankles and splashing up your legs—and you’re too out of it, too entranced by whatever song is singing inside of your chest to watch where you’re going.

you trip over a rock hidden in the sand, falling over yourself as your already drenched form becomes soaked with ocean water, the harsh waves tumbling over you as you try to sit up. you’ve always been a great swimmer, phenomenal even, but the storm has turned the ocean into something wicked and unlawful, pulling you further and further into the water the more you struggle against it.

you’re tugged into the rip before your brain can process it, having only half the mind to call out for help—but it’s not use. the waves are too loud and the pouring rain drowns out any and every noise in the breeze. it’s too dark to see anything and you can already feel yourself tiring out as you fight to stay afloat.

the ice cold water does wonders to sober you up from whatever hypnosis you were under and now that your mind is clear, true panic and terror sets deep into your chilled bones. you’re going to die out here, in the hands of something you have loved since you were a child. things really do come full circle, don’t they?

the full moon resting in the condensed sky is the last thing you see before you completely black out.

you feel it before you even open your eyes. a heavy, burning hand on your back and a heated finger trailing down the slope of your nose. your entire body is warm from head to toe, your cheek cushioned by a soft, cotton-like material. a captivating voice sings a gentle song in words you can’t understand, the volume just under the perpetrator’s breath—the sound is almost completely muted out by the roaring sea outside.

the roaring sea.

you inhale deeply as if you’re searching for air that’s nowhere to be found, sitting up quickly with labored breaths. your eyes automatically lock onto a figure—an all too familiar figure with worried green eyes and luminous scales and soaking wet hair that drips water onto the sand.

kai.

you fling yourself into his arms despite both of your wet clothes. his touch is grounding and comforting as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, holding onto him tightly. he doesn’t speak as his arms hesitantly wrap around your torso, his hands smoothing down your back in silent consolation. only then do you register the thick sweater that is strewn across your shoulders—it’s the same one he had on that first day you met.

the thought makes your eyes brim with slight guilt. he has just saved your life, even after you so rudely ran away from him. you want to apologize, but nothing comes out as you finally break away from the embrace. he won’t meet your eyes, and that fact alone makes your heart wrench.

“how did you… how did you know i…?” the words are stuck in your throat as you gape at him, trying to not let your eyes wander down his exposed clavacle where a few more shiny scales reside. kai’s pretty, pretty emeralds are sad—the kind of sad that radiates off a person and spreads to everyone nearby. your gut clenches. he’s quiet for a few beats before his hand moves to his chest.

“i… i can feel it. your fear,” he whispers, his hand resting over his heart as a visual communicator. you don’t know what to say, any words that come to mind die on your tongue just as quickly as they appear. your silence is incredibly loud as kai’s bottom lip trembles, hastily standing to his feet. your eyes follow him as he take a couple steps back, creating distance between the two of you. your body immediately goes cold, feeling a harsh shiver run up your spine, wracking your entire body.

“i am sorry,” kai mumbles solemnly, looking down at the sand below him, his hands folded tightly in front of his body. you’re still shivering despite the sweater draped across your shoulders, staring up at him as you wrap your arms around your body.

“why… why are you sorry?” you inquire, feeling your heart pang at the whine that leaves his throat. he won’t meet your eyes and you already find yourself craving to see those vibrant irises again.

“you r-rejected me as your mate. i must leave you alone now,” kai nearly whispers as he strictly keeps his eyes trained in the sand. he should be cold in his sopping clothes—this heavy wind and pouring rain outside of the small cove is enough to freeze just about anyone—but he seems completely apathetic to the weather.

an ugly, weighted emotion rips through you at his words, mentally cursing your past self for being so rash about it all. you don’t know the implications of “rejecting” a mate, but with the way kai is weary of stepping any closer to you, you’re sure you’ve done enough damage to last a lifetime.

“kai—i’m sorry about what i said. i’m still confused, but…” you inhale deeply, watching the way his scales sparkle with the reflection of the moonlight on the water. he’s truly gorgeous. “i’m willing to listen if you want to teach me. about what all of this means… about yourself.”

you can physically see the way kai’s breath hitches, his body tensing up as he just barely lifts his head, emerald green peeking through his dark shaggy hair. kai’s eyes meet yours and you feel something akin to relief wash over you. he seems to be waiting for something as his eyes glimmer with hope and hesitancy, so you give him an affable smile, warm and inviting, before patting the spot in front of you.

kai’s scales ripple as his weary demeanor softens, quickly moving to take a seat in the sand. he mirrors your position, pulling his legs up to his chest, your feet almost touching from how close he is to you. your heart stutters a bit as he watches you, his gaze filled with so much infatuation and mesmerization, it fills your stomach with knots.

