ᡣ𐭩 Choso X Fem!reader

Thinking about Kyojuro who lives to please. He's been so neglected of love and praise all his life so when you started thanking him and complimenting him after he helped you with baking he started doing things in hopes you would praise him again.

"Kyojuro, you did such a good job it looks beautiful. Thank you so much my handsome man, so strong and put this shelf up so easily" you fawned over the newly decorated shelves on your living room walls. He was beaming, the tee shirt he wore tucked into his pants as he awkwardly rubbed at his neck, mumbling 'thank you' and 'its no big deal' as you kept up with the praise.

You caught onto his antics pretty quickly but you adores the way his cheeks would darken with blush and his smile would grow anytime you gave him the smallest compliment. You didn't think much of it really, he was the love of your life and you would do anything to make him happy.

However, turns out that transfers to the bedroom as well.

"so good Kyojuro" your words are slurred as your throw your head back in. Ecstacy, writhing against the sheets as your boyfriend tongue lavishes your pussy, eating you up and leaving nothing untouched. His head pops up at your words, a wet grin shining at you.

"yeah baby?" Your reaching down as you look at him, carding your hands through his hair to get it out of his face.

"mhm. So good to me. Such a good boy" you did not expect the fervor as which he continued his ministrations, stickier, harsher, better. He had upped his game, groaning into your cunt at you screamed in pleasure. You would have to praise him even more often.

landlocked

siren! rafayel x female reader

cw ▻ 18+, noncon, nsfw, smut, yandere and unhealthy behaviors, monster(?) on human, merman rafayel, minor violence, dark content beware

wc ▻ 11k, longform oneshot, buckle up

an ▻ HAPPY BIRTDAY RAF 🐬🐳🩵🎉🎂 i busted my ass on this one and its a day late but here we are :,) please heed the tags and do enjoy raf girlies :] eee his characterization is quite tricky but im getting there </3 (also please do forgive typos 🥲)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

Waves crash against the rocks.

Sea salt shoots up and stings your cornea, your knuckles going white around the wooden ledge they grip onto for dear life. And to be perfectly accurate, that is what this is- life or death- something you’re not entirely certain you’ll make it to the other end of. With a frantic prayer, you plant your heels under the thwarts and try to find balance as the little canoe rocks violently.

Froth builds up around it; towering waves cresting over and leaving behind liquid dust, the air thick with it like a mist.

You squint your eyes to blot out the pelting rain; keeping them open for too long is a near impossible task anyway, what with the burn.

This was stupid, you know that. Whether or not it was a wise decision was never the question in your head.

No, the only one present- overarching all other thought, making it physically impossible to function in your day to day life- was if your fiancé was still alive. Or if what all the townsfolk gossiped about in whispering peels during brushes with them on the cobbled path was true—

If the waves got to him. If he was really lost at sea.

Stupid or naive or plain crazy (as one onlooker labeled you without so much as a care to just how worn-out this whole ordeal’s made you)- you don’t care. Truthfully, you think you’re a little beyond the point of it, of self doubt or second guessing.

The only room left is for action: the strong men at the tavern and the local fisherman you clumsily rallied together were helpful in some ways, but their help only lasted so long until exasperation kicked in and they called it quits.

The choice to do something is yours and only yours.

Look, girl. We combed the port front to back. Turned over the barrels and crates and all, found nothin’. And we’ve been hauling out them nets for weeks now— wouldn’t you be surprised-? nothin’ there, either. Your fiancé's gone. I’m sorry, but—

You didn’t stay to hear the rest, embittered by it.

They’d done you a kindness, carving time out of their strict schedules and afternoon, beer-induced naps. And you’ll always be thankful for that, that despite knowing deep in their hearts that you were a lost cause, they stepped up to bat regardless, but—

There’s no returning home for you. Wiping your brow of its sweat then throwing a towel over your shoulder, heading in for the night.

The spot beside you in bed is eerily empty and cold; you wake from nightmares in sheer darkness and swat a hand to feel him but you’re met with wrinkled sheets and a silence that sneers. Without him, this place is empty.

The town is beautiful- small- but beautiful- with its glittering fairy lights strung from shop to shop, worn paths branching off into pebbled ones that lead to the shore and the peer, the more developed side of it farther down the sand— and it used to feel comforting. Like home.

Now, there’s no lantern aglow on the porch banister to point you in the direction of home. You’re aimless and sad. Like a ship without a sail.

The first week afterward (the news that his crew never returned from their trip), you hid away in your room crying all day, the better part of you half expecting his footfalls to echo down the hall. Though, they never did. It’s fine, you’d reasoned with eyes clamped shut, splayed over his half of the mattress, he’ll be back tomorrow.

Tomorrow came. It went, too.

And he—

He’s still gone—

Worried neighbors flitted by and left steaming pastries by the door. You hardly had an appetite for them, though, delightful as they were sat outside your cracked window, the smell of pecan pie drifting under billowing, sheer curtains.

It’s encroaching on around a month now. A month of loneliness and denial and the cruel, pitying stares the locals level you in the times you seldom leave home.

Your fiancé's absence, as unexpected as it was devastating, has stretched on long enough to kindle a sort of determination in you. You pile your bones off the bed and set out for the shore with a small, leather bag at your waist and sandals that hang off your feet, nervous but hellbent.

That bag, now: floating off in the distance, whisked away by whirling winds and swallowed up by the sea. One valiant flipflop remains hanging off your big toe, but you question, albeit with little concern for it, for just how much longer it will last.

Your fingers shake as they peel hair from your temple. You can’t see, can’t see anything— the boat shakes and croaks as the bottom steadily fills, and you have the dreadful realization that you are slowly sinking and cannot stop it.

Through bleared eyes, you watch several, ringlet-like waves form on the horizon and disappear behind rolling, closer ones. You brace endlessly for impact, but another wave bulges and effortlessly lifts your canoe- a temporary respite from the others that come crashing over.

When it lets you down, you quickly squint to see what’s coming for you next and immediately pale.

It’s massive. Dark, cobalt, scraping the underbelly of the black sky. Another tall wave (but a small fish in comparison) interlopes into it and is swallowed within a blink. It only worsens it, feeds it.

You have no chance. None at all. It’s over. It’s over and despite it all- the pointed meddling of your neighbors and all the chatter meant to maim the stubborn belief you held that your to-be husband was still alive- a small hope flares to life in your chest.

It says maybe dying here wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, if all of them were right after all, you’d be able to see him again.

As that unbeatable wave draws nigh, seemingly moving at a snail’s pace- casual in its approach but so terrifyingly powerful- it droops at the top and paints you in an opaque shadow.

You can’t see, can’t hear. The deafening roar of thunder and the foamy tide clapping against itself is tuned out. Your eyes see nothing but darting smears of lightning and the hurt of heartbreak and sea salt.

It’s happening. It’s over.

You give your fingers one last twitch to remind yourself that, for the moment, remarkably, you’re still alive. They feel fat with the cold, hardly budging.

Your last flip flop gusts over your shoulder and your ribcage rattles with a chill.

Your teeth chatter out one final prayer and perhaps a choked sob- although you can’t tell if it’s the brine gathering at your feet, rising with a gurgle- And you watch with wide, teary eyes as that tsunami finally descends—

A flash of color, indigo and bright, bobs above the slanted tide.

‘You. You shouldn’t be out here.’

Your eyes widen. Milliseconds before the boat is hit, a slosh from the side tips it and you’re catapulted into the open water.

It feels like an open flame.

Arctic temperatures freeze you to the bone. You’re reminded of hellfire as the cold licks away at your skin, limbs warping around you in violent currents.

You let out a scream of despair and watch as it turns to suds.

You know it was stupid, you know it was stupid, you know it was stupid— But you were hurting. And that life back at town- now devoid of the man you thought to be your veritable soulmate, who you were convinced you’d spend your final breaths with- is not the one you want to continue on with.

(But… you don’t wanna die.)

You dig to the surface with a sputter.

You manage to keep yourself afloat for all of two seconds before the ocean— or something that feels oddly like a fist— latches onto your ankle and pulls.

Consciousness is a slightly longer affair… but that, too, fades.

Teal blips across your spasming eyes. A vivid, long tail flicks along your arm, almost curiously, before curling behind you and disappearing.

Bubbles erupt from your jaw and shoot up, up, up.

Maybe, you think vaguely as the world blackens, quietens, you’ll find your missing fiancé lying at the seabed. The thought, surprisingly, isn’t as comforting as it is disturbing, but you suppose a reunion only in death would be better than none at all.

‘Silly human. Don’t worry, I got you.’

⊹⊹⊹

A voice breaks the quiet of night. Dulcet, lamenting.

The ocean whirs in his ears endlessly, his tail gliding below him in a dull swish. A school of fish passes by, and then another. A curious, blue one swims at his side and he biffs it dismissively.

“Not now, fishie.”

Rafayel isn’t concerned about the life swirling around him in colorful dots of assorted sizes, floating above the seabed, no- that’s all ubiquituous to him. It’s that song— that smooth sound drifting like a dirge from somewhere on the surface— that stirs something deep in his chest.

It was like that last night, too, and then a few nights before.

After over two decades of swimming in unbroken boredom- with each day bringing about the expectation of nothing more than waking up to see another- the siren feels a shift.

Something is breaking the monotony.

An excitement, existing deep in his chest but incipient, is invoked within him like an ancient god brought to wakefulness. Rafayel feels his bones rouse with the phantom aches of a slumber he never fell into- but the feeling is all the same. He rubs the disbelief from his eyes and pushes aside waving reeds before rocketing upwards.

When the waves kiss the morning foam,

From beneath the surface, the crescent moon is lopsided and shakes as Rafayel gets closer to breaching it.

The dainty shadow of a hand cuts in front of the white orb, as if wanting to capture it, before falling back to her side.

A gentle splash.

From up here, he can hear the things of land- the crickets and cicadas of summertime- purr from afar. That’s not what he came here for, though, what’s been stringing him in from the depths like fish in a trawl or moth to a flame.

And still, in the span of the last week, Rafayel has yet to get her name... (Something that definitely has to be remedied sooner or later, he quietly decides- despite the other half of him still holding onto the pride of coasting solo, the embarrassment at being led off by a mere voice. A land creature’s, at that.)

He latches onto the long, thick leg of the peer and props himself just under the overhang of it, laying his nose flat in the water but opening his eyes above it. It’s amplified now, that pretty noise, and the only thing separating the two- him and the human- is the planks of wood overhead.

