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shibaraki · 2 years

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MARITIME ENCOUNTER ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: you’d been endlessly forewarned by elders and friends to ignore the ocean when it called to you. it’s too bad they never instructed you on what to do when it bit you.

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, merman/siren Aizawa, blood and injury (he tried to eat us), reader has basic surfing skill, brief descriptions of drowning in the beginning, dubcon, fictional merfolk lore / abilities, kidnapping / soft yan (there is a reason), he guts a fish at one point, medical inaccuracies probably (acute pulmonary edema and dehydration), accidental acceptance of courting, porn with too much plot, eventual monsterfucking, non-human genitalia (but NO belly bulging), vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex

wc: 18k+

The first time you’d truly heard about the horrors of Mers was from the mouth of your best friend’s grandfather, Shinsou Matsuo, when you were twelve years old. Before his unfortunate passing he had been a retired navy man, weathered by the decades he spent at sea, and his mind was not as it once was.

“Be careful of the tides. There are songs between the waves”.

Living by the coast meant you’d been naturally exposed to such fairytales, perpetuated for the sake of selling trinkets and toys to any passing tourist gullible enough to believe them. Even at such a young age you thought it to be nothing but a childish story, and his grandchild Hitoshi felt much the same.

“Merfolk aren’t real pops,” he’d laughed in response. The sound had been cut off by the pinch of crooked fingers around his nose. His grandfather's expression, scowling and further narrowed by the wrinkles around his mouth, softened into something haunting at the dismissal.

Matsuo-san’s face still lingers to this day. With an intonation of grief, he told you of the subordinates he’d lost. Some kept away from their loved ones for months at a time, lured into the waters by the call of their voices; others starved for a soft touch, drawn to the seductive shadow lingering by their porthole windows. There had been humanoid silhouettes caught in their nets, thin-pupiled eyes pooling with gold where the light did not touch, quickly cut free for fear they would be punished. They could be cunning too, he warned, bobbing with only their torsos above the surface and preying on people's empathy as they feigned need of rescue.

“Reality is nothin’ like that ridiculous westernised version. No pretty young thing wantin’ to be with her prince,” he snorted incredulously, the breath catching in his throat as his lungs seized. They were weak at the time, riddled with tobacco, and he’d batted away Hitoshi's hand as he reached to assist him. If you think hard enough you can still smell it, the pervasive smoke on his tongue.

“If you don’t keep yer wits about you they’ll eat’cha,” he continued, the strained rasp to his words only seemed to make them more frightening to you as a child, pointedly emphasising his claim with a thud to his prosthetic foot, “if the tide calls your name, don’t answer it”.

You recall his warning while you sit atop your surfboard, relaxed and steady as your body sways naturally with the waves. The sky is coloured in smatterings of orange and pink, reflecting invitingly onto the ocean’s surface where it glitters, and the sun is soon to dip below the horizon. You aren’t too far from the shoreline — a small private beach that you, ‘Toshi and the others had discovered summers ago, still mostly untouched and empty — nor are you worried that they went on home without you. Having spent your childhood here you felt confident in your ability to reach land when you were ready, your senses in tune with the water's temperament as it buffers you, eyes falling closed.

Ignore the call of the ocean. Such a thing was near to impossible, you thought. The ocean offered a sense of contentment and belonging you could never find elsewhere. Here, with your legs hung over either side of the board and submerged in the cool water as it laps at your thighs, is where you feel right at home.

Having left your coastal hometown numerous times only to return temporarily with every breaking of a lease, last year you’d finally given in and chosen to settle here. You found no shame in it, you’d seen plenty of the world and still, some odd sense of magnetism always pulled you right back.

Your expression pinches slightly at the throbbing sensation by your ankle, tightening your abdomen and leaning forward to maintain balance so you can reach in. A sharp inhale between teeth, your fingers slowly work against the tender bruise. In your earlier stroll along the rockpools you had slipped and twisted it, leaving behind a swell and a shallow wound. You’d had worse — but the sprain still hurt. Thankfully there were waterproof bandages in the bottom of Hitoshi's backpack, thus the bleeding had eventually slowed to a stop, now only a disquieting shadow of red against white where they’re wrapped around your foot.

It’s then that you catch sight of a silhouette, quickly disguised by the oncoming twilight. There is the sensation of movement beneath you, the water slowly being disturbed. You try to soothe the bubbling worry in your chest as whatever it was disappears. It can’t possibly be a shark because the ones by this area are benthic — they skate along the ocean floor merrily unperturbed by humans, and whatever it was, it’d looked far too big to be a bullhead.

On that thought there is a dim flash of red, a fleeting illumination outlining the shape of the creature's tail that seems to crawl through its scales until it tapers into darkness. No, definitely not a bullhead shark, not like anything you have ever seen before; with that one glance you can estimate the length to be over six feet.

The skin on the back of your neck prickles and anxiety seizes your body, the quiet no longer comforting. You’re being circled, you realise, as if you were prey. So not to agitate whatever it is by disturbing the water further, you slowly begin to lift your legs out of the sea and back onto your board, shaking as you wrap both arms around your knees, inhaling shallow breaths through your nose. A single bump from below and you could be pushed into the ocean’s depths, at their mercy.

A few suspended moments pass peacefully, a part of you hoping that you had simply imagined it, only for a familiar melody to wade into the silence. It settles around your shoulders like home, the tension bleeding from your body as the blanket quietens your trembling. Something about it strums at the strings in your chest, tears gathering by the corners of your eyes as nostalgia fills you, reminded of someone you longed for. This voice, this song — how long had it laid dormant beside your heart?

There is another flash of crimson, the surface rippling against sudden movement, but you’re nonplussed. The canorous humming enters your system like anaesthesia until all your muscles are slack and your own good judgement has taken a backseat. It is almost akin to drunkenness, all lazy grins and warmth beneath your skin; you barely react when a hand extends from the shadows and reaches for you, instead watching with slow fascination as ebony fingers encircle your calf with an inhumane grip, tightening until claws break skin.

“Let’s go home,” your attention is drawn to Hitoshi’s misplaced yet gentle voice, emitted from the left of your board. What follows a hand is an arm, thick with muscle and fat, scales sparsely littering the skin and gathering at the shoulders. Peering above the board is what appears to be the face of a man, his dark head of hair floating atop the ocean’s surface, red pooling into his hauntingly wide eyes and unblinking as it watches you. There is a scar along the curve of his cheek, raised and pink as if it were still fresh, and it lifts as he grins.

“Let’s go home,” it warbles. All teeth, all hunger.

You’re pulled under, slipping readily from the deck of your surfboard, yelping as the stringer scrapes along your spine. Once your lips part to release the pained noise water rushes in to fill the empty space and chokes you, intense panic ricocheting through your body as you instinctively begin to thrash. The sweet tune still rings true in your ears as the pain yanks you into reality, but it no longer soothes you into submission.

There is no sight or sound, just the cinching of two arms around your waist to still you, and the sharp piercing of teeth into the meat of your shoulder with violent force. Matsuo-san’s warning echoes unhelpfully, mockingly. They’ll eat’cha, they’ll eat’cha, they’ll eat’cha. It drags you deeper, the pressure suffocating you as it holds you breast to breast, salt and copper cloying in your oesophagus. You’re going to be torn apart, you realise. Would such a creature even understand the kindness in killing their prey first, would it eat you alive and take you bit by bit as your body bloated? Would your surfboard wash ashore devoid of truths or would it be taken by the tide — would your friends and family move on without the answers?

You can feel your blood struggle, pulse throbbing in the glands of your throat, loud in your ears. There is barely any fight left in your body as the panic succumbs to numbness; even so your dull nails claw at him, pushing at its jaw and met with immovable force, fingers grazing the spiked fins curved along the shell of its ears as you grasp a fist full of hair. The Mer shudders where its tongue is pressed to your wound, arms momentarily loosening, but your chance is long passed. Between the planes of consciousness, at a loss for sensation or for thought, everything slows to a stop.

Sense returns to you with gentle coaxing, a familial cooing in your ear, the stroking motion of a hand against the crown of your head that reminds you of being tucked away as a child. Had it not been for the hard, uneven and damp rock beneath your cheek you might’ve been disorientated enough to believe you were curled up in bed.

You blink away the discomfort, eyes stinging as they open, helpless as your blurred sight begins to adjust to the surroundings. Undoubtedly, you are in a cave of sorts, carried deep into its belly with barely any light flooding in from the maw. A figure looms over you, daunting as he continues with the rough lullaby, your naive humanity whispering that he must be trying to comfort you.

Everything aches as you appraise the creature, your lungs tender like a bruise, frozen by your fright. It’s a merman. An inhumanly handsome face curtained by dark tresses that spill over his wide shoulders — it’s dry now, you note, wondering just how long he had kept himself at your side, or how long you'd been here — and a defined torso that shifts as he breathes, charcoal scales scattered along his pale navel and hips where they fade into his tail like ink.

He shifts upon realising you’re awake, ducking far too closely into your space, a rumbling growl emitting from his throat. Fear wracks throughout your body as you squirm beneath him, hearing his hiss of displeasure, arms braced either side of your head and holding the weight of his entire body. The choice of fight or flight has already been torn from you; you realise quickly that there is no method for getting out of this cave without first needing to swim, and there is no hope in beating such a huge Mer in a battle of speed or strength.

His finned ears expand further, now releasing a series of gentle clicks. Your movement agitates him, a glow returning to his eyes and pooling hypnotically around his pupils, but not only there — in the shallow pool where his tail rests, you watch in awe as the red luminescence passes through his scales like circuitry, highlighting the wing-like lateral fins feathered along his sides.

“Please– please don’t—”

His mouth opens then, lips shaping around the words carefully. “Stop moving before you hurt yourself,” your parent’s voice reverberates along the walls of the hideout, “I can take care of you here”.

There was the truth of it, the myths you'd been warned about. Tales of Merfolk luring in humans with the voices of their loved ones. Those men aboard Matsuo’s ship had jumped in after the ones they yearned for the most, and back by the shore this creature had inebriated you with the calm tones of your best friend's voice.

You couldn’t even be sure if it was the same day, or whether he’d kept you here longer. Any kind of rebuttal you’d had got caught in your throat as you violently shook, puppeted by fear and the cold evening air. A grimace twists into your features when you swallow, allowing yourself to fall completely limp, relief washing over you once a pleased hum rumbles in his chest. You could beg, you didn’t think yourself above it, but begging for your life to something that may have no inclination to spare it felt cruel.