“what would you like to know, y/n?”

the way your name rolls off of his lips, sounding oh, so elegant coated in his unnamed accent makes your head spin. his moles are placed perfectly on his unblemished skin like stars at night, his eyes shining like the moon herself.

“i want to know what you are,” you start, speaking quietly so that only he can hear your words. kai smiles at you, his pearly fangs showing themselves once again. they aren’t so scary now—not with the way his hands are so delicate as they mindlessly draw shapes in the sand or the way his scales ripple once again as enthusiasm overtakes his body.

“i am a mermaid. the sea is my home.”

the words would have surprised you, had he told you the very first time you two met, but now they simply settle the uneasiness in the pit of your gut. it all makes sense now. the scales, the eyes, the shells, and his fantasy-esque features… he’s a mermaid.

you inhale deeply to collect your thoughts—the fact that this is all real is too much to take in at once. you look down at your own feet buried in the sand, shivering again at a harsh gust of wind. your heart rate picks up as kai lets out a soft sound, reaching up to adjust the sweater around your shoulders, running his hand down your arm before retracting. the touch that lingers in his fingers’ wake is incredibly warm, feeling it spread throughout your entire body. you want to feel it again.

“i… i thought mermaids aren’t supposed to be seen by humans,” you nearly question as you find his eyes. something sharp flashes through them, as stormy as the night sky above, and you feel your breath catch in your throat.

kai glances away as he thinks for a moment, his pupils shaky as the words strike him. he’s tensed up again and you begin to think you’ve said the wrong thing.

“you don’t have to tell me, kai. i’m just… i’m just glad you’re here with me right now.” your voice is incredibly gentle as you coax him to look at you again, watching the way his shoulders slowly relax at your tone. he doesn’t look at you, though—his eyes stay trained on a random rock, his fingers twitching from where they sit in the sand. he’s quiet for a bit as you two sit in a light silence, the sound of the fierce rain and the rough waves outside filling in the space around you.

it isn’t until he takes a deep breath, those emeralds on his face absolutely glimmering when they meet your eyes. there’s no smile on his face, but his eyebrows are slightly furrowed and his eyes are so incredibly sincere, you feel it pierce through your heart like a sword on fire.

“you are my mate, y/n. i will do anything for you,” kai speaks, closing his eyes for a second. “even if i had to betray m-my coven to find you… my life is for you. nothing else matters.”

his words invoke a deep stirring inside of you—the urge to reach out and caress his face, to hold onto his hand, to feel his skin—it’s untameable. it’s as if a flame is ignited inside of you as he opens his eyes, hearing your heartbeat pound incessantly in your ears, watching the way his scales flicker as they reflect the moonlight. his eyes are entirely dilated as he scans your face, the vibrant green of his irises overtaken by his dark pupils—you feel completely bare despite being fully clothed, vulnerable like a butterfly pinned to a board.

it’s only then does he move, untucking his legs to kneel on one before you—almost an exact replica of the way he had bowed to you the first time you met. he reaches his hand out to you and without a second thought, you take it, letting him pull you both to stand. his fingers are ice cold, but a warmth spreads throughout your body like wildfire, a soft gasp leaving your lips as he tugs you closer. he lifts his other hand to rest on your cheek, his eyes flitting in between yours.

when he leans in again, you’re ready, your eyes slipping shut as he presses his forehead to yours. you can feel his breath on your lips, the sensation sending tingles down your spine. he’s silent for a moment before he whispers something in that enchanting language of his—even though you can’t understand what he’s saying, his timbre is like a lullaby, filling your head with cotton and stardust.

“i… do you feel it?” kai whispers as his nimble fingers stroke your cheek gently.

he doesn’t elaborate—he doesn’t need to, because you do. you feel the way his touch leaves a burning trail against your skin, the way his eyes pull you in like quicksand, entrancing and bewitching, and the way his voice sounds like music to your ears. you feel it all, and you’re nodding in response before you even realize it, registering the way his hand grips onto yours tighter, his breathing picking up ever so slightly.