Her feet rest on it. He hears her sandals squelch before she toes them off, sits down, and loops her legs over the edge.

Rafayel, with fluttering lashes and an interest so unexpected but strong it’s paralyzing- watches her heels make ripples just beside him, his heart thumping wildly. It could be out of the thrill of doing something this unusual, or the silent anticipation of maybe getting caught (although, he doubts he will, for the main reason that his kin don’t lack in cunning).

Maybe it’s just out of delight- the fibers of his being tingling with invisible sparks of… something. It makes him feel a little clumsy, innocent and fumbling like when he was a young merfolk just learning how to evade a rip current.

Similarly, she pulls him under. Drags him far out. Her voice is the tide and he’s all too willing to drown.

It’s… certainly not the first time he’s seen them- human legs- and he’ll be the first to admit that he wasn’t so sure about them initially- but he thinks he likes hers the best. It’s starting to grow on him, but just a little.

She’s soft. Smooth. At least, that’s how she appears- though he can’t say for certain because he’s never tested that theory, yet.

He’s extra careful to keep his hands to himself, intrigued as he is, lest his nails pierce through and break her. It’s a more common notion underwater, shared between much of the fishfolk, that humans are meant to be broken. Pieced apart in hungry hands or brought to the depths for a more extended, decadent death.

To be fair, he’s not a firm denier of that...

But this human, this girl who’s collided into his infinitely bleak life with all the grace of a ship wrecked hours off from shore, and whatever the hell she’s singing about— Rafayel’s not quite stupid enough to break her, no… He’s not quite willing to, either.

When the scent of roses pierces the lungs, The fish stranded at your fingertips…

For the rest of the moonlit evening, Rafayel floats beneath the peer at her (unwitting) side and listens to her languishing until she stands to her feet and retreats down the beach, disappearing into a cluster of warm, tiny lights in the distance.

Blood,

Blood,

Blood covers the sea.

Rafayel, with an inexplicable pang of sorrow- unable to fight the influence of her songs- can’t help but wonder what has made the girl so sad.

It’s not in their baser nature, the sirens, to commiserate, least of all with the humans. It’s a weakness, to cry, an open wound that his kind is all too susceptible to deepening- so they avoid it entirely. Call it preservation. But for as much as Rafayel loves the ocean- and yes, to an extent, his people- he was never all that interested in their society, and if showing a little bit of heart for the landfolk means escaping the bland shadows of the sea, then maybe right now is a good time to start.

…Before she swims away, anyway.

⊹⊹⊹

Silence sours the balmy air of your home, but you swear you hear something singing to you.

It was real.

It had to be, what happened just a number of days ago.

When you’d been retrieved from a bed of seaweed on the shore with little memory of what happened, you had retained just enough to know that something was… off.

That something having to do with the violent storm at sea and your lack of succumbing to it- the darting shadow that appeared by the boat and was there when you went under— wasn’t adding up.

You… shouldn’t be alive.

That thought was present even in the thick mist of early morning as boats began unmooring from the docks— stark epiphany, realer than the concerned hands of the fishermen as they helped you into town, your legs hardly capable of carrying you there on their own. Much less your frazzled mind; you didn’t quite miss the way they’d stared at you during the trek off shore, throwing frantic looks over your shoulder even as the sand gave to the reedy path leading into the village.

The rolling waves got flatter as you drew off from it, but something in you- like some inexplicable base instinct- was telling you to run. Away or back to it, you don’t know, but you feel the frigidity of the sea still in your chest, lapping away at your sanity as days pass.

The burn is surreal. Nothing makes sense.

You should be dead- scraping there at the bottom of the sea, drifting with your supposedly dead fiancé in a place where the light doesn’t dare reach—

But you’re not.

The earth feels shapeless beneath your feet. A perpetual dizziness in your skull that makes you feel like you’re swaying on a dock- but your toes are planted in dry land.

You’re alive. The scale tipped against you but it didn’t matter. The sea spat you out, didn’t want you.

Surprisingly, you take the whole ordeal in stride. The first days after being plucked from the shore are rocky and dreamy, but you find your footing and with it comes an unexpected hope.

If you survived, your fiancé must’ve as well. He’d always been the stronger of you two, anyway, more stout and determined.

The waves did not drag him under. Couldn’t have.

The canoe you took out to sea is gone, not to your surprise. It was more or less reduced to splinters. But you wonder if it was even real to begin with, if the canoe ever existed that day when you unroped it from its notch and embarked on the perilous journey. Down to the very point where you pattered off your porch steps and made the choice to look for your fiancé yourself- the whole sequence of events is wrapped in a forgetful fog.

But deep down, despite the whispers of doubt surrounding you and your own mental haze, you know it happened. All of it.

It was real, and something

Is singing to you—

(Wet hands descend the span of your belly. Sand feels like gravel beneath you, soaked and cold beneath a yellowed moon as night fades. Reverent, curious. Long nails carefully unravel algae from your fingers and thighs. The debris is tossed away, thrown down the shore without thought.

-…. in good shape, cutie. Is there anyone on land who’d sing for you if you disappeared? A gentle laugh- but even in your state of unconsciousness, you pick up on the note of disdain there. I guess if there was, you wouldn’t turn to the sea so much.)

Hands. Curious hands kneading into you like wet clay on a spinning wheel. Reshaping. Admiring. There’s painterly intent in every touch, every brush. Something between the cove of your legs gives a wanting throb and your tongue feels like cotton. Fire licks from your belly to your brain and makes it benumbed, pleasantly heavy as the gentle, rhythmic lull of the tide cools the tips of your toes.

Salt burns your throat.

You wake with it sore.

Rubbing it groggily, you come to before dawn fully does, the horizon flickering with a diluted, white-orange beneath a starry sky.

It gets to be too much. The emptiness of your bed, the suffocating drivel of the townsfolk and the lack of certainty in what happened to you.

Dubbed crazy or not by all around you, you’re past the point of caring. You have to leave. Worried neighbors advised you against it, adamant that you ward off on visiting the peer at least until your mind fog lessened; preferably, you’d wait an extra few months so the wound of heartbreak would seal over, but it seems they know better than to ask that of you.

He’s still out there, your to-be husband. He’s got to be.

You think something else might be, too. The thing that saved you. Although, the reasons it has for doing so are beyond you.

Go back, a lilting voice sings somewhere in the back of your head, a dull throb like a separate, beating heart. It thumps in your skull and sends a thrill through you. It speaks in urgency, like it’s warning you not to disobey— but all the sharpness of it is masked in dulcet chords.

Go back, back to the sea.

Crazy or not, you think it’s calling for you.

The lyrics lead you to the front door. Maybe you ought to think this over more, sleep on it (God knows you’re failing at that seemingly simple task). But something is driving you, picking up and physically moving your limbs for you as if your settings have been switched to autopilot.

You shrug on a thin cardigan to stave off the crisp air of early morning, not bothering to lock your door behind you.

A weird, eerie voice in your subconscious- hardly sounding like yours- says you won’t be coming back anyway.

Thankfully, you have half the mind to shoo it away and steel your nerves. Of course you’ll be coming back home. You’ll find your errant fiancé and burst through the little blue-painted door with celebration. All the village will cough up their sheepish apologies for the things they’d said- the faithless assumptions they made- and raise a mug to his return.

The key to finding him is finding that other thing, first. The thing with a watery fist and roaming nails, the glinting coral-red eyes that blurred beneath coiling waves and the tail that you’re sure swam you back to safety.

The locals can say all they want about you: The ruddy, fading ring of scratches wrapping around the bone of your ankle—

That’s all the proof you need to spur you onward.

Onward is the ocean.

⊹⊹⊹

Water gushes against the rocks at the seaside.

Dark and slate-grey, they dry up under the sun immediately. Seagulls caw overhead. The sand is warm- not cool as it was in your last visit- near scalding as you head towards the shore.

You hiss and don’t make it halfway until you start leaping, bare feet burning. You hurry into the water, standing only ankle-deep, and mentally scold yourself for forgoing shoes— but to your defense, your sandals had been lost to the abyss that was the sea just barely seven days ago.

The horizon is blinding. Sunlight bounces off the plane of the sea and glistens, just as bedazzled as a wealthy woman’s neck. It’s a far cry from what it was last week- all whorling ridges and roaring waters- and for that you’re thankful.

That storm, and being launched into the hellish currents of it, will remain in your dreams for a long time coming.

Even now, just looking at it from far out takes your breath a little.

It’s horrifying. It’s… beautiful.

…And it’s singing to you—

“I know you’re there,” you whisper.

Your voice is just a breath at first, hushed as you toss a squirrely look down the beach- where the fishermen drudge around as little specks- and straighten your spine.

You’re alone here, though. You’re allowed to be as crazy as you want.

You speak louder, forcing down the lump of embarrassment in your throat that says your voice is falling on deaf ears. And you know the ocean doesn’t have ears, or eyes; it hardly had the heart to spit you back out of it.

But that thing that snatched you into its arms and left you boneless on the sand does.

With hands bunched, shaking, you declare, “I know, you’re there.”

Nothing.

A short whitecap curls over the tips of your toes and stretches a few feet behind you before receding.

It melds seamlessly into the blue.

Nothing, and then-

Yards off, a colorful blur warbles. As it swims closer, you hold your ground, squint to assure it’s not a sea turtle or other creature (albeit, no typical marine animal is that shape or size), and let out a little gasp. Its head pops above the surface gracefully, and it’s full of hair, a vibrant shade of indigo that strikes a familiar chord in you instantly.

“It’s you,” you startle, almost out of breath. The fingers clutched tightly at your sides unfurl. Your heart picks up its speed, an abrupt surge of emotions- shock, relief, and confusion- leaving no different an effect than a stungun would.

“You’re real, I- I knew it—!”

“Shhh,” is his first word, coral-blue eyes narrowing with apathy as he palms himself closer, about knee-deep in the water now. And yet you step away, applying some distance as you stagger because for whatever reason, the knowledge that his creature- or fish-man- saved you doesn’t take the cake when it comes to self-preservation.

You don’t even have a name to put to his face (or tail), and up until now, you were certain mermaids and unicorns and fairies only existed between the pages of whimsical books or the imaginations of children.

Right then, you think, they also existed in the sage warnings of the Greeks before they sailed off to sea.

The quiet epiphany plays with your nerves.

“You don’t have to be so loud, you know. I can hear you just fine, thanks.”