“You can hear my deepest desires, right?” you ramble on despite how futile it feels, “then I want t’go home. Could you let— let me go home?”

His stare is heavy, expression unmoving and flat. When he isn’t snarling he looks more like a man, and you try not to let it disarm you. “I won’t tell anyone that you’re here if–if you’re worried about being poached,” his eyes flicker to your lips when you try to smile, but still he remains silent in his disapproval. Frustration rears its head, your chin quivering as the polite crescent of your mouth withers, sinking your teeth into the flesh of your inner cheek until you taste blood.

“Why didn’t you just eat me? What— what am I doing here?”

His hand, intimidatingly large and sharp, takes rough hold of your jaw. The grip eases slightly when you cry out, like he hadn’t understood his own strength, and you’re powerless to the drag of his tongue along your cheek as he laps up your tears. The muscle is longer than that of a human, with what feels like short tufts of fringing around the tip. In an effort not to offend him, you remain still.

“Don’t cry sweetheart,” it is the voice of Matsuo-san's wife, Shinsou Sakiko, murmuring reassurances you’d heard when you were younger. The Mer’s exhale is warm by your ear as he cradles your throat, delicate with you as if you were made of seaglass. Then his thumb, a claw finely sharpened, slips along the wall of your gums with vapid curiosity; your throat constricts against his palm as he collects the blood and spit, strings of saliva breaking when he pulls back to lick it from his fingers as if it were an entree.

“You’re hurt,” Sakiko croons, the tone far too sweet for his expression, his tongue briefly rolling into your mouth to caress the molar-shaped wound before retreating. You push against him, panic-stricken by the sudden act of intimacy, any heat pooling unwillingly in your belly at the sensation soon smothered by your own disgust. He wasn’t a man, he was not even human — to Merfolk something like a kiss would mean something different, if it meant anything at all.

“Get away from me—!” His brows pinch, glaring at your sudden outburst before pointedly pinching the swell of your cheek. The soreness is gone, no more copper between your teeth, no more open wound. He had… healed it somehow. The thought brings your attention to your shoulder, right where he had attempted to tear away a chunk of your flesh, and find the skin as smooth as the day you were born.

Even your ankle is bare, bandages cast aside, no longer inflamed. All you’re left in is your springsuit.

“You healed me,” it’s an observation at most, though tinged with teary-eyed confusion, and you attempt to keep them at bay so he would not lick you again. You repeat: “why didn’t you eat me? Or kill me?”

He blinks, a translucent second set of lids sliding over his eyes. Nothing. “Were you just not hungry? Or— or are humans kinda’ like a delicacy? Are you saving me for later?”

His nose wrinkles and he sinks back into the shadows with an exasperated sigh, folding his thick arms across the rocks surface and leaning against his chin. The fins of his ears flare slightly from beneath his hair. “Did I taste that bad?” you release a strained laugh, the sound tapering off as his pupils swallow his iris. Then he shakes his head. No.

“So you do understand me,” — he levels you with another flat look, gaze leaden with irritation — “then… if you aren’t going to eat me why won’t you let me go home?”

He lowers his head and you flinch back against the cave wall as his caudal fins slap the surface of the water, an ephemeral flash of red erasing the shadows cast across the space. It lasts a few seconds, but it is still enough for you to gauge just how many trinkets he has shoved away here. Everything from sparkling ore, old fish carcasses and fluorescent plants. There are even items clearly man-made and tossed into the ocean; an oval mirror, a punctured life raft filled with beach towels and a yellow sleeping bag, even a children's toy from decades ago.

You understood then, that in his mind, you were already home. He intended to keep you here.

“Don’t you want to be with me?” he says smoothly. Your skin pebbles at the seductive intonation in what is now a copy of your ex lover’s voice, and his eyes brighten minutely with the realisation that it affected you, “that’s right. You’re mine”.

“Stop,” you rasp, nausea and hunger twisting uncomfortably in your gut, hands laid flat to the damp surface of the cave. It’ll soon be night, the temperatures will drop and settle into the marrow of your bones; with every day that passes you’ll wither away, physically and emotionally, just a plaything for a creature you never believed existed.

“If you’re going to keep me here the least… the least you could do is use your own voice, or tell me your name,” your fingers curl into your palm, wanting to ground yourself with the pain, cautious that breaking skin would mean being manhandled again, “don’t… don’t use that one again. Please”.

He’s unsettlingly perceptive, informed of every little movement your muscles make, glancing towards your fists. The Mer appears uncharacteristically regretful at your request, and again you are struck by how human it makes him look.

“Mer only take on the voices of those you care or yearn for”. It’s fitting, and faintly amusing, that he would emulate Matsuo-san as he answers. It’s as if you are back on the front porch, listening to his ghoulish tales. You can’t tell if it’s a purposeful choice to make you feel better or to have you relax in his nest.

His short explanation reminds you of another story, then. The search for a Merfolk’s tongue. Hundreds of years ago, as Man sought to colonise and conquer, those who opposed and rebelled took to the sea in search of a Mer to cut out their tongue, so that it might be used to bring down corruption.

Loneliness and insecurity, heartbreak and grief, these were universal experiences that could be preyed upon. You think it must be a powerfully frightening tool, being able to seduce people in such a way. But it was a little sad too, never having your own voice.

You nod in understanding and try to smile. Inhaling steadily, he lifts his chin from where it rests between his arms and grins to mimic you. There is no light in his eyes, both left blank and wide as the corners of his mouth lift to reveal two sets of pointed teeth, and you focus on the raised scar along his cheekbone to avoid his unnerving gaze.

Having been caught up in his attempt at civility, you’d forgotten exactly what it was you were talking to. With the gradual rise of the moon over the distant horizon comes a brisk chill that clings to your short wetsuit, an eerie white glow reflecting on the ocean's surface as the waves shift. The rippling reverberates around you in the darkness alongside a repetitive drip, drip, drip. Depending on where you were along the shoreline the Mer may need to leave with the tide for a few hours so as not to dry out — unless he’d like to be trapped in the caves cupped hands — which would create an adequate window for escape, but the consequences of being caught may not be entirely worth it.

Your body is fraught with the cold, and so the Mer urges you towards the old liferaft, barely visible behind the locks of hair that have fallen over his eyes. Your knees are frail beneath your weight, patently weak from blood loss, but ink-dipped fingers curl into the fat of your thigh in encouragement. It’s humiliating, bare feet slipping on the thin sheen of biofilm spread across the rocks, but you can’t deny how your struggle pleases him to an extent. Endears you to him, rather.

Nothing but a silly little human, tucked away in his nest of abandoned beach towels, engulfed by a scratchy sleeping bag that is most certainly full of sand. You’re grateful for the exhaustion, your body sinking into the makeshift bed, cheek leant on the rim of the raft as one might sleep facing their bedroom door.

He remains unmoving, assumedly waiting for you to fall asleep, a solid silhouette blocking the waning light of the moon. With some exertion he attempts to speak again, this time a man you’ve never heard before, an eldritch trill to his speech akin to the scratching of a record. “Sh– ou– ta,” he says, the word harsh in your ears and raising the soft hair on your forearms.

Shouta. “Your name?”

He nods. An innate part of you recognises the struggle it took to say that aloud, as if it’d taken fighting his own instincts just to form the first syllable. You repeat it back to him, and a flush of bioluminescence flares through his skin.

It’s laughable how, given the situation you’re in, an expression of thanks still sits on your tongue at his clear efforts. Gratitude to the creature that had, for all intents and purposes, kidnapped you.

Claws tap incessantly against the cave walls. “Go to sleep darling,” once again a familial voice calls to you, the change short lived. As your consciousness slips you press the thoughts to the forefront of your mind in hopes he would hear them — I want to go home, let me go home — but in the depths of your heart, you know this is no longer about your desires.

It was about his.

The next time you wake it is late morning, the sun already emerging from the ocean as it gently ascends, beams of light pouring into the cavern and reflections bouncing along the surface. Some time between then and now, your body began to feel like it had been hit by a large vehicle, the numbness that carried you through a night's rest dissipating as sensation returned to your limbs.

Salt and damp pervades the air. Joints throbbing, you push up to brace your arms against the raft floor and take in the rest of the cave, sleeping bag pooling loosely around your waist. It’s far bigger than you thought. A bowl-shaped hollow, the space previously narrowed by shadows, and there are clusters of luminous algae and moss dotted along the walls. It becomes obvious that what you are resting on is a ledge of sorts, and there are various other jutted rocks wide enough for the Mer to rest on. Beneath you, at an angle you cannot see, an underwater path furthers into the cave that you could never hope to access; perhaps he was down there, he seemed like a species made for darkness.

The tide swells, seafoam washing along the rocks and crawling towards you. Unease twists in your sternum at just how close it had gotten, but the various horizontal stains left on the walls tells you it had never gotten any higher than that — not yet. At least, you don’t think your captor would go to such lengths just to have you drown in your sleep; Shouta seemed intent on keeping you alive despite his base instincts, which only begged the question of why. Said creature is suspiciously absent, leaving you with nothing but rusted trinkets and relics of the past for company. You’re relieved to be free of his invasive stare, needing time alone to truly process all that had happened.

The first attempt at standing is foiled by the sudden onset of dizziness that topples you into the beach towels, pain throbbing incessantly behind your eyes. It still felt tender to breathe too deeply, but you do so anyway, steadying yourself against the rock face to glance at the maw.

You’re barely able to walk, nevermind swim for freedom, especially with a Mer pursuing you. There was too little knowledge to even attempt making it to the entrance. For all you knew he could’ve stowed you away in one of the furthest cliff’s edges, and making it back to the beaches might take hours.

Your tongue sits heavily in your mouth, dry as you smack your lips, sharp when you swallow. All the first aid and emergency rescue training you’d worked through in your adolescence seems utterly useless now, too hungry and too dehydrated to even form coherent thought.

In your periphery you see a black mass turning into the mouth of the cave, submerged enough that it might be skating along the seafloor. In the daylight like this, you can truly see just how huge the Mer is. The length of his tail alone has to be around six foot long as you'd estimated, thick and undulating seamlessly in his approach. His torso curves upwards as he starts towards the edge of the ledge, and between the distorted ripples you watch his hair billowing with the motions.