“it does not matter if you are human, y/n. our souls are connected… and mine has not stopped searching for yours.”

you’ve always wondered why you resonated so much with the ocean. sand is a pain to clean out of shoes, the waves can be terribly unforgiving, and the tide even stole your favorite pen once. but nothing can deter the pull you feel toward the sea—or more so, towards what resides in the sea.

your mate.

you don’t have to say anything for kai to know you finally understand, blinking your eyes open as he lifts his head. his eyes are practically glowing as they lock onto yours, his fangs peeking out as he smiles at you, his scales rippling and fluttering animatedly.

“you are so beautiful,” he speaks through his small gleam. it’s such a cliche, but the way he says it holds so much weight, it squeezes your heart painfully. he says it like you’re a breath of fresh air, as if you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing with his own eyes.

the heat that crawls up your chest blooms throughout your entire body, wrapping your heart in a cozy blanket as his fingers trail down from your cheek to your jaw, tilting your head up ever so slightly. you don’t move away—and in all honesty, you have no desire to. he’s gentle in the way his hand lets go of yours, finger by finger, before moving to find a home on the small of your back.

you’re not shivering anymore. his touch is incredibly searing, yet impossibly calming, feeling your mind go dizzy as his eyes search yours for something you aren’t quite saying. it’s almost nerve-wracking, how the suspense builds up in your chest as those emeralds flicker down to your lips, feeling your body grow hot all over.

“will you allow me to… to k-kiss you?” kai whispers, not even the aggressive waves outside able to drown out his voice in your ears.

there’s no doubt in your mind as a breathy “yes” slips into the air.

he’s clumsy with the way his lips find yours, your hand coming up to his chest. his heartbeat under your palm pounds at lightening speed, his body slightly trembling as your lips move against his tranquilly. there seems to be no rush, melting into his embrace with each passing moment.

the press of his fangs against your lips only slightly stings when the tips of them dig in a little too hard, and kai is quick to soothe over the pain with a swipe of his tongue. he tastes of ocean water, a bit salty, but there’s another sweet undertone as well that you can’t quite place your finger on. you don’t linger on it for too long—you don’t want to have to use your brain, so you lose yourself in the feeling of his fingers against your spine, his thumb brushing over your jaw so delicately, you almost want to cry.

his tongue prods against yours as he presses closer to you, as if close is never close enough, as if he wants to sink into your body and become one. your mind is hazy, but you feel safe as his fingers trail down to the side of your neck, leaving fluttery, ticklish sensations in the process. he explores your mouth as if you are a cavern full of gold, mindless to the way small, needy noises leave his lips. it’s overwhelming for the both of you, engulfed in this little bubble you’ve created.

when he pulls away, it’s slow and reluctant, leaning back in a few more times to get another taste of you, peppering kisses down your jaw and your neck. you can’t help but moan softly at the feeling that stirs in the pit of your gut as he nips and bites and sucks at your skin—completely enamored with you.

he places one final kiss under your ear before his emerald eyes meet yours—you preen at the way he looks at you like you’re the heart of the sea, the ocean herself. it’s too much and not enough at once as you tuck yourself into his broad chest, your heart beating in sync through your dampened clothes. it feels right. this—him. he feels right and now you’re certain he isn’t just a measly dream.

the sky appears to be unreal, coated with lovely hues of pink and purple, a deep orange settling near the horizon as the sun lowers itself from the sky. it’s still warm out, the tide low as you tip-toe through rocks and shells, feeling your heart fill as tiny hermit crabs take cover in the sand, holding the bottom of your flowy dress up so as to carefully watch your step. the waves wash against the shore with a subdued rhythm and the sky is void of any clouds—the calm after the storm.

your breath catches in your throat as you see the man waiting for you at the end of the shore, his black hair mussed and slightly damp. it seems as if he’s been waiting for a while—he stares off at sea, sitting just a few feet from the tide as his hand mindlessly picks up sand and lets it fall through his fingers.

he’s oh, so gorgeous, even from afar. the white button-up he adorns is rolled up to his elbows, legs covered by brown pants that flow in the wind. his trusty satchel is slung across his frame, seemingly full to the brim as it rests in the sand next to him. a contemplative look resides on his face, his head slightly tilted to the side as his mind wanders. you almost feel guilty for the thought of disturbing this quiet moment.