Ear-length, wavy hair bobs with the movement as he tilts his head. You can’t help but feel estranged from the idea of caution, though, as he drifts a bit closer and gives you a petulant pout.

He gets as close as the sandbar will allow before pausing, broad shoulders jutting above the ripples.

And he’s childish still, the picture of harmlessness as he looks up at you, squinting in the sun, and murmurs, “buuuut, I admire your enthusiasm, cutie... Were you looking forward to our reunion that bad?”

You blink, lashes fluttering. A breath you’d been holding finally escapes you, a whit of that unease ebbing out just like the cool tide underfoot.

You’re… hardly a sailor, anyway. You’ve no ship to be wrecked; no, the man that served as the anchoring element in your life is missing. The boat in your life has gone AWOL. With it your warmth and love. It’s why you’ve even come out here in the first place, the flights of fancy belonging to a grieving woman or not.

The reminder of your lost fiancé steels you.

You lift a shaky hand to use as a visor against the sun, blotting it out so you can peruse the man-fish without obstruction.

“You saved me,” is all you really know to say. You’d had all sorts of lofty plans coming back out here, but you’d never fully considered what you’d do if your new friend (he is a friend, right?) did show.

He lets out an amused, dry sound. The ghost of a smile curls at his pink lips, though. He can’t quite hide that one from you.

“I did. Have you come to show me your gratitude?” He lowers his gaze then, glancing at your shins momentarily before peering behind you, at the grassland stopped just after the shore and right before the village.

He grumbles, “Or will humans with pitchforks show up any minute, intent on slaughtering me and my kind?”

For some reason, the most you take from that statement is the very end of it, quickly saying, “T-There’s more of you?”

He looks up at you. Makes a scoffing sound but it only holds half its bite.

“Well, of course there is. Silly girl,” he comments, that little grin returning with a vengeance as behind him, something teal shoots up from the water and pelts a small flurry of droplets your way. You close your eyes and turn, the gentle sound of his laughs ringing out.

When you look back at him, a long tail- gorgeous and as pigmented as turquoise paint- flicks under the sun and glitters no different than rhinestones.

“It was only me that was generous enough to save you, though. That’s the most important part.”

⊹⊹⊹

Trust is a big word, it is.

But there is no doubt in your mind that you would’ve succumbed to a watery death if not for the merman- Rafayel, he’d informed with a coy flap of his tail- intervening, and you’re grateful to him for that. His saving you— it means something. And you owe him.

You head for the shore each morning with a silent debt hanging over your head, but he never demands anything of you in return. During lazy afternoons by the cove trading pretty, swirled shells and at first tentatively getting in the water with him to swim at nightfall, you wait for the catch to come, for him to name his price.

You think it’s only fair. Rescuing something as valuable as a life is nothing to scoff at: you’d cough up the change.

He never holds out his hand.

If anything, Rafayel seems wholly uninterested in that.

You’re not entirely sure why you formulated your ideas of merfolk around blood-thirst and thievery (perhaps because of the myths), but the one you’re befriending is nothing like that. He’s playful and sassy and a little bit flirtatious but you suppose- if the legends of sirens luring sailors to the depths are really true- then it adds up. It’s only natural he’d be a whit on the provocative side, right?

Rafayel is friendly, clingy even when you convince him that you have no intentions of alerting the village any time soon of his presence. You tell him with a wry laugh that they’d hardly believe you anyway because everyone thinks you’ve lost it.

You see it in his pleasant face- the blip of interest that passes by- that he wants to ask why, but he holds off on it when you pour him with questions about what goes on in the deep blue and if his kind really eats fishermen.

He huffs, propping his elbow on the half-submerged rock he’d helped you onto, still in sight of the shore but more intimate a setting.

“What kind of question is that? Do you really think I could do something like that? Look at me,” he balloons out his cheeks and puffs. “I’m an innocent little fishie.”

You laugh, and drop the interrogation in favor of a more lighthearted one. You ask Rafayel what life off land is like.

With a mischevious twinkle in his marbled, red-blue eye, he tells you about what lurks in ocean trenches first, painting vivid imagery in your head of glowing bulbs in the dark and rows of jagged teeth that peer out of deep crevices.

You blanche and he can’t help but chuckle softly, a dash of something in his gaze that resembles ardor as it flits appreciatively along the curve of your face.

It’s not all horrifying, though, he eventually concedes.

He scoops shiny things up from the sand lining the ocean floor and gifts them to you in your following meetings. He tells you that the fish- sleek and chromatic- dance around him in schools where everything is crystalline. They sleep on beds of coral under-tail and stick close to the fins of whales, apparently having nothing better to do. Sometimes they get a little clingy, he admits, and he has to shoo them away, but the little creatures are friendly- and his underwater world is nothing short of beautiful.

Rafayel loves the sea. It’s his home.

“And what about you, cutie? What’s your home like?”

That gives you pause, but just for a moment.

You know what home is like; you’d only dwelled there, in the tiny village off the shoal, since you were a little girl.

And home is nice…. Or, it was. Now, it’s a husk of the warmth you once knew. Days drag by in drab monotony and the added, very much unwanted reminder that your fiancé has yet to return. Seagulls squawk outside and tricycle bells ring. Concerned neighbors knock on your door but this place feels dull. No more face to put to this snuggly seaside village.

With a small smile- one that Rafayal thinks is more wistfully sad than anything- you tell the merman about the things you cherish here, deliberately omitting what you desperately miss.

Memories of childhood circle back to you in fuzzy fragments: Despite the present, you can still at least cherish the past, right…?

Listening to you recount gems of your youth with a smile, it’s evident to Rafayel that you love it here.

Just… he understands that maybe it’s not as much as you used to.

His face takes on more of a sober look then, his cheeks, dappled with teal scales that break the surface in some spots, dusting a soft pink. You don’t really understand why- perhaps a mild case of sun burn- but he asks,

“And what about in it? Is there… Someone who’s special to you, who brings it warmth? Even underwater, in order to survive, we merfolk need a suitable temperature, you know.”

Ah. That.

You offer a hum of acknowledgment before glancing off, far out to where the flat whitecaps stretch into nothingness. Lounging around by the coast with your new, unlikely friend, the scenery is idyllic here.

You almost will yourself into forgetting what you’re really here for, what hurled you face-first into this predicament.

Sorrow hangs in your heart. The visage of your fiancé passes in your head rapidly, kaleidoscopic, his smiles and the tender moments spent with him, the sound of his laugh.

You are less and less certain of yourself. You are not sure if the gossipping townsfolk are correct or not to assume the worst, but what you do know is that it’s creeping up on two months and not one shiphand has returned. Not even an errant oar has washed ashore.

“Yes. But…” A pause. You swallow thickly and give your head a belated, uncertain shake. Tears form in the back of your throat and you pile them down, frustrated they’d showed up uninvited.

Perhaps you’re more weak to all the bleak murmurs than you’ve let on.

You laugh, but the sound lacks humor. “Everyone thinks he’s dead, all the people at the village.”

“…You wanna share?”

You shrug and draw one knee to your chest, the other still bent over the rocky ledge, dangling in the cool water. They’re still today, the waters, relatively level— but inwardly, you warn yourself against being so easily deceived by them: they looked more or less the same the day you rowed out.

The storm was nothing short of terrifying, yes, but you think the lack of expecting it somehow made it more devastating.

“Well, there’s not much to,” you respond, tongue in cheek. You don’t mean to sound uninterested in this conversation all of a sudden, but you suppose it’s a defense mechanism. Rafayel props his elbows on the rock and listens intently, giving his brow a little quirk at your tone.

“But my… fiancé,” why the words are suddenly hard to get out, you don’t know, “he went off to sea. Hasn’t come back yet.”

At your knees, Rafayel is noticeably quiet, but you get the inexplicable sense that he’s invested.

“I guess he’ll come back with lots of fish whenever he does,” you sigh. Your attempts to remain lighthearted just barely working.

Quickly, you try to breeze past the topic, but the merman chimes- “A fisherman? You were courting a fisherman?”

Courting. The word sounds a little funny, medieval almost, but you hum.

It’s his turn to make a tongue-in-cheek comment, lifting his scaly fist to support his chin. “He must’ve been a real prize to deserve all that singing... What do I get for saving you?” He says playfully, almost pettily, but you get the weird idea that this is more serious to him than he lets on.

You want to heave a laugh at his pouting words, but confusion stops you. You snap your head to him.

“You-?”

Quickly, Rafayel quips, “Yes, just about the whole sea can hear you at night. Why is that surprising?”

For some reason, a whit of hope warms your chest throughout. If Rafayel is cognizant of something as trivial as songs from above the surface, surely he must’ve been privy to a shipwreck or the hurried shouts of sailors as their boat went down.

Not that you believe it did, just—

You scramble upright, planting your palms on the rock in a kneel as you say- in a voice you’re not keen on sounding as desperate as it comes out-

“Have you ever heard anything else? A- A boat sinking? People drowning or- or—“ You stuff out an anxious breath, all the worries and doubts you’d been housing for weeks now bubbling to the surface. You suppose if anybody has garnered your confidence, though, it’s the merman that saved your veritable life.

Still, a lump of unease burns in your throat. Thick and acidic. It makes your voice shake but you ignore it, leaning over the edge. If you fall in, he’ll save you again anyway. If not a friendship (but you definitely treat it as such), there is still a mutual fondness between you two- a silent trust- and you’re sure, beside the marks on your ankle he left by accident in the heat of the moment, he would not let harm befall you.

“Because they say he’s gone— my lover— they say his crew got hit by something- like a plague or a storm- and succumbed out there. But maybe- maybe you heard something? Rafayel- did you hear or see any group of fishermen out there?” You bluster, before adding on like an afterthought, “two months ago?”

The longer your mouth moves, the wider Rafayel’s eyes get.

And then, you think it’s something like… recognition that skips across multihued eyes.

He’s quiet for a moment, mouth ajar. His bright turquoise tail, the tip jutting out from the tide as it sways idly, stops midway in the air and floats awkwardly.

Your brow furrows. You fear the worst. Your nails dig into the gritty surface, fingerpads whiting as you shake your head.

“Rafayel-? W-What’s wrong?”

Curtly, he shuts his mouth. An easy smile replaces his momentary surprise.

When he speaks, it’s in a familiar, somewhat sarcastic but harmless tone, and his tail sparks to life behind him, albeit quite unsteadily.