The water surged forcefully as he broke the surface, charcoal dipped fingers gripping the shelf and hauling his body weight one handed without any sign of exertion, muscles shifting in the thick of his bicep. You’d had no qualms about hallucinating the creature, you knew it to be true, and yet seeing him so clearly calls to disbelief. The black and red in his tail meet like an oil spill, scales adorned in bloodied ink. In this light his finned ears are almost translucent, twitching in the direction you stand, beaded eyes staring back at you blankly as the paper-thin gills by his throat flutter.

Shouta, you remember. His head tilts slightly as if he’d heard you.

“Not talkative today?” you ask, thoroughly unnerved by his silence.

He huffs. After a few seconds of appraising one another, Shouta shifts to beach himself further onto the surface, his other arm finally lifting from the depths to reveal a medium sized sea bass struggling helplessly against his claws. You startle as he throws it, knees buckling and releasing a pained yelp as the poor thing lands with a loud thud, convulsing beside you. Drowning in air.

“What– what’s that for…?”

The gentle clicking returns from between his teeth, in much the same manner that he had yesterday, and he drags himself smoothly towards you with a faint pinch between his brows at your sudden fall. You flinch back when he grabs you but Shouta remains unperturbed, easing you into his vice-gripped embrace into his side until you obediently force yourself limp again. Something begins to vibrate in the base of his throat, a noise you first mistake for an agitated growl, slow to realise that given the context it must be that he’s pleased — was he purring?

Lost in thought, your stunned expression goes unnoticed by the Mer, opting to drag the fish by the tail right into your lap. The creature is cold to the touch, suddenly heavy atop your thighs as it continues to squirm, and as it slaps helplessly against your skin your hands reflexively shove it across the cave floor. All at once, the purring comes to an abrupt halt, and the sea bass slides unceremoniously into the water. Shouta's tail flickers in agitation. This time you are sure it is a growl, and his upper lip curls to bear his teeth, pointed and stained pink with what you assume was a recent kill.

You aren’t entirely sure what compels you to touch him as you do, perhaps reminded of soft cupped hands on either cheek as a child, soothing your furious tears with the pad of a thumb. There were naive hopes that maybe it would appeal to his humanity, if it existed. So your fingers quiver where they rest on his skin in apology, much colder than that of the sea bass, compact and denser than a human’s. He doesn’t immediately pull your arm from the socket, and you get a little braver, brushing the hair laid flat to his face back until you can see all of him.

Mers truly are frightening. Beautiful, but frightening. Shouta remains motionless, his first set of eyelids blinking shut, and then the second. You wondered if his eyes dried out quickly, or became irritated when out of the water for too long. There are smaller scales littering the curve of his throat, dispersing on either side of his jaw, and they’re smoother than expected.

His hair is saturated and surprisingly soft, despite the exposure to saltwater. Exhaling shakily, your fingers near the fins of his ears, remembering how you had grabbed them after being submerged. The memory calls attention to just how bruised your lungs feel, to how close you had been to dying. You’re morbidly tempted to touch them again, just to see how it would affect him, but refrain. A single show of disrespect could get you killed — the scar along Shouta’s cheek was not the only one on his body, he had clearly participated in his fair share of violence.

Amidst your deliberations, the Mer cautiously settles his hand against your leg, keeping you held at his side with one around your waist. His pupils flicker across your face as he palms at the fat of your thigh, his lateral fins twitching with interest as he revels in how soft you are. Too weak to push against the arm at your back, you are pulled further into his lap until your knees are pressed either side of him and your stomachs are touching.

You feel the musculature in his abdomen ripple against your front, acutely aware of every place your bodies meet. The damp fabric of your springsuit is almost stifling with how it clings to your skin, but Shouta seems deeply pleased by the interaction, his stoic expression thawing into contentment. There’s an inherent thrumming of fear in your veins, but there’s anticipation, too. It felt intimate, possessive.

“Don’t be scared,” you tense at the sudden press of Hitoshi’s voice to your throat, the creature giving an experimental sniff to the sensitive skin behind your ear. You wished he wouldn’t do that. Hearing your best friend in this place did nothing to quell your fear. What a meaningless sentiment, you thought, all too aware of the fangs protruding his lips as he licks a stripe along your jaw. Maybe he hadn’t lied — maybe you had tasted good, and you’d been brought here for him to slowly savour.

The delirious laughter in your chest is quickly smothered in favour of placating him, willing yourself not to cry. You’d been kidnapped in every sense of the word, and now you were being kept in a cave by a mythical being like you were a toy, or a pet. He nips at the curve of your shoulder and nausea stirs in your belly, bile rising in your throat as you swallow the realisation that you likely would not see your loved ones again.

Your grief is interrupted by the groaning of your stomach. Shouta leans back to investigate the sound, manhandling you from where you’re seated in his lap to stroke his knuckles along your torso, cautious of his claws. He grunts then as the noise repeats, and slips you off to the side delicately, sprawling you along the ledge.

Turning onto his front, with a simple push he plunged himself into the cave corridor, his huge silhouette dashing out into the open ocean. As the waves swelled and rippled around him they distorted his frame, making him appear even bigger. The Mer was entirely confident leaving you here unsupervised — he knew you wouldn’t be able to leave.

With his departure came the loss of adrenaline, left shivering where he had laid you by the edge. Your arm hangs limp, fingertips skimming the surface of the water as it gradually calms. In your chest is an amalgamation of emotions that you don’t know what to do with, far too exhausting to consider thinking about. Shouta was terrifying, but alluring. His intentions seemed sweet, or doting, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. He was endearing, in some ways.

You watch the patterns dancing on the sea bed. “Merfolk are real,” you whisper aloud. The statement echoes mockingly around the cave. Differing languages, cultures and species. Your kind carried similar physical traits but his appearance didn’t make him human. No, his actions were what made him feel human.

It was a hard truth that the Mer had initially planned on eating you, so you weren’t sure what prompted him into behaving like this. All the information you had to go on were fairy tales and stories from a deceased man’s memory. Maybe there wasn’t any reason at all, and the creature was bored. Or lonely.

Your sight catches an iridescent glare of light amongst the muddied sand and seagrass. Actually there seems to be a surplus of other random trinkets, things either washed up or discarded here by Shouta, as if he hadn’t known where else to put them. But you are ensnared by the small band of colour hidden in the bed.

Your mind feels thick with cotton, lethargic as you sink your arm into the cold depths in an attempt to reach the ring. The clear view of the bed tricks you into thinking it is not that deep, barely close even with your shoulder submerged. Squeezing away the ache behind your eyes, you pull back and slap the surface in frustration and wincing at the movement.

Finely attuned to the vibrations in the water and sensing your movement, Shouta returns hastily with something else in his grip, his speed forcing foam up the walls. His tail flashes dull red in the daylight, thick at the hips and thinning by the tail, his lateral fins inflamed. In stark contrast to the way he arrived, the big creature brakes when close enough and gently lifts himself up until you are face to face, the proximity forcing you further onto the ledge. Judging by the flat look of tired exasperation from behind black curtained hair, he wasn’t pleased.

His sights flicker towards the seabed before he grunts at you again, though it’s a little harsher and with a tone of finality, like a parent saying ‘no’ to a child. You were being scolded. This time you do allow yourself to laugh, dissolving gradually into broken sobs, physically feeling your sanity slip.

“Stop. Don’t—!” You protest Shouta’s grip as he scoops you into his side, already building up a symphony in his chest. You are submerged in the sound, head to foot, heat seeping into the tissue deep ache of your muscles. Caged to his chest, nose pressed right beneath his gills; Shouta is icy to the touch, but it is as if you are in a warm bath.

“Be careful of the deep end sweetheart,” your parent’s voices ring softly through the hollow, stirring up memories like sand. The echo is akin to a wind chime, you think. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t truly them, and the realisation disturbs the peace he had lulled you into. Humiliated by the coddling you consider tilting your chin to rip his gills out with your own teeth — it was strange for him to trust you near such a delicate part of his anatomy.

“I’m going to die here”.

The words are hoarse, cloying in your sinuses. Shouta’s dark fingers thread into your hair, claws featherlight where they graze the scalp, pulling your head back with ease until your throat is bared and your eyes meet. His pupils thin, a crimson glow pouring into black like ink. It dances around the iris, reminding you of the refracted sunlight on the seabed. You were no behavioural expert when it came to Merfolk, but as a human being you can certainly recognise poorly veiled surprise in another's expression.

“Not so convincing with the voice thing, are you?” you’re feeling careless now, accepting the inevitable. Maybe if you annoy him enough he’ll get it over with sooner. “The songs work better. At this point you’re just reminding me of what I’m leaving behind”.

The bridge of his nose wrinkles for a moment, lip shifting like it wanted to curl upwards. He exhales harshly, the breath causing your skin to pebble, and slaps something into the damp rocky surface. You see that he’s brought back another fish, much smaller than the previous one, and recoil. With its size, silvery colouring and lighter belly, you’d like to guess it was a young trout. Shouta appears content as he lifts it again by the tail to hold it in front of you, having killed it with the impact.

Dehydrated or concussed, or both, you can’t be sure — but your thoughts finally catch up with you the moment he indicates that you open your mouth. He was trying to feed you.

“I can’t— I can’t eat that,” you quietly tell him, “I’ll get sick”. With equal parts fear and guilt, you glance between him and the trout pleadingly. This random, wild-born fish was hardly a piece of sashimi; it needed to be gutted and cleaned, maybe frozen for a few hours if not cooked. But he doesn’t budge, levelling you with a blank stare.

“Please Shouta,” you try to appeal to him with his name, and a faint flush of red thrums beneath his scales. As it passes there is a metallic taste to the air, like a copper penny heavy on your tongue. Judging by the way his jaw tightens, it is an entirely involuntary reaction. You endeavor not to misuse it, then.

“It’s… it’s raw,” you try again. The smell is worsening your nausea, and his distinct look of ‘yes, and?’ is not helping. “I couldn’t bite into it even if I wanted to”.

He shifts at that, finally moving the trout away from your face to appraise it himself, tail floating lazily behind him. Using one hand he brings it underneath his own nose and inhales the scent, all the while observing you with what felt like accusation. The fingers cradling your head slip around to cup your cheek, locking you in the crook of his arm, and pry your mouth open with careful force.

Pulse throbbing in your throat, you hold your breath and pray to every deity you can think of. If Merfolk were real, perhaps there were other mythical beings that could hear you, that may not be so inclined to toying with you, that would help you. Shouta mimics the action and opens his own mouth, displaying his pointed teeth. Now you’re close enough you can see that some of them are serrated, reaffirming his role as a predator. The pad of his thumb comes to rest at the point of your left canine tooth, his claw extended further and tracing the roof of your mouth.

