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sp4ceboo · 2 months ago

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As Selfish as Love: Merman!Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw: 18+, smut (afab reader, p in v, bkg has a merman cock, marking + biting, oral f receiving, fingering, crying during sex but not like you think, unprotected sex, creampie), violence, blood, death, vivid gore, grief, reader treated as a tool by evil ppl, random worldbuilding, questionable medical knowledge, kinda plot heavy, other stuff i don't remember

wc: 19.8k

For years, all you’ve known is darkness.

Chained by the wrist to a ring in the wall, swaddled and asphyxiating in the blackness of the brig - it is there where your closest companion has become the dark. It is the absence of light: not only because they do not deem you human enough to spare lamp oil on you, but because the kiss of the sun has been reduced to a foreign concept, a distant, syrupy memory.

Every morning when that door opens, letting light leak in and crawl painfully between the cracks of the roughly hewn floorboards like an intruder, you repeat your name back to yourself, remind yourself who you are - a witch, a survivor, a person at the end of their tether but that all the same does what they can to keep the shadows at bay.

For the darkness is not just the absence of light: it is the absence of hope, and if you let it take you, your very substance will dissolve and you will sink beneath obsidian waves and melt away without a sound. They will have won.

This is something you will not allow.

White knuckled, you hold onto memories of the past the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. They swirl in the currents of your mind, fickle things. Sometimes they are so tangible you can feel the grass beneath your feet and the bracing wind of the highlands on your face even in the still, humid air of the brig, sometimes they eddy away before you can catch a glimpse.

You were barely a woman when they caught you, when they tore you out from where you’d been rooted to the earth, ripping through the stitches that held your life together. You were young, and you were naive and ignorant. This would not have happened if I had been as I am now, you think, but as you are now is shackled in the belly of a ship built for the single purpose of hunting merfolk.

They hunt to purge. Their so-called divine has commanded the eradication of magic, and so that is what each and every child is trained for from birth. The land has been rife with their conquest for centuries, making witches such as your kind unheard of, yet the sea for all its worth has lain mostly untouched until recently.

You are jealous of the merfolk. The magic must come easily to them, because they have not had to suppress it out of fear - it seethes in their blood, potent as an ocean storm, imbued within their essences as salt is in seawater. For this, they are feared, and for this, the hunters are more so hellbent on their extermination.

Over your years spent in the hull’s constant night you’ve learnt that your captors are the most celebrated hunters of their time, held above everything but their leader and their divine. They are revered among their people, and that is why they are allowed to chain a witch in their brig and force her to heal wounds sustained from hunting the undeserving - because they are strong enough and honourable enough to not be corrupted by your magic.

There is nothing honourable about the way they treat you.

Though you are human as they are, you are lower than an animal to them. They have no care for your limits - oftentimes, you are pushed to heal and heal and heal until you are exhausted, and yet you refuse to succumb when the darkness calls, because each time you meet their eyes, without fail, you see, buried deep within, is fear.

They fear what is unknown, what is not under their control, and every time you refuse to break when they beat you just for entertainment, every time they push you almost to death yet you survive, you wrest back an inch of control. You are needed, and that is something you will use one day, when the time is right. For now, you collect those sparks of fear in their eyes and let it feed the fire nestled within your soul that fends off the growing dark.

It is a day like any of the other days. Stirring in your fraying blankets, you wake up to the sound of the crew’s strident voices, and as it is sometimes, you almost forget that they are cruel and stained by their own wrong doings because for now, there is no talk of blood shed, just breakfast. You hate that they can seem so normal with so many innocent lives on their hands.

The day very quickly progresses into the type you have come to dread.

They neglect to bring you your daily portion of bread and water, nor the echinacea you had asked for more of, and it can only mean one thing - a hunt is on. Already, you can feel the unruly lurch of the ship as it skims over the waves, picking up speed. The crew’s voices become louder, crowing and eager, and you despise them so deeply your heart twists and becomes an ugly thing in your chest.

Almost imperceptible, you can hear the rattle and hiss of ropes as they ready their harpoons. This part is the worst, where the darkness closes in so near that you can feel its cold touch brush up your arms and its breath ghosting over your face. Sometimes you hear the anguished cries of the merfolk, sometimes the whoops and victory cries of the crew are loud enough to drown it out. You don’t know which is worse.

After will come the wounded, grinning still and soaked in blood of two kinds - theirs and their victims. You are always numb to it by then, turning a blind eye to the crimson dipped trophies they grip in dirty hands: lopped off fins and strips of scales, sometimes small enough to be a child’s.

How they can butcher beings as beautiful as the merfolk and think it the right thing to do, you do not know.