“Nothin’, cutie,” he lifts an arm to adjust his perch on the rock but it slips. His face dusts pink, his brows twitching together; all of it, the clearly disturbed signs of his composure, he ignores. Your heart thrums.

“I was just thinking how brave you were to venture off to sea after him. He’s lucky to have someone like you still waiting at home for him.” His compliment is overlooked. You’re too caught up in the rush of unease that sweeps through you- the niggling feeling that says there’s something more to this you’re not seeing- that you can hardly utter a bashful thanks.

“But- did you happen to hear anything, or-?”

Rafayel adds casually, “I’m sure the guy is fine wherever he is, though. And no, cutie. But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

Something like hesitance grips you as you watch, with silence, the friendly merman lose the better part of his mirth. You wonder if you’ve said something wrong as his exterior hardens cooly, if you’ve divulged too much of your emotions and quite possibly lost your final companion. Maybe you’re overthinking it- but if that’s the case, if even a fish-man from the sea has taken the same opinion as the land-living locals, then some drama seems warranted.

You don’t want to be alone again. And Rafayel- Rafayel was starting to really grow on you despite all your differences—

He strums his fingers against his jaw, painting the picture of boredom, and puffs out his lips, eyes drifting away almost flippantly as if he’s dead to the wounded look you send him.

A yawn. He unfolds his lean arms and ducks under the water.

“Wait- Rafayel-?”

“Sorry, princess, the fishies are calling me. They said it’s getting late now, and that I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But—“

“Hop on my back, let me take you back to shore. Your little legs can only doggy paddle you so far,” he lets out a light laugh but you don’t miss the dash of mockery there, as if you’re some unfortunate soul cursed with four limbs and warm blood. Still, you bite your tongue- and the unbidden pang of unease in your chest- and slip off the rock.

You loop your arms around his middle, his muscles flexing in response, lean and tight, and keep your chin above the tide as he floats towards the sand bar.

“Rafayel, are you okay?”

“Of course, cutie. Why, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yeah. It’s just-“ you poorly stifle a sigh, still a bit taken aback by his sudden desire to truncate your meeting. That, and his odd behavior when you asked about any possible shipwreck.

You eventually settle on, “Please just keep it on your radar. If you hear or see any ships, call me, okay?”

“We don’t have shellphones under the water, you know. How am I supposed to alert you?” You can’t see the face he’s making, saddled on his back as his long tail gusts through the gentle currents, but you realize he’s teasing.

“I- I don’t know,” you admit clumsily. “Maybe I’ll just know if you say my name.”

I mean, it’s not too crazy an idea, is it? You felt a stirring towards the ocean- real and audible- would a creature living in it really be so different?

Perhaps the townsfolk are right in their claims made against you, that you’ve lost it.

There’s nothing left in you that cares, though.

Rafayel lets out a small chuckle but sounds oddly endeared. “How romantic.”

“Rafayel—“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you know if anything’s up. Don’t worry!”

⊹⊹⊹

From the shipdeck, the water is beautiful, even as it takes you down under, swallowing up the thick hull in a lazy gulp.

A white moon pours down. The waves sparkle like sequins. It’s… hypnotizing, in a way. Your fist flies to your collar when the sails tear, the harsh rip of it reminding you of the breath still in your lungs, and you hold the locket there like it’s a lifering.

The crewhands scramble for them- and for the tiny boat hanging off the side. Another powerful slosh to the boat sends slippery hands in a fray; you hear the vague sound of wood cracking, planks you thought to be sturdy splintering. You’re no more than a raft drifting, victim to the elements.

The emergency lifeboat whistles as it drops, freefalling from the ropes and into the coiling sea.

It has no heart for mercy, the sea, but you’ve still one for home, a deep-seated urge within to return that has your nails digging bluntly into your palms, blood drawing in the paths of them.

…H-Home.

Sailors scream around you.

Someone, you realize with a flash of confusion, in the chaos- in the maelstrom of wind and shooting rain- is even singing.

The sound of it chills you to the bone.

Dazedly, you think they must’ve lost it. To be fair, there’s no blame there— men have drowned in waters far flatter: your crew is miles from the nearest chunk of land and the vessel can’t withstand this weather— you’re all gonna die and the crewmate must know. He knows and he’s singing.

Crashing waves silence heavy thunder. The sky glows endless white, one last fissure of lightning darting down before the deck lights bright gold.

Fire surges. It dances in your eyes and you swallow a scream.

She’s waiting at home, still. It can’t be over, it can’t be, it can’t be—

Fiery yellow, and then everything spins, your world going lopsided as the ship groans and you tip.

And then, it’s all blue.

Dark, vast cerulean interpolated only by flotsam that drifts away the moment you reach for it, fingers desperately clawing for the surface.

Up, or down— you’re not sure which way you’re swimming.

You do know, though, that you never find your buoyancy.

Hands. Hands on you and dragging you down, down, down, and then it’s clear the wrecked pieces of the ship are getting further away, not closer. A deepness surrounds you. Cold, quiet. The storm’s effects are mitigated the lower you sink— it’s counterintuitive, you think, because surely you’ll drown regardless, but a strange sense of calm washes over you as the air peters from your lungs. They spasm as you choke.

But you got to get home, you must get home to her—

The tips of your boots touch the sandy floor.

It’s tranquil, under the sea. The reefs are vivid, swaying with bubbling marine life. Navy blue swirls around you and is limned with muted fire light, displacing itself with every wild movement of your limbs. You flail them helplessly but something—

Something is holding you down and it’s singing—

From afar, and through bleared eyes, the coral looks like upright rods of colorful bone, yellow and blushing-orange. An opaque red smears over them— curling and wavering into smoke-like trails. It’s reminiscent of black and white marble. Beautiful, in a way.

A long, glittering tail scrapes across your leg.

You realize it’s blood- your blood- and then in a heartbeat, a pair of talons pierce through the veil and—

A gasp.

You come to wakefulness with a frightened noise.

That dream- you’d been having it for days now, each more fragmented and blurry than the last… But this time, it’s strikingly clear.

Horror frosts your eyes over, glossy and wide as you undo the covers bound tightly around you, standing to shaking feet.

That awful, awful dream— it’s not in your point of view, you realize, it’s in your fiancé’s, and that same claw that had been gracious enough to scoop you up and save you from stormful, roaring swells—

Dragged your lover down to the depths, burying him in liquid oblivion.

As you shrug on a thin cardigan and hurry outside, dashing under moonlit lawns with the single-minded focus to reach the beach, you vaguely wonder if you’re being unreasonable, if all these little dreams and visions and songs you’ve been experiencing are nothing short of delirium. But this is too coincidental— Rafayel had smoothly shirked all your questions days ago, and you realize now that the dull look in his eye wasn’t boredom but jealously, ugly and sudden, masquerading under disinterest.

Knowledge of that- and your naivety- comes to you in piecemeal.

You’ve been stupid. You’d been holding onto the feeble hope that your soon-to-be husband was somewhere out there, scraping together shellfish on an uncharted islet or lost at sea with his crew-mates but alive. Deep down, you always knew it was the dreams of a fool.

But damn it all if you’d just… stopped yourself for one fucking second to nudge aside your denial and take a good look at your marine friend, you’d have seen the lack of common sense in it. Your lover’s met no different and no more painless, as much as it horrifies you- a fate than the sailors depicted in all those whimsical tales of old.

You sing out to the sea. Anger warms your chest like a fleece, cardigan be damned, fists clenched so tight your palms swell as you cry out.

Panic, subtle but niggling, speaks to you from underneath thick layers of hate and pain, but you’re beyond the point of reason. No, you need to hear it from the siren himself just what the fuck happened to your other half— if he can hear your lamenting after dark without issue, surely he would’ve at least caught wind of some devastation off the coast or spotted the debris in his own waters—

But he’s been keeping something from you.

“Rafayel!” You cry again. It’s impossible to swallow the lump in your throat; it seeks to climb to the surface but for now, with a remnant of control that surprises yourself, you manage to keep from spitting it up.

Nausea turns in your belly, but you keep it at bay. Just barely.

Unshed tears burn your cornea. “Rafayel!” You don’t scream, no, your lungs are too wounded and overwhelmed by the simple task of drawing air to, but it’s a near thing.

Furious, beginning to think he’ll conveniently not show or he’s merely ignoring you, your feet splash into the water until you’re shin-deep.

You hiccup. “R-Rafayel! I know you’re there!”

Eventually, a head bobs above the tide, infuriatingly nonchalant, and a turqoise fluke appears not long after it, twinkling just barely under a clouded, night sky.

He doesn’t look as tired as you’re sure you do- and not by a long shot quite as disturbed. If anything, he looks a little pleased with himself.

Wet indigo waves give a little bounce as he lazily approaches, watchful eyes glimmering with something you’re both too enraged and emotional to name. Something like betrayal courses through you— distracting you from the very real fact that the siren is drawing closer.

He says nothing as you shake your hands emphatically, eyeballs practically bulging out your head. They might pop out and roll. “You-! You knew!” You accuse, momentarily stunned at the broken sound of your voice. “You knew all along b-because you did it, didn’t you? You’ve been lying to my face this whole time— You killed him! Y-You ripped him apart I fucking saw it—“

Your tirade is clipped short with a hiccuping gasp as you fully erupt into tears. You don’t bother to wipe them or even hang your head, brows furrowed as Rafayel regards you with a contemplative, almost curious look.

An undercurrent of desire, dark and intense, exists under it, though, and you can’t will yourself for any longer to view him as the same harmless, aquatic humanoid who’d rescued you.

You find yourself for both a lack of coherency and also gratitude; he could’ve left you to decay at the bottom of the ocean for all you care, or thrown you to the hands of Neptune or the feeding pit of sharks— it’s almost preferable to this.

Rafayel’s face, admittedly handsome, in a pretty way (albeit, you’ve no idea why your brain is suddenly forming opinions on his appearance, especially now of all times), is relaxed, devoid of emotion. You recognize the impatience there, though… like there’s been a string that you’ve pulled taut.

The silent truth that has been overarching your life for the past couple months- you don’t want to come to terms with it or you might break otherwise.

For the life of you, you can’t even understand what his goals were in all of this—

You hurl your anger at him and flail your arms and shout until your trachea feels like aggregate when you swallow, and he waits it all out with an ease that gets you impossibly riled up.

You suck in a sharp breath and shudder when you open your eyes again, color seeming to reenter your periphery, and measure the distance Rafayel has bridged.