It was as if he were comparing them to his own. It’s possible the Mer had never been this close to a human before, not without having consumed them. This could all just be a result of morbid curiosity.

He loosens his grip, letting you go, visibly relaxing when you don’t immediately scramble away from him. Instead you stay to watch as he braces himself on his forearms, centring the fish between your bodies and dragging a dark nail through the scales in thought.

Then, unceremoniously, he is stopping at the underside of the tail and forcing his claw through its belly. You’d seen fish gutted before, a sharp knife's edge gliding through flesh, root to stem. Shouta pulls apart the belly of the trout and purrs agreeingly as the entrails slip into the wet floor.

Happy with the cavity it leaves, the Mer begins to tear pieces away, pale strings of connective tissue stretching and snapping as he puts them into his mouth. Your knees ache, feet tucked either side of your thighs, stray sand and gravel embedding into skin. It’s uncomfortable, but you’re curious. The shifting of his jaw is subtle as he chews, being oddly careful and timely, never actually swallowing.

Leaving only the head, some of the flesh still left on the bone as his mouth becomes full, Shouta turns his body towards you. Back straightening instinctively, your body readies itself for flight in spite of your low likelihood for an escape. Unease simmers in your sternum while the Mer blinks, the first set of lids and then the second, finned ears pointing toward the cave’s entrance as a gust of wind reverberates throughout; it wails pitifully.

His lips part, jaw opening enough for his tongue to roll forward. At the end of the muscle the fringed tips have folded into one another, rolled up in order to hold the mushed up Trout’s meat. You remember how they had tickled, and wonder what their purpose was. Perhaps, like dolphin calves, it was mainly for nursing.

The water is disturbed as he lifts himself up onto his hands, jutting his chin toward you, but thankfully does not approach. If you were understanding the situation correctly, Shouta had not only brought you food, but chewed it in his own mouth for you because he thought your human teeth were inadequate.

The silence stretches on dreadfully, but he is patient with you as you attempt to conjure up a delicate way of refusing him a third time. After the effort he’d gone to, saying he might not take it well was an understatement. So, you swallow the fear, mouth unbearably dry as your trembling hands cup together beneath your breasts. Reaching forward, you indicate for him to deposit the food in your palms, and he does so with a rough trill at the back of his throat.

“Th– Thank you,” you bow habitually, though he probably does not know the significance of it. You wonder if there are certain customs in Mer-culture as there are for humans; it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think so. Given the vast oceans they live in in comparison to the Earth’s land mass, they were probably far more diverse.

Your stomach twists and you’re far beyond deciphering whether it is nausea or hunger. Mercifully, it doesn’t audibly grumble, so you ask: “Could… Could I save it? For later? I’m a little tired and nauseous”.

He tilts his head, a small frown on his face. But it thaws after some deliberation, looking rather happy even with his features kept neutral, and you slump in relief at his affirming nod. The mush is wet and cold in your palms, and it smells dreadful, but you can’t deny he's practically chewed it into paste; as if he’d thought of you as a baby bird of sorts. With that in mind, you deduced he might thoroughly be enjoying the idea of you eating in his nest after resting. It was easy to theorise when you truly knew nothing at all — until a few days ago, you thought they were just scary stories.

Once you have crawled your way back into the raft, you clumsily use your bare feet to kick open a beach towel tucked into the corner, dumping the trout slop and covering it. Shouta’s eyes are impossible to ignore; you can’t help but feel he knew you were lying about eating it. And if that were the case, why would he humour you in that way?

Your sleeping bag is warm, and the fabric rustles as you move to get comfortable. With the incessant throbbing of your head, you’re a little thankful for the dim lighting. Laid curled up on your side, apprehensively facing the direction of the Mer, exhaustion rocks you to sleep.

The distant pitter patter of a sun shower starts at the mouth of the cave as you wake. It comforts you far more than any siren melody could; you long to be with your friends, arms spread for momentum as you spin beneath the rain together. Hopefully Hitoshi would be allowed into your apartment to collect some of your personal things and take your indoor plant with him after you’re gone.

You feel far worse than before you’d slept. Head pounding like it had a heart of its own, the pressure enough to feel as if it were swelling against the inside of your skull. Struggling for breath, your chapped lips part to inhale, your tongue dry where it peels from the roof of your mouth. You blink the sleep from your eyes but it does no good to rid your sight of the blur, a permanent haze softening the lines of the cave around you. Everything hurt, yet you were too disorientated to acknowledge it. If you were to guess, you had slept for nearly an entire day — whatever day it currently was. Should the Mer not understand how humans measured the passage of time, you could still ask how many times the moon had cycled since your arrival to figure it out. It couldn’t be more than three or four days at most, which meant you didn’t have long until your body succumbed to dehydration.

The creature is absent again, trusting you to sit pretty as his elongated shadow weaves in the distance. He’s circling, repeating a back and forth motion. Guarding, you note. The open ocean breathes calmly, devoid of any man or boat. With the strength you still have you pull yourself up onto the side of the beached life raft and rest your head atop your arm, drawn to the objects left side by side further along the edge that look to be wrapped in kelp. Peeling back the corner you find a single scale and a ring — the ring, the one you’d reached for in the seabed.

It is a typical sliver, likely stainless steel, though the outside is more glass-like and full of liquid crystals that glitter. There’s an abrupt splash from Shouta’s direction but you pay him no mind as you reach for the ring, limbs heavy and slow to take it between your thumb and forefinger, breathing a soft sound of awe as the colours change under your touch. A mood ring. You hadn’t seen one in years, not since you were a child; the Mer must have put it here for you.

You can admit that it is disturbingly sweet. The tending to your wounds, creating what he thinks is a human’s bed, bringing you food and leaving you gifts. Even the singing and the voices of your loved ones did not seem to be in malintent — you were already here, in his grasp, so there was no need to lure you.

It didn’t make any sense. You exhale, the sigh strained and wheezing as you slip the ring along the length of your fourth finger. The thermochromic teal hue gradually fades into a murky orange. It makes you laugh, inevitably dissolving into a weak cough; one thing you do recall is that orange indicated stress.

Shouta darkens the cave’s entrance as you take the scale, his back to the open ocean, suspended where he observes you despite the swell of waves splitting around his form. It rolls through the pool, stirring up the sea bed, spitting against the raft when it crashes. His eyes are gleaming, expression hidden behind his hair. Subjected to his rapt attention, your intuition tells you that this is something incredibly important. The muscles threaded around your ribs cramp as you breathe, anxiety echoing through your chest cavity; the voice whispers that whatever you do, whatever this is, you need to get it right.

You run the pad of your thumb over the edges, delicate with how you handle it. It’s oval shaped, around half the length of your palm, and after applying a little pressure you find it is extremely malleable, bending every which way and never breaking. Held up to the thin streams of light bouncing against the damp walls, it glitters. There are hidden flecks of deep, deep red, so rich it blends harmoniously with the black. The iridescence is beautiful — similarly to the mood ring, if you stare long enough it feels as if the colours are oscillating under your touch.

You wondered if there was… cultural significance to this gift giving, or if perhaps it was his attempt at apologising. It was futile to apply a human’s way of thinking to something inhuman, but then again he could know that just as well. It could be an olive branch, trying to communicate something that can’t be said.

His tail shifts, the large muscle driving him forwards effortlessly, the refractions on the walls moving with the ripples left in his wake. It’s disconcerting just how silent he is when moving in the currents. The Mer pulls himself onto the ledge without fanfare, strong arms sliding him right beside the raft. It’s the furthest you have seen him on land, and the most you’ve seen of his lower half. The caudal fin does not deviate into two, as you have seen in movies and television; rather it is one long fin that widens considerably from the root of his tail and curves outwards, eventually curling back in to meet and thin into a point at the end. It looks delicate in comparison to the rest of him.

There are spots missing, some of him scarred. He lifts it higher for you as he notices you looking, the water loudly running off him, a faint glow emitting beneath his skin. Knowing that he had lost some makes the scale in your hand weight that much heavier. “Thank you for the gifts,” you say, tearing up at the soreness in your throat. Speaking hurts, as if your lungs are bloating with water again.

Shouta’s lips part, but as you think he’s going to speak he decides against it. He must’ve taken your earlier words about the voices to heart, because you are then regaled with a chorus of hums and rough chirps as he crowds into your space, pushing you backwards as he nuzzles his nose to your jugular.

Resistance didn’t matter much when facing such an immovable force. To him, you may as well be totally pliant. You aren’t sure whether you are no longer frightened by him, or if you’re just too exhausted to care; reflexively tilting your head, he licks down the curve of your throat, teeth hooking into your dirtied springsuit with a frustrated grunt. He tears the fabric as if it were thin as paper, all the way to the valley of your breasts, and nips at your collar.

There’s something distressing about the relief that follows. He is content with your response, and you’re happy to have pleased him. It’s unclear whether your mind is simply forming explanations to protect itself, but the more you think the more you find it endearing. Is this not just like any other fairytale? Losing something for a chance to be with the person you want, being stowed away by a beastly creature and learning to see him as anything but.

If his intentions were to be read literally then he had just been trying to take care of you. Maybe he just wanted company. Maybe he really was just bored, or lonely. Maybe you were a little delirious — there's an uncomfortable pull at your centre of gravity, the vertigo stirring your nausea. Unaware, the Mer uses your chest as if it were a crib, sinks into you with claws pressed carefully to your back where he holds you. His hair smells like the sea, slightly briny and fresh like air, and it is wet against your skin. You feel like you’re splintering, splitting away from your physical self as you cling to consciousness.

“Shouta,” you say, a mouth full of cotton. He lights up reflexively, a flush of crimson, and you can’t help but be reminded of phytoplankton hidden amongst foreign shores, where wet sand by the tideline glows ever so slightly when touched. Your vision is already tunnelling as your eyes meet. “I’m going to pass out”.

Then, nothing.

Purgatory is odd. It’s a vast empty space, nothing but the magnetism of two forces working against one another. You are rocked in and out of consciousness, quite literally — it’s as if you’re being swayed left to right, surrounded by white noise and light too bright to look at.

Everything is blue, with murky yellow framing your field of vision. The raft, you recognise, though the implication of where you are doesn’t truly register. As your body lays adrift it passes through a formation of rock; the underside has weathered away into an overhang, misshapen over the years. It looks a little like a turtle's face carved into the stone, a tidbit that your memory clings to. Your tongue is dry, stuck unpleasantly to the roof of your mouth as you black out a second time.