It makes you sick to your stomach, that somehow you have become their accomplice, stitching their wounds with your magic, saving their lives so they can kill again. You vow that one day, you will strike back, but what good can you do now, trapped in the bowels of a boat that was designed as a vessel for murder?

You have to try. You have to survive, if just to try. You are yet to come up with a method for escaping past what you have already attempted, but if you do not, more lives will be lost, more bloodshed that you had inadvertently aided. Right now, on deck, the patterns for it to happen all over again are falling into place.

You’re sure that this time will be no different.

And so you wait for the injured to come, almost defeated if not for the hard, bright little ball of hate settled in your throat. You wait, and you wait, listening to the strange thumping above that you can’t decipher, and still they don’t bring you their wounded. Neither comes their usual sickening shouts of triumph - you wonder if the merfolk managed to escape. You hope desperately that they did.

Listless, you turn your head as footsteps approach. There are more than normal. You can’t count exactly - five, maybe six, and they all walk with a strange irregular gait as they approach the brig.

I hope the merfolk put up a magnificent fight, you think as the key scrapes in the lock. I hope that taught them; you know it never does. The more damage the merfolk do while they fight for the lives of their mates and children, the more they are damned as unnatural and beastly and deserving of the fates that are doled out to them by men.

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again.

Back when you took the warmth of the sun on your face for granted, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as sick memorabilia.

None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes.

A merman.

Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls.

He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances.

Or maybe that’s just blood.

There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him.

Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms.

“Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

You frown as they begin to manoeuvre all three metres of merman into the brig. Studied? They must be looking for a weakness to exploit. After all, merfolk succumb less easily to flesh wounds than humans - the magic of the sea resides in their very bones.

A hand fists the front of your shirt and you’re jerked forward. You can feel the hunter’s foul breath on your cheek, feel the violence roiling just below the surface of his skin, and yet you cannot tear your eyes from the merman until you’re struck across the face. Reeling back, you raise your head to look at him, a hand flying up to cradle your jaw where it has begun to swell.

“Are you deaf? What are you waiting for?” he spits.

Your brain is still stuck on the fact that there is a merman before you, alive on a ship full of specialised mermen killers, but your body has gone through these motions many times before and brings you to kneel by your patient so fast your chain jingles crassly in the relative quiet, your hands already working to gather herbs for a poultice that will slow the bleeding.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see your captors filing out of the door, the last of them grumbling and wiping his hands on his trousers as if being near enough to hit you had sullied him. Realisation dawns abruptly on you.

They’re leaving you alone with the merman.

“Wait,” you call.

Disquiet grows in your stomach. As much as you hate the life forced upon you, serving as a tool for men who would not hesitate to kill you if you ran out of worth, you have gotten used to it, and this merman at your feet has disrupted your delicate equilibrium, tripping you as you balance on a knife’s blade.

You have never had problems with thinking fast in a pinch. You are a healer, you are accustomed to endless wells of blood and snapped bones sticking through skin. Conversely, you are not accustomed to the sight of a half conscious merman taking up the majority of your floor space, a single fingernail on his hand no doubt potent with more magic than is contained in your whole body.

Your tongue is slow, your mind slower, but you force the words out, emboldened because whether he likes it or not, this merman is leverage for you. There is no one else on board that could save him.

“I will need a lamp indefinitely, while I’m in the process of healing.”

You realise how important the health of this merman is to their study because the hunter holding the lamp brings it over with no words of criticism, just the curl of his lip when you draw near enough to take it from him.

Its metal is warm in your hands, and you cup it in your palms - a little sun that clears the clinging shadows from the brig like they’re cobwebs. Carefully, you set it on the floor next to you, just outside the border of the canvas the merman lies upon, sitting back on your heels as the door slams shut.

You stare at the merman for a weighty moment. If it did, there’s no telling what organ the harpoon may have punctured - do his intestines extend all the way down his tail? Or are they in the same place as a human’s, and his tail is just muscles, like legs would be?

Never in your life did you think merfolk anatomy would have any significance to you. Even if you’d thought it did, there wouldn’t be any books for you to study on it. A hysterical, jittery laugh builds in your throat, wringing itself from you when you spot the strange slit - for lack of better words - that sits just below where his skin turns to obsidian scales.

The nervous sound breaks the silence, jolting you into action. Never mind his anatomy, he’s still bleeding out. Somehow, you need to get that harpoon out of him: the hunters don’t clean them off once they’ve used them, and if you’re not vigilant, infection will get him before whatever they’ve got in store will.

Determinedly, you scoot closer to his lower half, stretching out a hand to test the area around the wound. In preparation, you will your healing magic to rise to the surface, and it fizzles at the surface of your palms, warming them.