but then you’re reminded that he’s waiting here for you—your stomach flutters as he turns his head, those vibrant eyes lightening up at the sight of your figure making its way toward him. he stands to his feet with the brightest smile on his prince-like face, his pretty fangs pressing into his bottom lip in the cute way they always do.

his scales ripple as he pulls you into the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced, a serene buzz washing over you as he safely holds you to his chest. you register the feeling of him pressing small kisses onto the crown of your head and you giggle a bit at the fluttery sensation. you tilt your head up to meet his eyes; and they never fail to make your head spin, containing so much sincerity that squeezes your heart in all of the best ways. he cups your cheeks, the warmth of his fingers spreading down your neck and blossoming in your soul.

“i missed you,” you speak softly, and you mean it—nothing, no one can compare to the way kai can make you feel so loved and wanted with a singular, simple glance. you dream about his little beauty marks, his wide smile, and those iridescent scales that sparkle when the sun hits them just right. even just a few days without being near him makes your core surge with a deep longing—and now that restless feeling finally dissipates as he leans in to kiss your nose, and then your cheek, and finally your lips.

“i have missed you more,” he mumbles against your lips, his nose brushing yours as he kisses you so delicately, attentive to every little noise that leaves your lips. his hands smooth down your sides, running his fingers over the soft fabric of your dress, coming around to press against the small of your back.

when the kiss breaks, you’re rendered breathless, blinking your eyes open to find him already watching you. the faint smile on his face widens as you reach up to carefully touch the sparkling scales on his cheekbones before running your fingers through his disheveled hair. he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut with the gentle movement of your fingers.

“how long have you been waiting?” you question as you finish adjusting his hair, resting your palm against his chest. he hums in thought before he opens his eyes—and you’re in awe at the way the setting sun manages to reflect in them, looking like specks of gold against his irises.

“not long at all. i-i made something for you last evening,” he responds almost shyly. your eyes widen in surprise, watching as he takes a tiny step back to open his satchel. his cheeks are flushed a pinkish-red once he pulls out a handmade crown, woven with dried seaweed, softwood, and the prettiest, eye-catching flowers you’ve ever seen. there are even a few tiny shells tucked in here and there, and they all sparkle the same, twinkling as the sunlight hits them.

“you made this?” your voice comes out airy, in awe at not only the gift, but also the thought of him spending time handmaking something for you. kai nods timidly, looking up at you through his eyelashes. your heart threatens to explode as he gestures toward your body.

“m-may i put it on y-you?” he asks, a slight nervousness coating his voice and you’re quick to nod, bowing your head a bit to give him better access. a quiet, enthused noise escapes his lips before he can contain it, stepping close to you again. he adjusts your hair ever so slightly before situating the crown on your head. you can’t see yourself, but you’re sure it looks amazing by the way kai’s scales flutter, his gleam almost blinding as he moves back to admire his work. the crown is light and a few of the flowers tickle the side of your face. you feel beautiful.

“you know you don’t have to keep gifting me things, right?” you softly chide with a little chuckle, but kai’s bright smile falters at your words, cocking his head in confusion with a little whine.

“do you not… do you not like m-my gifts for you?” kai’s voice slightly trembles and you’re quick to backtrack, grabbing onto his hands with both of yours.

“no, no, no, kai–-i love your gifts. it’s just… isn’t the courting stage over? you know i’m yours, right?”

kai’s eyes sparkle with admiration as you speak, letting go of your hands to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his body. he’s warmer than he usually is, and you suspect it has something to do with the humid air around you—the storm has long since passed, the shore drying up quickly, leaving only fluffy sand and a quiet, sedated ocean in its wake.

it’s a reflex now, to close your eyes as he gently rests his forehead against yours, a faint, contented hum sounding from the mermaid.

“you still deserve the entire sea and all of the stars, my beautiful mate.”

it’s horrible, the way your entire body tingles, feeling your face heat up from his words. it should be sappy and sickeningly sweet, but his voice brings you nothing but peace, letting yourself melt into his embrace as he subtly sways you both to the rhythm of the waves.

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#txt imagine #txt imagines #txt headcanons #txt fluff #txt x reader #huening kai x reader #hueningkai x reader #hueningkai imagines #huening kai imagine #hueningkai fluff #hueningkai x y/n #txt scenarios #txt x y/n #txt #huening kai #hueningkai #beom-pyu

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