“Holy shit. Is that—?!”

There are voices in the darkness, tethering you a little closer to the surface of your consciousness. Aware enough that you hear your name being called, the sound of someone crying, the abrupt tug of your body.

“You! Call the ambulance!”

“Shou…ta…” your brows pinch into a wince with a rasped breath, arms slipping beneath your back and pulling you onto wet, warm sand. He’s using voices you’ve never heard before, muffled in your ears as you’re jostled further up the beach. You want him to wait for a moment, to wait for things to stop spinning, but the words don’t come.

“They’re breathing, quick!”

“We’ve got you, darlin’. You’ll get help real soon”.

When you finally come to, it is with an intense sense of confusion. You’re tucked nicely into a plush bed, fitted with clean white sheets that smell faintly of vanilla. The linens are soft against your skin as you begin to rouse, sensation returning to your hands and feet. Beyond the vanilla is the scent of disinfectant and bleach, strong enough to indicate this place had been very recently cleaned. Your forefinger feels heavy, something clamped tightly around it, and the crook of your arm throbs uncomfortably as you move.

There’s a sharp weight around your mouth and nose, the volume of your breathing louder than expected. An oxygen mask, you recognise. Your eyes open wearily, squinting to sharpen the blurred objects in your field of vision. You’re met with washed out blue walls, so pale they could be mistaken for grey, and lower you find the edge of your cot. Tilting your head into the pillow, glancing to your left you find a white bedside table adorned with cards and flowers, a balloon floating precariously by your drip stand. An IV bag hangs from the hooks, the tube untangled and leading right to the pinch in your arm.

You inhale deeply and find your lungs expand with ease, though still tender. You didn’t feel good, but you felt better. Somehow, you had been brought into a hospital and treated. The last few of your memories are fragmented, at a loss of what happened and when, of whether it was real or imagined. Shouta… had the Mer taken you back to shore himself?

Why?

That thought draws attention to the lack of a ring on your right hand. The scale is gone, too. It wouldn’t be surprising if they had been lost along the beach as you were transported into the ambulance — the ring had been too big for your finger, after all. Oddly, you find yourself mourning the loss of it. It had been pretty, a gift from him. And it was the only proof you had that he’d been real.

“Yes… responding well… soon enough…”

A distant voice, both mellow and comforting, pours in where your door is left ajar. The conversation becomes clearer the closer they get, accompanied by the echo of footsteps reverberating along the hallway, until eventually they are stepping into your room.

“…released if there are no further complications,” a woman walks in with her attention on the violet haired man following closely behind, seemingly trying to soothe the anxiety present on his face.

Hitoshi nods along with hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, the bags beneath his eyes more prominent than you remembered. Over the doctor's shoulder, his gaze flickers towards you once, and then twice with realisation. “You’re— you’re awake!” he exclaims, speeding over to your bedside.

“‘Toshi,” you rasp, ignoring the tug of the IV needle as you reach out to take his hand. He’s shaking, squeezing tightly like you might slip through his fingers. It tempers your own anxiety, reassures you that you really are here.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice wet as he grins, “I’m right here. So are you”.

The doctor does well at lingering naturally and you’re grateful for it, tending to the clipboard at the end of your bed with the pen clipped on her breast pocket, giving you your moment of reunion. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exhausted, like the synapses in your brain are a few seconds behind, eventually squeezing him back. “Are you… okay?” you ask, fogging up the clear mask moulded tight to your face.

He laughs; a pained sound torn between disbelief and sadness. At that his head drops forward, pressing your intertwined hands to his forehead. “You’re unbelievable. How can you be worried about me at a time like this?”

“Y’look… sad…” you grimace with each laboured breath, “…what happened?”

He looks at you, mouth now moving against your knuckles as he speaks. “Some people by the boardwalk saw a life raft adrift and called help to check it out. They all started panicking when they realised you were in it”.

The raft he’d set up for you, partially deflated and softened with anything he could find. The distinct rock face, the sound of the tide. Somehow after losing consciousness you had made it from that damp cave to the beach. Hitoshi observes you for a moment, but ultimately continues after your silence.

“You’d been missing for three and a half days. After we left you at the beach… I— we shouldn’t have gone home without you”.

“It’s not—!” your reassurances are interrupted as you begin to cough, a tight burning sensation blooming throughout your chest. His features twist in obvious guilt, leaning forward to help you sit upright and clear your lungs, fluffing the pillows at your back. It’s then that the attending doctor decides to introduce herself.

“I’m happy to see your eyes open again. My name is Dr. Miura Rin, I have been overseeing your treatment since you first arrived in our care”.

You nod. With your breathing calmer, albeit exerted, you allow Hitoshi to fuss with the linens.

“Following a CT scan and an ultrasound we found you had what we call an acute edema of the lung — fluid in your lungs, in basic terms. It can happen to victims of near drowning such as yourself,” she continues to explain patiently, pausing only to assure you have no questions before she continues. “We administered an IV for the dehydration, and a diuretic called Lasix to reduce the pressure caused by the fluid build up”.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d just like to take a little listen to your lungs,” she gestures to the stethoscope hung around her neck, the chest piece tucked in the pocket of her scrubs. You agree without complaint and with the tips tucked into her ears she extends the diaphragm, slipping it beneath the collar of your hospital gown.

“Sorry, dear. This might be a little cold,” she murmurs the forewarning before placing it against your clavicle. It is cold, but you have been colder. “Take two deep breaths for me”.

You inhale a full breath, ignoring the soreness and the itch in your throat, and repeat following an exhale. She hums, expression giving nothing away as she guides the stethoscope across your chest in a zigzag pattern, pausing in each new spot and asking for another breath. “Alright,” Hitoshi sits up a little straighter at the pleased tone in her voice, “I like what I’m hearing. No crackling or wheezing, nice and clear. We would like to do a few additional tests just to ensure there won’t be long term complications, but otherwise – you’re looking good!”

“Thank fuck,” Hitoshi rasps. You laugh through the throb in your sternum, fiddling aimlessly with your naked ring finger as you give your own offer of thanks. Dr. Miura smiles and it immediately quells your restlessness. She’s a good fit for her role, you think.

She leaves with a wave and the promise of returning later in the day. “A nurse will be around with some food for you soon. Try to eat what you can”.

“Lucky you,” Hitoshi smirks as he watches her leave, “you’ll get to finally try the slop they serve here”.

He’d been hospitalised here when he was much younger after having appendicitis, and complained about the porridge they gave him for days after being discharged. You remember how he had described the consistency, theatrically clutching his stomach as if he were sick just thinking about it.

Thick, gloopy, wet slop. You can almost feel it between your fingers. Mushed into paste, held between palms. The memory is so vivid you can smell the brine. Hitoshi calls your name, concerned by your sudden silence, and in returning to reality you find your hands cupped together over the sheets. “Are you alright?”

“Did… did I have a ring and a scale with me when you guys brought me in?”

He makes a sound of agreement, taking something from his jacket pocket and dropping it into your open palm before propping himself onto his elbows atop your mattress. “You weren’t lucid by any means but you were clutching them like it’d kill you to let go. One of the nurses gave them to me after they admitted you”.

A shiver runs through you. Seeing the small gifts so clearly in broad daylight relieves so much of the tension in your body that you might cry, the teal hue of the ring brightening under the change in temperature. Shouta really had been real. “If I tell you something will you believe me?”

He frowns at your sudden change in demeanour, but nods all the same. And so you tell him all of it — the inhuman rendition of his voice and ink dipped claws, bioluminescent eyes peering over the ocean’s surface, the human-like arms that cradled and tried to feed you through your fear. You do not look at him, too afraid to see the emotions as they pass over his expression.

Retelling it almost leaves you with a sense of wistfulness, along with a litany of questions you might never have answers to. “I remember bits and pieces afterwards. I think after I passed out he panicked, or realised he couldn’t help me, and brought me back to the beach,” you tilt the scale and it shimmers red. “I recognised some of it. I think I vaguely know the area that he kept me in”.

“You want to go looking for it,” Hitoshi interjects accusingly. “Say I choose to believe you, I absolutely refuse to let you go back by yourself. Jirou, Sero and the others won’t either”.

“You can’t Hitoshi, he’d kill you”.

“And you’re so sure he won’t kill you?”

“He didn’t!” you snap, hand curling into a fist. The stainless steel of the ring presses against the heel of your palm, and the momentary frustration seeps from your body, “…he didn’t”.

Silence fills the room and you can feel him staring at your profile as you tuck your chin, embarrassed at how defensive you’d gotten. There was an oppressive vacancy in your chest at the thought of never seeing him again that you just couldn’t understand — you should be happy to be home.

“I’ll take a GPS tracker with me this time, so you can send help if there’s trouble. He might not even be there anymore,” you faltered at the tightening of your lungs, glancing down once more to the scale as your fingers unfurl. As expected, it returns its shape easily, no crease left where it had bent. The mood ring is a mottled brown colour, undecided on just where your emotions landed.

Hitoshi sighs, sinking forward to rest his forehead against your thigh. “Pops always warned us about Mer,” he mutters, “I thought it was bullshit. Poor guy is probably rolling in his grave”.

You card a comforting hand through his hair, gentling twirling the ends around your fingertips and ignoring the uncomfortable pull of your IV. “Fuck. Do you think he’s always been around here?” he continues.

“No. With the way he handled me you’d think he had never seen a human up close before”.

“For longer than it takes to eat them, you mean?” Hitoshi returns dryly. You pull his roots a little harder and he huffs, nuzzling into the linen.

“His colouring was really dark and he demonstrated bioluminescence a number of times,” you murmur your thoughts aloud, grateful that you can finally voice them, “if I had to guess from that, he probably lives in the deep sea most of the time. I don’t think he’s been here before”.

You meet Hitoshi’s eyes, narrowed in suspicion. “Bioluminescence? Along with the gifts, the hand feeding and using your loved ones' voices, don’t you think that’s a little…”

“A little?”

“Don’t deep benthic fish use bioluminescence to communicate stuff like mating?”

Your lips part to refute his claim, but the words clot in your throat. Now that it’s laid out in front of you, the theory seems obvious. But it couldn’t be that — what would a majestic creature like Shouta want with a frail human like you? Must less as a partner.

“I don’t think so,” you mutter weakly, tapping the pulse oximeter against his cheekbone in retaliation, “he isn’t a fish, Hitoshi. He’s probably just curious, or lonely”.