Your fingertips have barely brushed over his scales when pain slashes across your cheek.

The merman jerks away from you so hard that he cries out, and you wince as you see the wound pull wide, blood oozing out from where it gapes. Gingerly, you touch a hand to your cheek - one of his spines had glanced off your face as he’d moved away, its tip sharp enough to shed blood.

Any human patient would have lost consciousness moments after being hit by the harpoon that’s buried in his tail, and if by a miracle they hadn’t yet, the pain caused by what he just did surely would have knocked them out. Inexplicably, he’s still conscious, blood red eyes glaring at you with blatant distrust.

You hadn’t gotten a chance to look closely at his face before - you’d been too busy ogling his tail. Spikey, sandy hair casts a shadow over his eyes. They glow, carmine and half crazed, no doubt with the same agony that pinches at his face and curls his lip, revealing sharp canines that he bares at you, twin ivory warnings.

A rattling, hissing sound emanates from deep in his chest when you attempt to move closer again, his dorsal fin undulating in an obvious threat display. You can tell it hurts him; the spine you’d noticed before is definitely broken, the parts of the fin around it drooping and limp. He growls when he catches you looking.

You really, really don't know what to do.

Your skin prickles, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you were left alone with him. Aside from the obvious hostility, his face is effectively blank; there’s nothing in his gaze except the primal instinct to survive, and the unspeakable, offensive terror of a wounded animal backed into a corner and trapped there.

There’s no getting through to him with words. You remember the night you were ripped from your cottage by the hunters, the way you clawed and screamed until your voice was gone and your nails were torn and bleeding. You know what it’s like to have the adrenaline coursing through your veins so fast it burns, you know what it’s like to feel the anger and fear blend together in your chest until it strips away your humanity and you’re reduced to nothing more than a feral, wild eyed animal.

Slowly, you get to your feet, your chains rattling. He growls, making that hissing sound again, and despite his size, despite the muscles straining in his chest and the magic you can sense in his form, he looks small. You grit your teeth. The shock is beginning to wear off, burnt to ashes by a roaring fury that licks up your throat and fills your lungs.

You wonder if he had a pod. You wonder if they got massacred before his eyes.

Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you scoop up the piece of dried fish that remains from yesterday’s meal. It’s the only food you have, so you turn and offer it to him - when he doesn’t hiss immediately, you slide it over to him on the dented tin plate it had been on.

Tentatively, the merman picks up the fish, his nose very obviously wrinkling. As he examines your peace offering, you notice his hands are webbed up to the lowest knuckle and are a little larger than a human man’s, the fingers longer and the nails considerably sharper.

Relief fills you as he begins to chew at the fish, and you retreat to your pile of blankets, sitting down and half facing away to give him as much privacy as is possible in as small a space as the brig. You begin to make a poultice for him, crushing the herbs between your fingers because you’re not allowed a mortar and pestle and depositing them on one of the dishes you have lying around.

Once you’re done, you turn back to him. The edge in his eyes has softened a touch, and when you scoot over to settle closer to him, he doesn’t make a sound, instead just leaning away a little, watching you warily. Warningly, he hisses when you lift your hand, his red eyes flashing.

“I’m going to have to touch you to put this poultice on,” you tell him. “It will reduce the bleeding and might alleviate the pain.”

He twitches but remains silent. You wonder briefly if he even understands - people don’t talk to merfolk these days. They either run or they kill. For all you know, he might speak some ancient language of the sea that you have no hope in understanding.

You scoop the poultice up in your fingers and lean forward, aiming to ease him in by angling first for a smaller wound situated just over a hip bone on a human would be (you’re not even sure if his equivalent qualifies as a hip seeing as he lacks legs).

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice guttural and rasping, like he hasn’t uttered a word in years.

Fumbling, you almost drop the dish. You guess that answers one of your many questions - he can speak your language, although you presume one word doesn’t really express fluency. For a moment, you consider telling him that they’ll no doubt beat you for not healing him, but it seems rather insignificant since it’s nothing they haven’t inflicted on you before.

Sighing, you sit back on your heels and look at him, defeated. He regards you with those same crimson eyes as before, but they’ve cooled considerably and hold traces of scathing criticism you find you aren’t the fondest of.

You begin to realise that he’s not going to give you any explanation as to why he doesn’t want you to treat him. He doesn’t trust you, most likely - you haven’t given him any reason to think otherwise of you, rather, you’d gawped openly at him. You’re not surprised he hasn’t taken a liking to you. You wouldn’t either.