Gasping, you go to take a step back, knees knocking together like newborn foal as a distinct sense of panic rips through you- not right, it screams, and, you messed up, you messed up, you stupid, stupid—

“Silly girl,”

A loud splash. A resistance.

Rafayel lurches his arm, belly almost brushing against the sandbar, and takes ahold of your ankle.

You let out a yelp, instantly reaching down to try to unlatch him from you, dismay robbing you of oxygen, but it’s too late for that. Each of your clumsy attempts is precluded. Faded scars line the knob of your ankle and Rafayel presses into them with the smooth pads of his fingers- forcefully, but he’s mindful not to use his nails. He’s learned since the last time.

He gives one good tug and you stand no chance, falling with a slosh.

Pulling you towards him, he’s fully confident now that you’re in his liquid domain, slowly dragging you away from the shallow end, from home- or at least, the shriveled, sad remains of it.

Mortified, and still very much resisting him— the merman surprisingly gentle, cognizant of your frailty despite the iron grasp he subdues you with— you throw a frantic glance up and watch as the shore shrinks.

“No!” He’s very careful to keep your head above the tide, but you’re choking still.

This is not the first time he’s helped you into the ocean and swam recreationally with you, usually with the addition of little trinkets and pretty shells you bring to swap, but it’s definitely the first time he’s trapped you in his arms, lean and impossible to swat away, and ignored your asks to return to land.

You remember your front door then, funnily enough, how you left in a tizzy and far too shaken to lock it, and burst into another sob.

You’ll not be returning, will you?

“Please!” You blubber with all the grace of a fish out of water. You squirm like one, too. “Please, don’t kill me, Rafayel, don’t- don’t eat me—!”

A laugh, breathy but humored- cruel in its softness- rings at your ear. Gorgeous tail folded in front of you, brushing against your rear and the underside of your thighs as they fruitlessly kick out, Rafayel uses it to propel you both backwards, treating your kidnapping like a pleasant stroll.

“Of course I won’t eat you, princess,” he coos, placing a painless but clearly posessive- like he’s marking his territory- nip to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. It makes you shiver. “Don’t you understand by now?” He frowns, “You’re mine. The ocean’d sooner dry up then watch me lay a fin on you.”

There’s exactly zero things funny about this situation, so with a pang of wrath, you don’t know why he’s laughing. Maybe at the irony, because in any case, he most certainly has laid a fin on you—

You feel angry at yourself next in the seconds that follow, managing to bite into the flesh of his scale-dotted forearm and slip out of his grip— thrashing away without ceremony before he hisses and curtly regathers you.

“You’re a slippery fishie, huh, cutie? You can’t seriously think I’ll just let you swim away though, right?” His tone darkens then, deepening with a quiet warning you can’t help but feel is incongruous to the generally mild, sassy but otherwise friendly merman you’d grown to know.

When you try to break free again, the exertion summoning a state of near dry-drowning, Rafayel drops all efforts at patience and seizes you by the throat.

His hand curling around your neck, almost playing at the idea of testing just how tragic your power dynamic really is, he lets out a frustrated noise behind you. He knocks his nose into the side of your face, tealy lamella spotting the surface of his cheek and scratching against yours.

Unfamiliarly low, he grumbles out, “You’d better stop fightin’, girl, because if you spin out of control, there’s no guarantee what’ll happen to you. You’re hurting yourself. Stop it, now, I said.”

That fully frightens you. The scream buried within your throat dies, withers into nothing.

Attenuated, pointed nails graze the soft flesh of your jugular, reminding you of all the horrific, brutal ways he could sunder you in two, but they don’t draw so much as a drop of blood.

“P-Please—“ You sputter, desperately digging at his forearms that make an X over your midriff and collarbone, your toes launching out of the water. Your fight, for as valiant as it is, is sapping you of an impressive amount of energy and at an alarmingly fast rate.

But you can’t stop. You refuse to buckle to him- because to bow your head and agree to give in would be like finally surrendering to the cold reality that has, as of a number of weeks ago, completely shrouded your life.

Y-You can’t admit he’s dead— that you’re entirely crazy, widowed, and in the strictest definition alone—

“Ah-ah, princess,” he murmurs as you heave wildly, “don’t you think that’s enough running away? It’s not fair if I can’t come on land at all, you know. Come and swim with me for a while.” Rafayel coaxes, resuming his more mild demeanor within a blink.

He releases a somewhat exasperated, yet thrilled sigh. It shakes as it leaves his damp lips, blue and fuschia-red eyes glittering with barely repressed delight as he lifts his chin from your shoulderblade.

Then, he leans in towards your ear, and he sings.

⊹⊹⊹

Everything is dream-like.

Birds soar overhead in a breezy circle. They offer a few, occasional squawks that help you to the conclusion of seagulls: paired with the rhythmic, wet purr enveloping you- and the warmth flushing your cheeks- you’d wager you’re at the ocean.

Perhaps a relaxing beach day with your fiancé. He’s laid out the cloth (albeit, it feels oddly… hard, smooth as if the sand beneath is without lumps), and you’ve just stirred from a long nap set to the backdrop of light, gusting sand and crashing whitecaps.

Something in your core throbs.

A particularly tall wave in comparison to the other relatively flat ones smacks against the black rock and cools your skin. Sweat beads at your forehead, the center of your thighs offering a sequence of dull aches that have you feeling weak, wanting nothing more than to let your eyes roll back and stay that way.

You make an incoherent noise as the metaphorical fog clears, buttery, white light warming you. Dawn, you realize hazily, lashes fluttering open gradually, it’s dawn.

…But when you’d last blinked, it was late into the night.

Memories pour back in, a potpourri of muddled events tracing back to this moment- uncertainty startling you upright as—

A hand, firm and a little slimy, presses your belly down.

It bars you from most movement, strong but gentle. A tongue- long and flat and fucking mind-numbing as it laps at your pussy- swirls experimentally against your clit and vibrates with a low, satisfied moan.

Not yours; but the next one that rings out, high and aroused and very, very afraid, is.

You can hardly recognize the sound of it. A thick beat of silence passes before you finally do, brain struggling to reconcile with this startling, admittedly idyllic panorama laid out before you.

A disoriented glance tossed down tells you all you need to know to confirm your fears, a sickness churning so deep in your gut you think it’s plausible you could puke up yesterday’s supper. What spills out from your slack jaw is another helpless, pleasured mewl instead.

Rafayel, mostly submerged in the water but with his upper half braced against the flat rock’s ledge, drapes your legs (trembling, you confusedly note, as if they’ve been positioned that way for a while now) over his broad shoulders to better present his prize and feasts on it like a man starved. One large hand serves as like an anchor on your abdomen, keeping you moored as you positively lose your mind, the other carefully thumbing apart your slick folds.

Somewhere between the span of late last night and very early this morning, he’s gotten them puffy and unbelievably wet, your tight hole clenching around absolutely nothing as his lips- just as swollen and needy- suckle on your tiny bump of nerves.

You rest your head back against the smooth surface of the rock, lukewarm but not quite scorching yet- the sun still moseying its way up the sky, clouds parting to reveal a diluted yellow canvas behind them. Resignation weighs you down better than any hand ever could.

You bite down another moan mixed with a sob and leave dents in the tender tissue of your bottom lip.

He parts with your pussy for just a moment, hesitating like he’s sad to step out from its warmth, knuckling over your labia with a reverence you feel is misplaced considering the circumstances.

He’s cruel when he lifts his eyes to yours, heavy-lidded and utterly transfixed.

The sincere, amorous glint in them is like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, something you couldn’t prepare for or adapt to in time, his head dipping down briefly to pepper a lingering kiss to the gooey seam of you. Mine, everything about the way he gazes up at you says, and, if you don’t believe me then let me prove it.

“You’re gorgeous,” he groans, the dark sphere of his pupils spilling out like ink onto a multicolored canvas. He’s worshipful in nature, but curious- tentative to every little twitch your fatigued face gives, wondering how to push your buttons just right- perhaps above all, just desperate to know if your slick cunt will keep supplying him with that sweet, hot nectar- but it’s been so generous to him thus far, so he figures he’ll just keep on taking.

“It looks just like a seaflower,” he murmurs, breath ragged over the placid lull of the tide as he strokes your flesh, “Like the ones I’d grab from the ocean floor to give you, but so much prettier... Sweeter.”

Rafayel is careful not to hurt you- you can tell, somehow, that he’s fighting tooth and nail with his inner animal, his baser instincts, to keep the last modicum of his control. Hurting you, no matter how accidental or quick, would be detrimental. He knows that. He’s felt it. And to be perfectly honest, he’s quite enjoyed it— but you don’t fall under the category of food or paltry entertainment, no, you’re so much more than that to him.

The pretty, kind girl who kept the brainless town out of your unlikely relationship, who sang her way into his heart and stole it despite himself. His best friend, his sweet little playmate and—

…Mate. Yes, his mate.

“Have you been feeling me?” He asks suddenly. “At home, in bed? I’ve been trying to call out for you,” he relays in an affected pant you wish to unhear as he resumes suckling at your shamefully wet pussy.

You hate this, how worked up he’s managed to get you, how pliant your own body has become as it all but sells itself to him- guilt and confusion swelling in your chest. “I’ve been trying to get you to see how much I like you, princess. B-But it’s like you’ve been shooing me away or something—“

You hardly give any mind to what he’s muttering about, the point of his nose nudging against your sensitive nerves and expediting your release as he licks eagerly at your folds, your whole body trembling with delight. You don’t think you really want to know, anyway.

Sea salt shoots up against the rock, licking your limbs with a cool spritz. He muffles a low breath of amusement into you. “But you’re here now, I guess. Mngh- and you’re so delicious. You’re… fragile though,” he pants, prodding his long, hot tongue against your tiny clenching hole before delving inside it with a violent shudder, his cheeks bright red. “You might have to help me inside, cutie. I don’t exactly wanna break you.”

That stuns you. His words, single-minded and husky, remind you of just how fucked up this all is— and a panic crosses the involuntary fog of your head as you snap it down to get a good look at him.

You were sure merfolk had their own means of reproduction, but it’d never been more than a passing curiosity until now, your heart in your throat as you squint to make out just what he’s working with beneath the water.

Lazily, he looks up to you and smiles when he discovers what you’re doing. It’s a hungered, smitten one, sharp teeth peeking out and all. All your squirming is nothing more than an attempt at self-preservation, unsure of just what he’s endowed with but vaguely knowing- by the size of his tail and difference of species- you sure as hell won’t be compatible with it.