“You’re doin’ that thing. What’s it called again, attributing human characteristics to an animal? Anthropomorphising?”

“Fuck you,” you rasp. The back of your eyes feel sore as you roll them, a wave of exhaustion rolling steadily over you. Whenever that porridge came, it would fortunately have to wait. “You’ll help me, right?”

He relents and nods, his chin digging into your thigh as he speaks, looking displeased. “Pops told me once that to kill a Mer you have to pierce their lungs or something, so they drown in their own blood. Kinda ironic, isn’t it?”

You could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

It takes another day for the tests and results to come back, twelve additional hours spent restlessly staring out of the far window to catch a glimpse of the thin stripe of sea in the distance. Upon your release you are quickly accosted by your friends, Jirou in particular insisting that she stay with you in your apartment for a few nights in case anything goes wrong, and Hitoshi does nothing to help you in refusing the offer.

Even if he planned to help, he didn’t want you going back out there so soon after your recovery. You’d worried them all immensely, and if mothering you for a short while would help temper that anxiety, you were glad to give it to them.

You don’t tell anyone else about Shouta.

By the time things have settled back into some semblance of normality, it has already been a week since you were pulled from the stray liferaft. The sand is familiar and warm around the soles of your feet, sinking with every step taken towards the shoreline. “He’s probably gone by now,” Hitoshi says, close at your heels and trying to convince you to stay.

“Then it’ll be fine, won’t it?” you retort with an affectionate glance over your shoulder, his board tucked under your arm. You were clad in a dark rashvest and swim shorts this time, as your springsuit had been completely ruined after the hospital staff cut it away from you, though you didn’t mind. The thought of wearing it still made you a little nauseous.

Tight around your wrist was the waterproof GPS tracker, as you’d promised. It was quite garish, a very neon shade of pink, but you supposed the point was for it to be eye-catching from a distance. On your finger sits the mood ring, while the scale hangs low over your breasts on a thin silver chain. “Give me until sundown and then you can panic. It’ll take me a while to get out there if it’s where I think it is,” you tell him.

His left cheek indents slightly as he chews it between his molars. Without words, he pulls you into a hug, bodies awkwardly distant as he avoids bumping into your board. “I don’t like this,” he breathes. I know, you want to say. It was surprising he was being so lenient, but after all your years as friends he must’ve known that you would sneak out alone if he didn’t accompany you.

“I still think you should take a weapon”.

“What if he gets mad because I’ve brought something threatening?”

“What if he gets mad and you don’t have something threatening,” he counters, the stress palpable in his voice. He tightens his hold for a moment, and then loosens his grip for you to step away.

“He tried to feed me like a baby bird, ‘Toshi. Maybe it’s stupid and reckless, but I really do think he won’t hurt me,” you murmur with what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Not on purpose, atleast”.

“Jesus. Just, get out of here before I drag you back to your apartment,” he sighs, restlessly running a hand through his hair as he encourages you towards the shore.

You go with an air of determination, steady when you walk out into the water, bracing against the waves as they roll out onto the beach. Waiting for the foam to dissolve so you can see where you’re stepping, you ignore the knot of anxiety twisting in your sternum and place your board onto the surface for support.

Wading out further, you see the last wave in the set begin to break once the level reaches your hip. Steeling yourself, you elevate the board slightly and jump, using the momentum to hop onto it and begin paddling on your front. Lifting your chest over each wave that then follows, there is a profound ache in your arms by the time you reach the distinct rock formation; it is just as you remembered, extending out into the ocean from the cliffs.

You see it then. Just beyond, there is a cavity on the cliffside. A shiver runs along the length of your spine and you instinctively curl into yourself, pausing your advance for a moment. If he was in there, or close by, he would surely know you were here, and you find yourself scanning the depths beneath your board for signs of a shadow.

You had resolved not to be afraid, yet you still hoped he wouldn’t sneak up on you.

In the light of day, you can make out the seabed of the cave as the water shallows. At the far, far end is the ledge you had been placed on, built much deeper into the cliff than you first thought. You linger by the entrance, as if hanging beneath a doorway and peering into a room, calling out his name cautiously.

“Shouta?”

The reverb is eerie, dragged out as it continues to bounce further into the hollow. If you weren’t already listening intently you might’ve missed the sound of disturbance from behind you, the rippling of the surface as something breaks it. Reacting reflexively, you grip the edge of your board as if you might again be pulled from it.

Then you hear them, the gentle clicks. With all your courage you glance over your shoulder towards the source, a breath held in your lungs as your eyes meet with the Mer’s. His eyes are just above the water, dark hair billowing around him as the ocean breathes to reveal the tips of his finned ears. There’s something unmistakably cautious in how he approaches you, the length of his tail sluicing him toward your figure.

Under the sun he looks warmer, less sickly and macabre; and even then he had been handsome. The expression on his face suggests that he thinks you’re stupid for coming back out here. He might get along with Hitoshi after all.

“Hi,” you say, giving a hesitant wave. With his sight drawn to your chest, he becomes so still in the water that you worry he might sink. “I wanted to– to thank you for taking me back before”.

He blinks, one set and then the second, still keeping his distance. The silence is unsettling, and you continue your tremulous ramble. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring your raft back with me… I’m pretty sure the locals got rid of it. I was in the hospital for a little while but I feel better now”.

At that, he hums. It’s short but you recognise it — the purr-like rumbling in the back of his throat. Around him, the water vibrates. He’s close enough now that he could theoretically grab you, and you’re more than aware that the noise could be to lower your guard, but there is no sign of the merciless, sharp-toothed grin you saw back then. With how careful he was being, you’d almost think he felt guilty.

“Why did you take me back?”

When he finally lifts his head to speak, revealing the lower half of his face, where small dark scales litter the curve of his jawline. The man you hear is not one you’ve ever met before. His tone is rich, low and resonant: “I'm only able to heal surface wounds. I can't court you if you’re dead”.

The voice alarms both of you — though you are far more preoccupied in processing the implications behind courting — and Shouta frowns before momentarily submerging himself beneath your board with inky fingers held to his jugular. Admittedly, you are comforted to see him just as disorientated as you are.

A moment later, he emerges far to the right of you and begins circling the board at a distance with an aura of suspicion. “What do you mean by courting? And whose voice was that?”

“Courting, meaning I prove to you I am capable and able to provide for you as a mate,” he explains flatly, eyes narrowing on the scale resting over your breasts. “And that I can please you with gifts or other means, so that you will choose me and stay with me”.

You cough, repressing the urge to wet your lips. Given his confusion, you don’t think he’s attempting to lure you with whoever’s voice this is; but it is so naturally alluring, pleasing on the ears and attractive.

“But I can’t stay here,” is your obtuse reply, far too stuck on the realisation that he had taken you with the intent of keeping you as his partner.

“You think my den isn’t good enough?”

“No that’s—!” your hands clench and unfurl in your lap as you pause to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded and remain balanced on the board. “I didn’t say that. The cave is wonderful, I can see that you— you’ve worked hard in making it”.

“Then?”

“I’m human. I can’t live here, Shouta,” a soft zip of crimson flushes to the tips of his finned ears, outlining the intricate patterns formed by his veins, and your pride inflates at the influence your voice has on him. His name, from your mouth.

You wondered if this was a fraction of the thrill a Mer felt in luring people to sea.

“I’m a human. I can’t eat the things you bring for me, I can’t drink from this cave, I can’t breathe under water,” your thoughts follow your line of sight, appraising every dark corner of the cavern from the entrance, eventually falling upon the mountain of dumped out towels you had slept in. You laugh humourlessly. “I can’t provide anything for you either, and I doubt I can even bear your young. It has nothing to do with your cave’s suitability, Shouta. It’s about my own”.

With everything you list to him his blank expression thaws into what you might call tenderness, a familiar muted rumbling in his throat. His second approach is gradual as you prattle on, so careful that one minute he is still suspended lazily in the sea and then he is not, suddenly crowding into your space. You inhale sharply as he rocks the board.

“Are you questioning my judgement?”

The words are soothing as he speaks, seeping between muscle fibres and marrow until you’re drunk with it. They carry a low, authoritative baritone that reminds you of just how many centuries he might’ve lived. You may never get sick of hearing it.

“Yes!” you reply, exasperated. It doesn’t escape you just how fast you’d gotten comfortable interacting with him so casually. It is clearly him, and yet he seems so different now. Less... feral. “It doesn’t make any sense. Humans are like… food, to you”.

He hums offhandedly, iridescent tail propelling him until he’s bobbing at the foot of your board. The scales are noticeably brighter now, like he’s peacocking. With finned ears visible his dark hair fans out across the ocean’s surface as he looks at you, stray wet strands clinging to his cheeks, a large hand extending to wrap around your ankle. The grip is loose, neither threat nor warning. He seems to like touching you.

“Humans aren’t good for our stomachs, you never know what they’ve ingested. Mer don’t eat them unless they’re desperate,” he explains, speaking slowly as if correcting a misinformed child, “that day my instincts insisted that I grab you, because I’d only ever pursued things in hunger until then”.

“So you did intend to eat me?”

“I did,” he concedes tiredly.

“And that just somehow evolved into me being a suitable mate for you?”

The gills lining his throat flutter as he huffs, sending small ripples across the water, and you try not to smile. A startling warmth blossoms in your chest, enjoying how you’re teasing him. He must notice, because he lightly knocks your board in retaliation, and you yelp as you regain balance once again.

“I didn’t understand the difference. I rarely go so close to the surface, and was inexplicably drawn to you,” the inflection in his voice changes, deepens, and you shiver. “I’d already bitten you before I realised what this hunger meant. After you touched me I became almost primitive, and overly sensitive. It clouded my judgement”.

The playful atmosphere dims, and you swallow the lump in your throat. His fingers slide further up your ankle to your calf, hooked claws pebbling the skin. You dare ask: “sensitive?”

“You were so… hot to touch, even after I pulled you under into the cold,” he sounds a little breathless, and his grip on you briefly tightens, “so soft against me. I knew intuitively that you were mine, I’ve never been so reactive to something before”.

His expression pinches softly then, and you recognise the regret. “As I said, I was driven by instinct. It was irrational and I ended up harming you because of it. I never imagined, or intended to find you this way”.

Every part of you feels cold, all except the point where your bodies meet. You ask him again. “And this voice that you’re using? I thought you could only use the voices of the people I want or care for”.

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, casting his eyes across the seam of the horizon. “Are all humans as oblivious to their own emotions as you?”