So you retreat back to what has now become your corner of the brig, since the other three are taken up by the length of his tail and the doorway. On a whim, you prepare yourself a turmeric tea; it’s anti-inflammatory and you know you’ll be needing it sooner or later.

It takes a day, but one of the hunters barges in, light sneaking in past the outline of his silhouette. You don’t know any of them by name, nor would you want to, but you do know that this particular one is the first mate.

The merman hasn’t let you near him still, and although at points his eyes are closed, you’re worried that if you try to sneak up on him, he’ll move away again and tear open the parts of the wound around the harpoon that have partially closed up. The perimeter of blood soaked canvas beneath him has slowed its expansion but still grows.

It’s amazing that he’s survived this long while still losing blood. You presume merfolk must be rather resilient, unsurprisingly - the sea is no easy place to live in, nor is it made any easier by its recent infestation of merfolk hunters.

“Did you not hear your orders yesterday, you useless bitch?”

Passively, you look up at him as he looms closer. “I did.”

“So you don’t want to cooperate, then,” he snaps. “Do I have to encourage you?”

You don’t get to answer. A fist full of scarred knuckles collides with your nose, and your head snaps back, white exploding across your vision as the hunter shoves you backwards. Your back hits the ground and before you can even think of scrambling away, you’re kicked hard in the ribs.

You don’t try to resist it. You’ve learnt it’s better to take it than to fight and make him hit harder.

Red hot pain shoots through you when the tip of his boot catches your chin, clacking your teeth together. You cry out as your blood fills your mouth, streams from your nose, stains his knuckle bones. Hands up in a pitiful attempt at protecting your face, you curl up on the floor, as small as you can. Your ribs throb, your chain trapped awkwardly beneath your body.

You’re still balled up with your arms over your head long after he slams the door behind him. You ache all over, and your lower lip is trembling treacherously. Tears press at the backs of your eyes so you squeeze them shut: you’re not going to cry.

You need to get up.

You need to down that damned turmeric tea you made, just to feel the ginger burn as it slips down your throat.

When you open your eyes, the merman is staring. You grimace as you heave yourself to sit upright, the metallic taste of blood still coating your tongue and curdling until it’s sour. His face is unreadable, shuttered and devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t speak, although that isn’t exactly atypical.

“Well, now you’re not the only one bleeding all over the floor,” you mutter, unable to keep the resentment from your tone.

You turn your back to him as you set your nose with a grunt, letting your magic flow through your fingers and knit your flesh back together. Running a hand over your ribs, you check if any are broken, but when none are, you don’t heal them up; you’ll need to save your energy. The hunter didn’t bring food for you, and you doubt he’ll be bringing you any more until you treat the merman. That could take anything from an hour to a week.

Falteringly, you glance over your shoulder. He stares off to a place far away, a place you cannot see. A scowl furrows his brow, and you sigh, wondering if he thinks of the sea and the freedom that was torn away from him the way it was for you.

Curling up on your blankets, you pull one over yourself, rolling to face the wall and shutting your eyes. Loud in the darkness, your stomach growls, and you twitch but ignore the urge to look over your shoulder and stare accusingly at the merman - you too would not trust a human if all their kind had brought him was pain.

Your ribs hurt. It is alright, though. You’ve fallen asleep through worse.

When you wake, the first thing you do is crouch down beside the merman to check his wounds. The rattle of your chains makes him open his eyes, and you see that his face has paled, the alertness in his gaze dimmer now the adrenaline has worn off. As is becoming clear, he’s more resistant to injury than humans are, but there’s a worrying amount of blood saturating the canvas sheet beneath him, and you doubt he’ll make it much longer without help.

If he lets you near, what you’re going to have to do is far from ideal. The hunters’ harpoons are barbed and vicious, but you can’t exactly keep it in, and you can’t exactly cut it out without risking more blood loss. You’re just going to have to yank on it and hope it doesn’t destroy anything too vital on its way out.

“I’m going to have to take the harpoon out,” you tell him measuredly, gauging his facial expression.

He simply stares at you, his face blank but for the slight pinch of his brow. Shadows bathe half of his face; there is barely any lamp oil left to burn. The little flame flickers and sputters, letting darkness dance up the close walls of the brig, and if you do not hurry, you may have to treat him in the dark.

Slowly, you lift your hand, letting it hover over the splintered end of the harpoon. Tension bleeds into his body, the set of his jaw tight and his hands fisting as if he’s bracing himself, but he doesn’t growl or flinch away. Expectancy and resignation lurk in his gaze.