The need to escape is puissant and your limbs begin to move— but they feel oddly leaden, less like flesh and more like stone.

“You wanna see me, pretty girl, yeah? What’re you planning to do?” He coos, swilling away at your watering cunt, nursing from the endless stream of juices like a man possessed. Your fiancé's face flashes before your mind and you make a choked sound.

As if sensing your thoughts, Rafayel lets out a little contented noise and nuzzles against the soft inner portion of your shaking thighs.

“He screamed, just so you know,” a low chuckle rumbles from his chest and warps into a pretty moan. It’s too light and dulcet for comfort, and it feels disproportionate to the general sting of it all. You loathe the unbidden current of arousal that gushes through you at it, wetting his slender fingers as it trickles down the thigh he cuffs.

One final shlick of your throbbing pussy and the merman maneuvers with relative ease onto the rock, his thick tail flopping off at the edge and disappearing into the crystal water. And there’s nothing exactly large about Rafayel’s stature, but he feels heavy as he hovers over you, elbows flanking either side of your head, and the appendage that seems to summon itself between you, drooping with engorged need over your stuttering belly—

You don’t want to look. Too afraid to.

You suppose you don’t have to, anyway: Rafayel grabs your face and cradles your jaw in his smooth palm, hot, labored breaths warming your slack lips. The sun is lifting higher, now, a clementine-gold sky burning like blood low on the horizon. Soon, the temperatures- and his touch as it charts out the most intimate parts of you- will begin to bake your skin.

“He was all bubbly under the water,” he groans with a trace of humor, “but I saw the worry written all over his face. Back then, I’d always wondered why he looked so concerned... not afraid, concerned. But I guess… it was ‘cause he had you to get back home to, huh, cutie?”

Saccharine sweet, he dotes before wrenching your chin up in a desperate, heedless kiss- the action all too cathartic too him but world-stopping for you- and you feel the fat head of something foreign bob between your folds.

“Poor guy,” he moans, voice absolutely ruined as you lurch helplessly beneath him, back arching to accommodate the impossible stretch. You expect it to hurt- to be a searing pain as his massive, inhuman cock spears you apart- but a near blinding delight racks through your body instead as he worms his way inside your walls, wet and primed, your eyes fluttering back.

“But at least his death served a purpose. You’d never have sung for me otherwise. Would never have- went out looking,” he shudders, hanging his head against the sweaty column of your neck, his brilliant-blue tail sloshing in the water on its own accord.

“It’s all thanks to him,” he growls out, tone oozing possession- the innocent little merman you befriended dematerializing before your very eyes. “You’re mine now. Mine.”

And when it’s all said and done, strong, toned arms gathering you up with a low splash as the docks rupture with gradual life, the boots of fisherman croaking over waterlogged wood, and Rafayel takes you under the water- giving you breath with a deep, intimate kiss-

You’ve the feeling that your dreams of reuniting with your lover will fulfill themselves in their own roundabout, warped way.

But you know Rafayel’s not ever letting you go as he undresses your finger of its sparkling ring and tucks you away in his underwater cove— placing you in his nest with reverence before prying apart your numbed legs with rekindled hunger.

Curling across your face, a soaked lock of your hair drifts absently in the still waters and Rafayel thumbs it aside, clipping it back with a little clamshell fashioned as jewelry. He leans over you contentedly, whole body and fluke swallowing you up without difficulty or protest, and happily feeds you oxygen from his lips.

You cling to him helplessly and have no choice— several hundred feet below land level— but to hungrily nurse from him every few hours and pray he won’t make the sudden decision to deprive you of it.

Something in his rippling eyes tells you he won’t, though.

He dips down to paste a lingering peck into your temple, the pad of his thumb roving appreciatively under your eye.

“Don’t you think you’ve seen enough of the land, princess? The brainless humans up there don’t want you anymore, and that’s okay,” he whispers, tiny bubbles floating like balloons before popping. “You belong down here, with me. Who says you need a tail or fins to be one of us?” Mistily, you wonder just what exactly he’s trying to say and who he’s trying to convince of its veracity, a blip of frustration marring his pretty face before it retreats.

“I’ll give you life for as long as I live,” he vows, mouth brushing tenderly against yours as his cheeks puff out and he blows.

“See? Just like this, princess. Just keep holding onto me.”

a farewell to summer

4:35

Well.

This was certainly a problem. You and Caleb were only supposed to be hanging out while it rained. That meant reading, building model planes, maybe making soup...

Not...this.

Not sitting with your back against his chest and his hands under your shirt, head on your shoulder watching some movie series on TikTok you randomly found. He hums, making some comment about the protagonist and how they should have done something some other way. You had stopped paying attention a while ago.

You didn't even remember its title.

His hands cupped your breasts, under your bra, kneading them lightly. Occasionally, he would offer a firm squeeze here and there.

"Mm, next part please,"

You blink, your back going stiff for a moment. "Eh?" "The next one, pipsqueak- please." "Oh- oh, right."

Your thumb scrolls up to go down to the next video, but it moved on to some reddit story. You'd have to find the rest of the movie somewhere else.

Caleb sighs, pressing against you, absent-mindedly rolling your nipples between his fingers. "A shame. I was enjoying that." He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, his hands slipping away from your tits as he gets up to go make lunch. Yeah... a shame.

Call me 'Kyojuro': Female Reader X Kyojuro Rengoku Smut

Author note:  I didn’t expect my first story to be so tame!  I wanted to make something dirty featuring my anime husband, but I think because this is my first, I held back. Raunchy, steamy, inappropriate shit will definitely be written in the future!

Content warning: smut, oral performed on female character, touching of breasts, mentions of bodily fluids (nothing extreme), you also are very forward in your relationship with Rengoku. I don’t really align with self-inserts that make you shy or soft-spoken (depends on the character)…it’s just not my thing!

Word count: 3.2k

--------------

Rengoku was by no means a prude, but his Hashira lifestyle—which consisted of demon-slaying and training on constant repeat—left little time for relationships.

But it was no surprise that he quickly became infatuated with you when you were introduced as the newest Hashira. Yes, you were cute, no, you were beautiful, but that wasn’t the only characteristic that drew him in. It was also the way you were so committed to improving your skills. You were clearly ambitious – working tirelessly day and night to be a better you than the version you were yesterday. 

Rengoku recalled waking up early not long after you began your Hashira tenure, excited to start his usual training regime before the morning sun rose above the mountains and before the other Hashira started to stir. But when he approached the training grounds, he saw you practicing your movements with a sword in hand. 

You were mouthing commands to yourself, “breathe, follow through, expect a parry.” 

Rengoku watched you, quickly forgetting that he had his own training to begin. He was too engrossed by your commitment and passion to interrupt.

“I’m not one for an audience, ya know,” you shoot him a half-smile. You had noticed his presence but allowed the Flame Hashira to study you. As the newest Hashira, you hadn’t spoken up much. You simply observed during Hashira meetings, but you always found yourself interested in whatever Rengoku added to the conversation. Whenever he spoke up, his voice boomed over the others—and they listened. His points always centered on justice and protecting those who couldn’t defend themselves.

You were smitten on day one.

Rengoku’s body stiffened by your call out. He didn’t want you to feel like he was studying you, even if that was exactly what he was doing.

“Sorry! I was simply admiring your technique. And I must admit, I was surprised to find someone out here so early.”

You tilted your head to the side, the sweat that collected on your forehead from the exertion making its way down your cheek. “But you’re out here?”

Rengoku smiled softly as he acknowledged your quick rebuttal.

“Well, there’s more than enough space for us to both get our training in. Care to join me? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in seeing what the Flame Hashira is capable of.” You palm the hilt of your blade nervously, hoping he would accept your offer not only because you were putting yourself out there but also because you wanted him to say yes.

Rengoku shoots you with a dazzling smile that makes your heart stutter.

“Let us get started then.”

In a matter of minutes, you and Kyojuro stared at each other from a respectful distance away, waiting for the other to make the first move—not wanting to be caught off guard, you strike first.

The Flame Hashira dodges you easily, but he doesn’t parry or clip you with his blunted weapon. In fact, many of his movements are a response to your attacks with no attempt at fighting back. You quickly grow frustrated. You had earned your place in the Hashira ranks. You slayed just as many demons as him and had plenty of the scars and trauma to prove it.

More of the same continues, with you stringing together elaborate attacks and him dodging.

You feel the vein in your temple begin to switch, your anger reaching a boiling point. “Demons go out of their way to target women, and you dare hold back against me?!” Your body goes slack as you turn your back towards him, sending a physical sign that you were concluding the training session.

Kyojuro flinches at your sudden emotional outburst, and because he hadn’t realized he was on the defensive with you—he certainly never held back with Shinobu or Mitsuri. For some reason, a reason deeper than he could comprehend at that moment, he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Wait!” Kyojuro takes a step towards you. “You are right to be upset with me, but I assure you that I mean no disrespect.”

You barely turn your head to look over your shoulder, “then fight me, Rengoku! Give me the chance to kick your ass, and if you pull that shit again, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Kyojuro contemplates your words and gives a curt nod. He gets into a battle pose and shoots a dazzling smile at you, “Very well! But please, call me Kyojuro.”

Your heart skips a beat. The sun still hasn’t begun to rise but his smile provides you all the light and warmth you could ever need. 

“S-sure thing, Kyojuro.”

--------------

It didn’t take long until you and Kyojuro had a consistent training ritual together. With the Flam Hashira’s approval of your presence and his bragging about your abilities, the other Hashira began to accept you, too. Your nights, previously spent in your room in alone, were now occupied around a large dinner table where you all shared your meals.

“So, I’m just going to come out and say it as it wouldn’t be very flashy of me to keep my mouth shut,” Uzui begins as he sets his cup down.

Your eyes narrow at him as he turns his hulking body to face you. You like Uzui, but everyone at the dinner table quiets and stares at you—you don’t appreciate the extra attention.

“You and Rengoku are a thing, right?” You shoot him a horrified look as he brings his two pointer fingers together and touches them tip-to-tip.

Sanemi chortles at the ridiculous gesture.

You look at Rengoku, hoping that he’ll interject, but he’s quiet, observing you as a shade of pink quickly rises from his neck to his cheeks. 

Sensing the awkwardness between you and Kyojuro, Shinobu interjects—to your relief.