“I’m not sure what— what you mean,” you stammer as his arm stretches towards you to take your face into his large hand, jaw held between his thumb and fingers, claws curling lightly into the swell of your cheek. Given the difference in your heights you are forced to bow forward to where he floats, and your board tips slightly.

Curtained by his hair, his scar is clearer than ever, pink and inflamed where it curves beneath his eye. He could very well tear your throat out, and yet you are simply wondering what it was that hurt him. You watch as it lifts with his grin.

“This voice is mine”.

The implication flusters you. Regardless of how attractive he was, or how nice he sounded, your main point stands. “That still doesn’t mean I’m going to accept any of this,” you say.

With a quiet hum, Shouta tilts his head, the grin waning into soft amusement as light pools around his irises. “You paddled all the way out here, to where you’re practically helpless, to tell me no?”

You should be frightened, but he doesn’t appear to be threatening you at all. He’s laughing at you. “So humans are irrational and dense, yet they still think with their feelings,” he muses, breath cool against your lips, a claw tracing crescent shapes beneath your eye, “despite the mistakes I made with clouded judgement, despite scaring you, you came back. And you’re even proudly wearing my courting gifts”.

Embarrassment washes over you and you’re pulling away, instinctively snapping as your pride splinters, “I didn’t know that they were courting gifts—!”

“All you knew was that they were from me,” he interrupts, a soothing yet knowing lilt to his words, like he was reassuring you it was safe to admit. “And that was enough to keep them close”.

In truth, you had held his little offerings dear. You had wanted to see him, and in all likelihood, would want to again. The morbid curiosity and attraction that magnetised you to him rang far louder than your common sense and self preservation. Deep, deep down, a part of you felt special in having him to yourself.

He murmurs something inaudible, hands grazing the swell of your breasts as he slides them down to your hips and squeezes as if to encourage you into the water. “Shouta,” you breathe, unable to put a finger on what it meant; stop, yes, a warning, a plea, an apology, touch me, let go of me. The sound of his name kindles visibly under his scales. It’s cute, now that you think about it. Like he’s blushing.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Your brow pinches questioningly, both of you still suspended by the cave’s entrance and waiting for what will come next. At the very least, your absence over the last few days settled his ferality, because you hadn’t yet been dragged into the ocean. “The way my body responds to your voice. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Shamefully, you nod. His grip tightens as a larger wave rolls in towards the cliffside, steadying you when your board lifts with it. “Just like how you can visibly see my reactions, I can see all of yours,” a hand then lowers to the top of your thigh to cautiously trace the inseam of your shorts, “I know what you want instinctively, it’s how a Mer coaxes human’s into the ocean. Even if you don’t show it, I can feel it. I can taste it. You don’t need to be ashamed of it”.

He was giving you permission to want him. Had he known you needed that, too? Could he sense it?

“What would— what are you going to do if I get in the water?” you feel yourself trembling, a familiar ache spreading through your navel against all better judgement.

“I will prove that I can please you, with gifts and other means,” he repeats his earlier explanation, the atmosphere stifling as he continues to touch you. His tone is calm, but you hear the clear suggestion.

“I need to be home by sundown,” your thighs clench and you avert your gaze to the neon pink tracker clasped around your wrist, “if I’m not they’ll be able to find me with this. I mean it when I say I can’t stay, Shouta”.

If he’s displeased by the tracker, he doesn’t show it. “Then I’ll make you want to come back,” he replies plainly, your body sliding forward as he applies a little more force, and you let him. You slip from the board into the sea along with him, held securely to his chest as his arms keep you afloat. Hissing at the sudden change in temperature, you clutch at his shoulders and feel your lungs ache.

Now that you’re back in his embrace you remember just how big he is. Under your touch his skin is smooth and slightly rubbery; it’s thick, below that his musculature shifts, and sinking your nails into it doesn’t bother him. His tail undulates and moves him further into the den, a foreboding loss of light the further in you go. Supported by him and the water, you feel oddly weightless.

Another larger wave passes through, slowing as it hits the rocks dotted throughout the cave’s corridor. As it reaches the nest, Shouta rolls with it to smoothly hoist you up onto the lip of the ledge, and you startle with the complete lack of exertion it took to do it.

Your surfwear is completely wet now, clinging unpleasantly to your skin. The rock’s surface beneath you is cold, slipperier where the patches of biofilm and moss have bloomed. It’s hardly comfortable, but you’re incognisant to it as Shouta’s clawed hands gently part your knees, allowing himself to bob between your thighs.

The delicate gills at his throat flutter as he breathes, each leg hooking over his shoulders the closer he gets, until he is eventually bracing himself against the edge with his arms either side of you. His bulk forces you back onto your elbows and anticipation twists in your belly, unable to look away from him as he leisurely noses along the inside of your shorts towards your centre.

“Wait,” without thought, you thread your fingers into his hair, pushing it back to reveal more of his face. He pauses at the touch and allows you to hold him there, half lidded eyes burning up as they watch you patiently. “It… it isn’t fair to do this all your way. Without talking about it. What if humans do things far differently, and you end up hurting me again?”

He hums and leans into the palm of your hand, pushing against your force with ease. You don’t know whether to be relieved that he had stopped, or frightened that you held absolutely no power here. “I’ll humour you, then. Tell me what you want me to do,” he says.

You lick your lips, noticing as his gaze follows the movement of your tongue and heat simmers under your skin, whispering his name with a shaky exhale. It flushes through him, finned ears fanning out for a moment, and you allow the reaction to bolster your courage.

“A kiss,” you tell him, “I want a kiss first. That’s— that’s customary for most humans”.

“A kiss?” he repeats it as if he were tasting something new, feeling the word in his own mouth.

“Mer don’t kiss?” he shakes his head, a thin veil of irritation cast over his features at the lack of knowledge, “then, how do you show one another affection as... mates?”

He briefly submerges to slip your legs from his shoulders, this time bracing himself on his forearms on the cave floor and leaning up to remain at your eye level. Flustered by the proximity, your thighs clench either side of his hips. Against your skin, his scales have an almost silky texture to them when they’re wet. His tail slaps the surface of the water and his jaw twitches, annoyed by the involuntary reaction.

That’s right, his body reacted strongly to you too. Maybe you did hold some leeway afterall.

“Partners show affection by intertwining or grooming one another's tails,” he says. His tone is softer, the soothing rumbling back in his chest. It sounded to you like wistful longing. “We lick one another in sensitive places to heal or display trust,” as he continues to explain he tilts to press his mouth to your neck, running his wet, thick tongue from clavicle to jugular. A shiver runs along the length of your spine at the tickle of the fringing, and you try to reciprocate when he turns to press his gills against your smooth throat, “or we do this to greet one another”.

Your body is hot, even with the weight of his cold torso. You wondered just how warm you felt to him.

Then he is backing away to encircle your wrist with dark, clawed fingers. “And this, too,” he guides your hand back into his hair, then further to his finned ear. Gently, you rub the flesh between your thumb and forefinger, the ache between your thighs beating with your quickening pulse as he exhales a soft groan.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say, slightly breathless, tracing another finger along the thin membrane to enjoy how his arms tremble.

“Now you,” he replies, told through gritted teeth. He was restraining himself for the sake of indulging you.

The hand by his ear moves to cup one side of his face, and your right lifts to cup the other, cradling him in your palms. “Human’s show affection in a lot of ways, but partners will kiss each other often,” you hesitate, his nose bumping into yours as you lean in. His lips are slightly agape, his stare heavy and wanting as he waits for you to guide him. “Like this, just…” following the slight angling of your head, you softly press your mouth to his.

At first he is unresponsive and you pull away in concern, but then the water is surging like foam up the walls of the cave as he presses himself into you, chasing the sensation. It forces you flat to your back, but you find you don’t mind in the slightest as he clumsily tries to mimic how you had kissed him.

“Slower… you don’t need to push so much,” you murmur, squirming at the pressure of his pelvis where it rubs against your core. He heeds your instruction, working his mouth languidly alongside your own, a pleased rumbling vibrating through your skin. He startles for a short moment at the feeling of your tongue along the seam of his lips.

“Open your mouth,” and he does. It’s nothing like the first time — his tongue does not push itself into your cheeks, instead Shouta waits as your own lightly drags over his teeth, a frisson of excitement in your stomach at the danger. You kiss him deeper and he moves with you in tandem, greedily swallowing every whimper as he circles his pelvis between your thighs. The scales there create a slightly ribbed sensation that you can’t help but to grind against.

When you part there’s a quiet, wet sound, drowned out by the buzz of the ocean. “That’s what a kiss is,” you say, chest heaving as you catch your breath.

He stares at your lips, a little swollen now, his pupils blown and ringed with crimson. “I like it,” he mutters, “can I kiss you where I first intended to, now?”

Your thoughts flash back to his face tucked into the crease of your thighs, and they instinctively clench around his hips. He must know, must feel it, because the corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. You nod to give him permission and he descends the length of your body, dazed as you brace yourself back onto your elbows while he carefully hooks a claw into the waistband of your shorts.

“Don’t tear them!” you blurt, covering his large hand with yours, “I need to wear them again. Just– just let me take them off”.

Your skin has begun to dry in the humid air of the cave, so it’s more than a relief to peel off the rubbery damp material. Shouta grunts but ultimately releases his grip, sinking back into the pool of water to wet his gills while he watches. No sooner than you have discarded the shorts to the side, he is crowding back into your space to push his face against your pussy. With both legs hooked over his shoulders, half of his body still suspended in the water, he starts to breathe you in.

The low hum he releases vibrates over your clit and seeps into your limbs until you’re struggling to remain upright. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, his lips shaping the words against you. You feel as he mimics another kiss, his tongue dipping into your folds, gasping as the fringe circles your entrance. “You taste good, too”.

Your legs flex either side of his head, jerking at the cool lap of his tongue along your slit. “You don’t self lubricate, do you?”

You barely have the wherewithal to speak, nevermind to explain human anatomy. He’s careful with his teeth as he mouths at your clit, spreading the back of your thighs with clawed hands, still light with his touch. It’s right there, you think — your femoral artery. All it would take for him is one nick.

“In a manner of speaking,” though probably not enough for whatever he has hidden. Your reply is strained as he teases himself inside of you, more explorative than it is purposeful. The intent didn’t matter, not with how good it was to feel him slowly lose himself in it, as if he set out to learn the things you liked and the things you didn't, but became too busy getting his own fill. His tongue is cooling and thick where it pushes into you, your hands hastily threaded amongst his hair for leverage at the indelible stroke of the trim as it pulls out.