“Leave them be. Mitsuri, tell us more about that salmon dish you spoke about earlier.”

With that, Mitsuri launches into an animated story about the new restaurant she had discovered. The other Hashira quickly lose interest in you and divert their attention to the Love Hashira. You look up at Kyojuro, fully prepared to see him also engrossed in Mitsuri’s story. Instead, he’s looking down at his half-eaten meal with a pensive look on his face.

Your heart aches as you watch him eventually rise, excuse himself from the table, and exit the dining room. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you follow. And before you know it, you’re pushing his bedroom door open and closing it quietly behind you.

Kyojuro’s bright eyes look at you in surprise. “Oh, did I leave something at the table?”

You chew your bottom lip in frustration, your heart pounds in your ears, and anxiety begins to make your fingers twitch. You were uncharacteristically nervous being in front of him in his room. But you couldn’t help it because, in a matter of months, your feelings for Kyojuro had blossomed into intense feelings of wanting more from your friendship.

Kyojuro, sensing your inability to speak, rises slowly and approaches you. He takes your hands into his and stares into your own bright eyes. 

“Please….say something. I know you were uncomfortable at dinner when Tengen spoke about our…friendship.” He paused slightly over the word friendship, letting it hang between you both as if it were heavy and wrong.

Fuck it

In a moment of bravery, you tilt your head up and press your lips against Kyojuro’s. You feel his muscles tense slightly at your unexpected advancement, but he doesn’t push you away, and for that, you are beyond thankful.

It isn’t long before he moves his hands up to cup your face, his lips, initially unmoving, now pressing firmly against your own. His longing for you is conveyed as his soft lips dance slowly with yours, his fingers gently stroking the soft skin of your cheek in small circles.

A moan escapes your lips. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you think to yourself. 

When his lips part, you take the opportunity to slide your tongue in his mouth. Your eagerness makes Kyojuro’s head swirl, and his pants tighten in the crotch area. The room fills with the lewd sounds of your wet tongues mingling together as both of your arousal grows. There’s no space between your bodies as you press against one another, his solid chest pressing against your soft breasts and crotches grinding into one another, desperately trying to feel the friction despite the clothes you’re wearing.

You eventually break away from the kiss, both of your lidded eyes staring hungrily at each other and chests heaving rapidly.

Kyojuro speaks first, “Wow. Have you always felt this way about me?” 

You roll your eyes in amusement at the innocent inflection in his tone. Your hands roam over his chest, “what do you think?”

Kyojuro beams at you, “then it is official—we are a couple!”

And true to his word, Kyojuro began to court you. You assumed little would change, and in a way, you were right. You and Kyojuro still trained with each other and accompanied each other on missions, but there were other instances where your relationship was different. If Rengoku went on a mission without you, he’d bring something back that caught his eye and reminded him of you. Soon, you had to purchase a small jewelry box to hold all the beautiful adornments he had gifted you. When it was time for meals—Kyojuro would offer you his lunch and swoon when you ate from his utensils.

“Eat up, my love! We must maintain the fire in your soul; the best way to do that is with a quality meal!”

You appreciated the sentiment—even if your meals were far more flavorful than his. Your heart warmed at how much and how deeply he cared for you.

--------------

During a rare training break, Kyojuro perched under a large tree and watched you spar with Sanemi. He felt uneasy as Sanemi fought you aggressively and without holding himself back. You had requested him to give his all as you did with every Hashira, but it still made Kyojuro nervous about the possibility of you getting hurt.

“When were you planning on thanking me?”

Kyojuro looked up to find his colleague Tengen gloating—an arrogant smirk gracing his features. Kyojuro gave him a quizzical look, unsure how to respond to a question he didn’t quite understand.

Tengen let an exasperated—and characteristically dramatic—sigh escape his lips. He crouched and rested a hand on Kyojuro’s shoulder, “Tell me, my fiery friend. Have you both consummated the relationship?”

Kyojuro’s body stiffened at the question. He felt it to be intrusive—even by Tengen’s standards.

Sensing his friend's tight-lipped demeanor and tense body language, Tengen lowered his voice. 

"Fair. I never took you as one to kiss and tell. But let me leave you with sage advice as someone with his fair share of experience with women.”

Kyojuro looked at his friend expectantly. He wanted to seem uninterested, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. You both had shared many nights cuddling and kissing had become increasingly more intense. It was becoming more challenging for Kyojuro to control himself as his hands explored your clothed body, his cock growing—almost painfully—in his pants. Some nights when you were away from each other, he’d imagine himself gingerly taking your clothes off, drinking in your body and curves like a man desperate for a taste. He’d imagine settling himself between your plush thighs and pushing his throbbing cock into your warm and welcoming mess of a cunt. On those lonely nights, Kyojuro would touch himself to the thought of you, his large hand sliding into his pants and stroking himself. His eyes would roll back as he tugged at himself with pitiful desperation at the idea of having you.

But while Kyojuro was satisfied with making love with you in the way that he knew how, he wasn’t sure if you’d be fully satisfied. So he looked at his friend, ready to accept his perverse advice.

--------------

Your muscles ached as you dragged yourself to Kyojuro’s room. You had almost fallen asleep during your bath—Sanemi’s training session with you was intense, and you had quite a bit of bruises to show for it. You were looking forward to attaching your body to Kyo’s and drifting off, but you soon forgot about any semblance of sleep as you entered the room.

Kyojuro was sifting his hands through his barely dry hair as he had also recently returned from his bath. His bare, muscular chest still had a few droplets of water that would more than likely evaporate soon. A towel loosely hung around his waist, and a noticeable bulge strained against the white fabric in a way that made you blush. Kyojuro looked over his shoulder at you and beamed. “My love, you are right on time. There is something I wanted to speak to you about!”

Your eyes stay glued to the bulge now pointing, no, beckoning aggressively at you. Please let there be a sudden gust—give me a peak.

Kyojuro continues, “I want you to be satisfied with me, so I received advice today on how to—.” You interrupt Kyojuro with a sharp glance, your own intense eyes meeting his. 

“Kyo, no offense, but we haven't even done anything yet. You don’t really need to worry about that right now, and honestly, I’m a bit scared to ask who you received advice from.”

Kyojuro approaches you, his previously tense shoulders now relaxed at the sound of your shorthand version of his name. He cups your cheeks and looks at you with soft eyes, “You’re right. I was getting ahead of myself.”

You smile sweetly up at him; one of your fingers finds the hem of his towel and pulls. Kyojuro gasps as he’s now fully unclothed in front of you. His cock bobs up and down at the lack of fabric holding it back. You purr and grasp him in your palm, feeling the taut muscle throb excitedly.

Kyojuro licks his lips as his half-lidded eyes look down at you—his breath noticeably harsher and quicker as you stroke him. “You sure?”

You snort—not very ladylike—but a response to an obvious question nonetheless. 

Kyojuro peels your clothes off your freshly cleaned body. He groans as his eyes take in all of your curves—they’re somehow even better than what he imagined. He raises a hand to palm your breast in his hand, his fingers gently pinching and tugging at your hardening nipple. Your mouths find each other again, with an intense hunger, each of your tongues battling for dominance.

Kyojuro pulls away, “I must taste you.”

You give him a quick nod, wondering what he means as you both were doing just that, weren’t you? But you quickly understand what he meant when he picks you up, his strong arms lifting you on his shoulders.

You let out a slight squeal as you feel the floor beneath your feet disappear, and your thighs become Kyo’s new earmuffs. He takes a long sniff of your cunt, breathing in your distinct smell, his mouth watering with excitement. He licks your sensitive folds, a shiver shooting up and down your spine, as the Flame Hashira suckles at your southern lips. 

“Mmm, she’s so pretty.” Slurp  “so wet” Slurp “so tasty.” Slurp

Soon, the room fills with the sounds of his suckling and your gasps. You want to roll your hips against his mouth desperately, but the position he has you in has you pressed against the wall, and any attempt to buck your hips may result in your ass hitting the floor.

Kyojuro slides his tongue past your folds, his mouth now making out with your clit. Your juices and Kyojuro’s saliva drip down his chin. He moans into your pussy, the taste of you making him stroke his pulsing cock with one hand. Your thighs begin to squeeze around his head as you feel warmth spread in your lower stomach. “Baby, I’m going to cum,” your eyes roll back as you release your sweetness down his throat. Kyojuro shudders at how good you taste and how good he makes you feel. 

“Put me down,” you order as you briefly regain your senses. Kyojuro obliges, eyeing you hungrily, his hand still stroking himself with his precum, lubricating the now sensitive skin.

“I want you to ruin me,” you say as you stumble to the middle of the room where the bed is. As you turn to face him, Kyojuro is already on you; he eagerly pushes you down and spreads your thighs. He grunts at the sign of your messy and hungry pussy, the sign of his worshipping tongue still evident on your moist folds. 

You gasp as he’s pushing the fat head of his cock inside of you. 

“Mmmm, she’s so hungry and eager, love.” Kyojuro pushes his full girth inside of you, letting out a groan and collapsing on top of you.

You moan and wrap your legs around his toned waist as he rolls his hips slowly into you. Kyojuro is sensual and careful with his movements despite you being able to tell that it’s taking quite a bit of self-control for him not to pound you mercilessly. As he dives into you, your senses are suddenly overwhelmed with the sound of your pussy squelching as his cock fills you up, the smell of your sex, and the sight of Kyojuro’s pleasure-filled expression gracing his features. He leans down and takes your nipple into his mouth, biting gently at your sensitive skin. It stings in a way that makes your pussy clench around his cock.

Kyojuro groans, “Please forgive me. You feel too good.”

You drag your hands through his hair as you buck your hips against his, trying to match his movements. You want every inch of him to touch every inch of you.

“Don’t be gentle, Kyo. I can handle it.”

Kyojuro shudders at your invitation to ruin you. His pace quickens, now hard, and loud slapping sounds fill every corner of the room, his heavy and full balls smacking against your ass. You desperately want to open up and close yourself all at once—everything you’re feeling intense and overstimulating. 

Kyojuro is being vocal with his approval of you and how you’re taking him in, “O-oh my god, you’re pussy feels like it was m-made for me…!” He grips your thighs with his strong hands, the tips of his fingers turning white as he digs his nails into your flesh. In a quick movement, he pushes your legs further back until he’s squatting on top of you, your thighs pressed against his as he pounds his cock into your needy cunt.