“How is your body this hot inside?”

You feel him groan as your spine bows, fingers slipping to toy with his finned ears in retaliation. The hues in the cave grow warmer, the bioluminescence of his scales refracting off the water. The fringe on his tongue curls inwards, as he had done days ago when offering you food from his own mouth, and clasps around your clit.

Your hips arch, hands simultaneously holding his face closer to your pussy. Encouraged by the wanton call of his name, Shouta begins to gently suck on your clit, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt, intense and concentrated, your senses heightened by the stark difference in temperature.

His arms come to push down on your stomach as you squirm against him. Focused only on that spot, you feel yourself clenching helplessly around the emptiness as a familiar coil tightens in your belly. The deep, rumbling growl emitting from his throat vibrates around your clit intermittently and draws your orgasm closer to the surface, as if all the nerve endings in your body were calling out to him.

“Please,” your thighs quiver where they’re hooked over his broad shoulders, toes beginning to curl. “Just… keep going just like that. I’m gonna cum—!”

You crest with claws pressed into the soft parts of your stomach; Shouta holds you closer as if he wanted to sink into you, tongue moving in circular motions as you cum with a broken moan, hissing at the dull impact of your head to the rocky surface.

Your orgasm pulses through you until it simmers, vision blurring faintly at the edges as his touch continues a tad too enthusiastically and you start to become oversensitive. His lip curls as you fail to push him away — you’d be too weak even at full strength, never mind when your limbs are weak as they are now. “Stop. Stop, Shouta,” you complain, a faint whine to your voice.

He concedes, unlatching his mouth and lapping through your folds for a final time. His cheeks are wet where they nuzzle into your inner thigh, his tongue cool and soothing against the heat. The cold sensation travels up to your navel, dark hands sneaking under the fabric of your swim shirt to slip it over your breasts where he can taste more of you, the chain with his scale resting atop your sternum. Dazedly, you ghost your fingers along his biceps to the curve of his throat, lingering by his gills as they flutter with a heady breath beneath his hair.

“You’re softer than anything I’ve ever felt,” he says, licking over your pert nipple and releasing a pleased sound at the surface reaction of your body. Hair raised, skin pebbling. The air is hot and damp, your arousal is glistening on his chin, and the scales by his jaw are flared red. “Your song is so sweet when I touch you like this”.

Your song? Is that what it sounded like to him, to Merfolk? The thought brings a tender smile to your lips. It was oddly romantic for such supposedly monstrous creatures. Your eyes flicker towards the cave’s entrance to gauge the position of the sun, glad that you still have a little longer with him.

Continuing up the length of your torso, Shouta holds his weight up on his forearms either side of your head, encasing you beneath his body until all you could see, feel or think was him. Chest to chest, his tail twitches abruptly as your thighs cradle his hips. There’s no discomfort as he rolls against you, just curiosity. You can feel it — something swelling, pressing up against your pussy.

“Is that…?”

He shifts upwards and watches you intently, waiting for your response. Peering through the small space where your bodies meet, you see it. A paper-thin, vertical slit a few inches below his navel, the area around it bulging slightly. You pause before reaching to touch, first seeking his approval with a quick glance. Hair falling loosely over his face, the clear hunger in his eyes strums at your centre of gravity.

With deft fingers, you massage around the bump, cautiously tracing your thumb down the slit. Above you, Shouta’s body shudders; he murmurs your name with want colouring his voice, rich and alluring, and you begin to understand then how men are so easily drawn into the ocean’s depths.

Repeating the stroke of your thumb, this time with a little more pressure, you stare in rapt fascination as the slit widens and wets the pads of your fingers. Gradually the motions begin to coax what you assume is the head of his cock into the open, Shouta then releasing a low, breathless moan by the shell of your ear. As it continues to spill out, you realise just how big it is, and significantly pinker than the rest of him. It’s slick, smooth and moving independently as you touch it, wrapping around the thicker base and stroking your fist experimentally up to the narrow tip. You hear the loud, distant slap of his tail in the water, watching as he attempts to roll his hips. He’s trying to be patient while your mind plays catch up, but there’s a growing sense of anxiety you can't ignore.

Your body was not made for this, for something — someone, like him. Your palms are slick, strings of his fluid delicate between your skin and his. You’re unable to look away from him, there’s arousal pooling in your belly at the muffled desperate sounds he’s making, and a far off sense of shame. How would you even make it work, how would it fit?

Putting aside your embarrassment, you ask him.

“Lie back and I’ll show you,” he rasps between laborious breaths, hanging his head low between his shoulders to reach your mouth to kiss you. It’s clumsy, and his teeth nip your lower lip, drawing a bead of blood that he quickly licks. The momentary sting diminishes. “Take as much as you can, as much as you want. After this it’s yours”.

Relinquishing your grip and relaxing back into the hard surface beneath you, Shouta uses one hand to gently part your knees further. He stares at the space where your bodies meet while your eyes are latched to the open mouthed desperation present on his face, his brows pinching as you feel the tip of his cock glide through your folds of its own accord.

“Fuck that’s— okay,” you inhale a gasp as it rubs smoothly over your clit and back, teasing around your entrance. Despite knowing his temperature is cooler, it still startles you to feel him, much softer than initially expected. Almost tongue-like, wet and soft as it begins to press into you.

He’s big. Your jaw slacks as you whimper, clutching to the forearms propped either side of your head as you start to feel the stretch. He’s trembling, a low moan pulled from his chest that feels as if it anaesthetises you. The discomfort becomes muted, replaced by an all encompassing pressure. Just when you think you might’ve taken it all, there is more, and it seeks to fill the spaces in you that you could never reach with your own fingers.

Leaning his forehead to yours, dark hair falling loosely to curtain your faces, he kisses you again. He must like that, you think. In turn, your fingers trace the line of his gills, causing his hips to jerk forward. “Ah—!” you hiss, the texture of his scales silken against the back of your thighs as your cunt spasms around him.

You don’t think it would be possible to feel him any deeper. He’s splitting you open, carving out a space for himself. You’re panting; trying to take steady, long breaths to slow your pulse, air bloating your lungs. It’s as if it didn’t matter where or how he moved his hips, he kept finding sensitive places to touch you. “See,” his lips move against your own as he speaks, so surrounded and swallowed by him that it was as if he was your world. “I knew you would be perfect”.

Knees clamped either side of his hips, he shifts his tail further up the ledge for more leverage and you feel the featherlight ghost of his lateral fin to the inside of your calf, a dark shade of red leaking steadily to his caudal fin like a blush.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he grunts, voice straining while his hips raise to allow space to move. Either side of his head are his finned ears, fanning out with a dull glow. The tepid, wet slide of his cock as it fucks into you plucks the air from your lungs, hands pawing at his biceps as the swell fills you over and over.

The cave is a cacophony of whines, strung out moans, the lewd wet sound of your arousal with each thrust. The water below is thrashing, and you don’t think it’s the waves. He groans your name and you reflexively respond with his own. It’s overwhelming, eyes squeezing shut for a few short moments as his pace quickens. Your muscles are drained of all rigidity, malleable and pliant in his stifling embrace as he reaches to hoist your thigh further up by his hip.

Somehow limbless, yet your core winding tighter still, you feel yourself nearing the edge as the hand by your thigh moves to palm your breasts. You’re clenching down on his cock with each slick stroke, rendered helpless to the pleasure as his movements become more frantic. You can’t help wondering how you must feel to him — soft, he’d said. And warm, so warm. Clinging to his cock, to his arms, to the roots of his hair.

“I’m close,” he warns, nipping the delicate skin of your lower lip, dipping his tongue into the seam of your mouth, “gonna fill you up. Make you mine. Make you come back”.

“Shouta,” dazedly gasping in alarm, voice catching in the back of your throat. He purrs as you coil around him, though it is far more unrestrained, erring on a growl. Pushing his weight onto your stomach, his pelvis pressed up against your clit, it only takes a few more strokes before you’re arching into him, mouth shaping around a silent 'o'.

The intensity is dizzying. It washes over you again and again, drawn out the longer he continues to fuck you, white-hot static abuzz beneath your skin. “Just look at you,” he’s telling you, a praising inflection in his otherwise strained voice, “so beautiful. That’s it”.

You’re lightheaded, inhaling shallow breaths as you feel him throbbing inside of you. For a moment you think he might’ve gotten bigger, a split second of burning stretch, and then his body is pulled taut above you. With a drawn out groan, the tension seeps from him little by little as he cums inside of you, like your body was the tub of hot water he’d submerged himself in.

Struggling to keep himself braced on his arms as he regains sense, his release leaks out from around his cock as it softens further to return to the confines of his slit. Your pussy clenches around the emptiness in its absence, each throb pushing more cum out onto the cave floor. Shouta blinks away the haze, one set of lids followed by the other, and ducks to press the curve of his throat against yours.

Ah. An act of affection, you remember. Though you’re without gills, you still tilt your neck with the little energy you have left and attempt to reciprocate. Judging by the quiet, fond huff of laughter, he appreciates it.

In your periphery you notice that the sun has started to straddle the horizon, and begin to squirm in panic.

“I–I have to get back soon or they’ll come looking,” you tell him, eyes frantically searching the cave for your board and finding that Shouta had tucked it into an alcove by the entrance. The Mer grumbles in tired complaint and seamlessly slips himself back into the water, keeping only his eyes above the surface as his hair fans out around him.

If a Merman could pout, you think it’d look a lot like this. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want them to hurt you,” he glares slightly and you rectify your words, “I don’t want you to hurt them in defence”. That seems to placate him somewhat, and you watch as he turns to retrieve the board.

Rolling your shirt back down, you stumble as you stand to pull your damp shorts back up your legs, grimacing in discomfort at the cum still spilling out of you and pearling on your thighs. Hopefully you could rinse yourself off before you got to shore. No doubt Hitoshi would be waiting there for you, anxiously pacing the entire length of the beach.

The impact of wood thudding against rock interrupts your line of thought. Shouta waits by the ledge with your board already pointed towards the entrance, gesturing for you to get on it. The colour in his scales have begun to fade again, the same colour as the one hung around your neck. “Sit. I’ll take you as close as I can without being seen,” he says.

“I’ll come back,” you quietly promise him. Against better judgement, you will.

As he guides you out into the open ocean, eyes squinting then at the beaming evening sun, you look at your mood ring and smile.

It’s a vivid green.

#bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader

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