You—no longer caring about how loud you are—let out deep guttural moans. You desperately reach for something to grab, and your hands find Kyojuro’s hair. You grip his thick mane at his scalp and pull. You’re not sure if the position is impeding your breathing or if it’s your moans not allowing you time to suck in adequate air; regardless, you feel as though you might pass out. 

“You take my dick so well,” Kyojuro compliments as his hand finds your clit and rubs it in circular motions with his thumb.

Drool drips out of the corners of your mouth as Kyojuro’s thrusts only get harder and more animalistic.

Kyojuro grunts, feeling himself getting close as the intense fire in his abdomen burns more and more, “stick out your tongue, my flame!”

Your tongue lolls out your mouth for him, and your eyes roll back as he sucks your tongue into his mouth; you moan in adoration as he sucks and bites on your tongue, wanting to taste every bit of you. 

Your pussy clenches and grasps at his cock as you release against him. The death grip of your cunt begging, pleading, and welcoming every drop of inevitable seed that he can give you.

Kyojuro groans loudly as he erupts, shooting hot seed inside of you, “A-ah, here it comes, ohhhhh.”

Kyojuro rests his forehead against your shoulder, the intense wave of your and his pleasure rolling through you both. You plant a kiss against his lips.

“Was that…good?” He mumbles against you.

“So good,” you whisper as you grip him tightly. You can feel his heart beating quickly against your chest. As his love oozes out of you and onto your sheets, you both drift off, gripping one another.

Tattooartist!Sukuna who is so used to being ogled by girls that he’s on the verge of putting his 2 weeks’ notice in. He knows he’s hot, muscular, breathtaking even (like some girl said while sitting on the studio chair and trying to get in his pants), but people piss him off, both men and women. He wishes he could just ink them up and never see them again.

And when he sees you staring at him from across the room he’s sure you’re about to say the same shit every other girl has said in the past three years he worked at the studio. But he’s utterly surprised when, instead, you turn around and close the door behind you.

He waits for you to come back, because you do have a tattoo appointment, but you don’t. That’s why he presses his ear against his door to listen to you trying to reschedule your appointment when there’s another tattoo artist instead.

He gets out and leans on the door, making himself visible, and when the girl at the reception asks you why you want to reschedule you look at him while saying “I just don’t think he’s professional enough to make what I’m looking for.”

And now you’re pissing him off, because he’s good at what he does and he knows it. So he comes closer to you, trying to intimidate you with his height, and slowly challenges you saying how he will get your stencil done for free. If you don’t like it he will personally pay for your tattoo, no matter the price. You accept the challenge, tattoos are super expensive these days, what do you really have to lose?

And that’s how you find yourself in his bedroom getting pounded from the back, your fresh tattoo on your spinal column.

“Thought you said I wasn’t professional enough, mh baby?” He whispers in your ear. “Looks like you enjoyed the tattoo, yeah?”

Between moans you manage to slightly turn around and kiss him on the lips. While you’re still close to his face you smirk.

“Looks like you’re enjoying it more than me.”

You feel his dick jump at your provocative tone, and he picks up his pace while standing back up. He slaps your ass, hard, earning himself a squeal before feeling your pussy cream on his dick.

“Fuck yes I do.”

fwb: nanami kento (18+)

nanami kento doesn't know how to be just "friend's with benefits".

tags: (fem aligned user) (uses y/n) (jealousy) (not proofread also sorry this is my first real smut ive posted on tumblr) (uses the L word (gasp!))

(art for header found on pinterest)

•—————————————————————————•

fwb!nanami didn't know how to approach you, his friend and colleague, about being friend's with benefits. he wasn' the kind of man to just have sex with someone. he didn't fuck- he made love. it wasn't until gojo dug his nose in, asking you if you'd ever want a fwb within earshot of nanami- you saying you wouldn't be opposed- that made him even think to ask.

fwb!nanami who brought a bouquet of roses to your apartment the first time he came over to "netflix and chill," stumbling over his words and acting like an utter fool in front of you. it was cute, and you eased him into the situation as naturally and slowly as your body would allow. his arm was awkwardly placed on your shoulder as you nuzzled up against him on the couch, and he seemed all too focused on the movie that was playing.

"kento, do you just wanna watch the movie and try again another day?" your soft voice cooed, and it made him fall apart, the sweat on the back of his neck rolling down his back. oh god, you were so pretty. he knew he wasn't doing anything right, and yet you still looked up at him so affectionately. this isn't what friends with benefits act like, was it?

"n-no, i'm just.. i've never done anything like this before." he swallowed whatever moisture had stayed in his dry mouth, forcing himself to meet your eyes, only to meet an understanding gaze that tore down all of his walls.

"it's okay, we can go slow."

fwb!nanami who's so gentle with you during your first time together. even though you wanted your brains fucked out, his gentle touch and praise that spilled from his lips as you sunk onto his length was equally satisfying.

"you're so warm n tight, y/n.. i can't, 's too much. you feel so good," nanami groaned, his hands kneading your hips as your lips kissed along his neck, licking soothing stripes along his sensitive skin to ease him through it.

he wasn't a virgin, but still.. this. this was new. fucking someone just to fuck them. to fuck you, his gorgeous friend who had always behaved so normally towards him. would things stay normal between you two? he was already overthinking. how did friends with benefits just stay friends when all he could think about was how pretty your face twisted in pleasure, how soft your skin felt-

"kento," the sound of your sighed moan snapped him into reality, and he whimpered in his low, gentle voice, his head falling back against the couch as you rolled your hips against him. that's right- all he needed to think about right now was how good you felt milking his cock, not how your friendship was gonna turn out tomorrow.

"oh, fuck, y/n."

fwb!nanami who didn't wanna leave you that night when you fell asleep in his arms, your head resting on his chest. carefully, he carried you to bed, tucking you in while stroking his fingers through your hair.

"stay," your sleepy, mumbly voice shot an arrow through his chest just as he was trying to quietly leave your bedroom.

yes, of course he'd stay. you'd taken such good care of him, making sure he was comfortable while taking every last drop of cum he had to offer. he didn't realize how pent up he was until he unloaded into you the first time. but once your lips wrapped around him maybe an hour later, he grew more needy, thrusting his dick down your throat as he gently massaged the nape of your neck.

hesitantly he snuggled into bed with you, your sleeping form molding perfectly against his, your face subconsciously nuzzling into his chest and wrapping your arms around his waist to pull him close. were friends with benefits supposed to be this intmate? should his heart be racing like this?

but as the events of the day weighed heavier on him, he couldn't bear it, trying to find a way to fall asleep. with your steady breaths and warmth as you cuddled him it wasn't hard to get drowsy, but his thoughts consumed him. maybe this was a mistake- him and his bleeding heart.

fwb!nanami who made you breakfast the next morning. and everytime after that. he always brought you an offering like roses or flowers when he'd come over, and treat you like a queen each morning, kissing along your body to wake you up, tasting you before you'd get a taste of his cooking.

it was cathartic for him. no strings attached, just pleasure. it took him a while to understand the point in it, perhaps less stress?

though his heart still raced everytime you sat with him at work or hung out with him- not calling it a date.

"ken, you shouldn't have. we're just grabbing coffee," you whined with your face flushed red. again, this princely man bought your coffee for you and pulled out your chair as you sat at the cafe.

"i wanted to," he would say everytime, shaking his head. and he said the same when he insisted on walking you home from work, fucking you when you got home from work, massaging your muscles from the stress of work, oh lord this man was head over heels-

fwb!nanami who didn't realize he had fallen in love with you until someone at the grocery store asked for your number.

how could someone walk up to you, standing so pretty next to the shopping cart both you and him were putting groceries in, and ask if you were single? as if nanami wasn't standing right there, pushing your shopping cart, guiding you out of the traffic of other shoppers with his hand on the small of your back?

"oh, thank you, but i'm not interested in dating right now." was your response, making nanami's neck tighten. what does that mean? what were you two doing there?

you weren't dating, no. the point is that you were friends with benefits. no strings attached. just fucking, just pleasing each other. this grocery trip was as friends, the breakfasts together were as friends, the sex was as friends-

"ken," again, your voice was like the smooth, untouchable hand pulling him out of a bush full of thorns and pulling him into your softness. "did we get garlic already?"

"mhm," was the only sound to escape his throat. to hell if you were dating or not- he needed you, perhaps even more than you needed him. or at least more than you realized you needed him.

fwb!nanami who pounded you hard into the mattress that night. he was a gentle lover for the most part, always checking in on you, whispering your praises, moaning into your ear as he finished in you.

not tonight. he needed to let out that pent out rage, towards the person who asked you out of course- not you.

"who's this pretty pussy belong to, hmm?" he chuckled as he gripped your hair tighter, pressing your face down into your pillow harder. His free hand was holding your hips with a bruising grip, keeping your ass up as he fucked you into another orgasm.

"k-ken, aagh," you mewled, your hands balling into fists as you held the sheets tighter. "'m yours kento, f-fuck.."

he smiled- it was dizzying, your voice being so broken and yet so his. "that's it beautiful. all mine."

by the time he was satisfied he was dripping sweat, his chest against your back as his breath came out in ragged pants.

of course, ever the gentleman, he slowly slid his cock out from you, watching with possessiveness and satisfaction as his cum dribbled down your folds, and then your bruised thighs. a part of him felt bad for being so rough, but then watching your legs tremble and your pussy pulse around nothing made him feel much less guilty.

"lemme take care of you, pretty," he murmured, helping you stand before carrying you to the bathroom. he was so sweet, sitting down on the bench in the shower, having you on his lap facing him as he washed the sweat and mess off your body with his large yet gentle hands.

you were drowsy from the mix of getting fucked stupid and the heat of the shower, and nanami's soapy hands kneading at your flesh was only making you feel more at ease. you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, arms weakly wrapping around him.

"love you, ken," you murmured into his neck, eyes fluttering to try and stay open.

nanami froze, feeling an intense rush of heat rise to his face from ear to ear. he was sure that he would be the one to say it first. with how he worshipped you, he was positive that the words would leave his tongue first.

but alas there you were, softly kissing his collarbone as you fought to stay awake. his heart swelled, more than his cock as it twitched. god, he could fuck you again just for saying that. but more than that he wanted so desperately to kiss you.

"i love you too, y/n," he hummed, tilting your head up to meet your content smile, pressing his lips to yours, lovingly, as if he had never kissed you before.

being nanami’s baby girl

Extra goal unlocked and with that we have completed nanami crushes things 2024