You don’t like that he won’t say anything in response even though he’s proven he can talk. You can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you gather your materials: the poultice from yesterday, a roll of bandages, a thick strip of worn leather. The latter you give to him, sighing when he turns it over in his hands, quizzical,

“Bite down on it,” you instruct him as you roll up your sleeves. “Either that or it’ll be your tongue.”

He frowns, but does as you say. You glance up at him to check if he’s ready. The hard lines of his body stand out, taut as a bowstring. He looks brittle, as if he might break and crumble into dust the moment you touch him.

Years ago, when you healed children’s scraped knees and the broken bones of men who had fallen from their ladders while fixing leaks in roofs, you had the words to comfort your patients. These you lost to the eternal darkness of the merfolk hunters’ ship, and these you wish to find again but cannot.

Instead, you murmur a quiet warning as you kneel by his tail, wiping your sweaty palms off on your trousers before getting a strong two handed grip on the end of the harpoon. Under your breath, you count down: three, two, one. Pull.

It makes a squelching, sucking noise as it comes out. You cringe but keep on tugging - if you stop now, it’ll be worse for both of you. He cries out, voice ragged and spilling over with agony, his tail arcing off the floor, and you feel the movement in the way the harpoon jerks in your hands with the bunching of his muscles.

All of a sudden, the resistance disappears. His tail fin slaps against the floor as he goes limp, both his and your heavy panting filling the room. You’re left with the splintered harpoon in your hands, a chunk of flesh and a twisted scale still clinging to one of the bloodied, rusted spokes. He spits the strip of leather out and it lands near your knee.

Carefully, you set down the harpoon and begin applying the poultice straight onto the weeping gash in his side, spreading the rest over the bandages which you bind tightly around his tail. Leaking from your fingertips, your magic suffuses across his skin as you work; you can’t heal him accurately without knowing much about his inner workings, but it should help to stave off any infection.

He shelters his face in the crook of his elbow, and though he tucks his other hand tightly to his chest, you can see the way he trembles.

You give him his space by swiftly moving on, busying yourself with his other injuries. You splint the spine in his dorsal fin, ignoring the way his hands shake and gently placing the arm crossed over his torso by his side so you can use your magic to clean and close up the various cuts and slashes littering his scar flecked body.

His scales seem to be damp, even though it’s almost been a full twenty four hours since he was brought in. It must be seawater somehow, you decide, or a sweat-like substance that keeps his tail wet enough when he hasn’t been in water for a while. He doesn’t look the most comfortable: he’s probably not used to having to support his own weight without the buoyancy of the waves.

There are little scars all over him, his skin a map of cicatrices, but the one that catches your attention is raised and jagged, spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel. You touch your index finger to the centre of it, and he inhales sharply, flinching away.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pulling back, half expecting him not to hear you.

He’s silent for a while, ignoring your apology, but then comes a begrudging: “Thank you.”

Though he won’t see it - he’s still hiding his face from you - you shrug. “You should never have been hurt in the first place.”

He’s quiet again, lying still enough for you to imagine him dead if not for the rise and fall of his broad chest. You slouch, the energy having leaked from your body in order to mend his. The lamp finally gutters and winks out, leaving in its absence a tiny pinprick of light, a vanishing ember at the wick’s tip, buried in ashes.

When you tear your gaze away from your expired little sun, you’re confronted with a pair of blazing eyes. Pinned on you, they glow in the darkness like two pools of blood, but you find their luminosity strangely comforting, like Arcturus and Betelgeuse to a sailor: stars to lead you on your course.

“You are a witch, are you not?”

You jump at the sound of his voice, rough around the syllables but measured, as if he rolled them around on his tongue before he spoke. The scarlet light from his eyes dims a little as they narrow (you’re not sure if that’s meant to convey amusement or distaste) and you become aware that maybe he can see a lot more in the dark than you can.

“I am,” you confirm, still squinting at him - to no avail.

“Why do you not fight them, then?” He demands, his tone darkening. “Surely you cannot like it here.”

You scoff. “Of course I don’t like it here. You think I like the way they beat me?”

He’s silent, and though you still cannot see his face, you sense his scowl.

Sighing, you reign yourself in. This merman comes the closest to being an ally than all the others that have entered the brig, and you cannot squander this. He may not trust you, and you may be ignorant and ill informed of his kind, but you both have a common enemy, and though he may not like the thought, you are similar enough: the raw energy that flows through him is the same that you harness to perform your magic.

“I could fight, but there is nowhere for me to go if I escape the ship - there is just the sea,” you explain. “In the end, they are scared of all those associated with magic, even the witch they keep chained in the dark. The moment they deem that the risk I pose outweighs the use I have to them, they’ll kill me.”

He’s quiet again while he processes what you’ve said. “And what of me, witch? Why have they not killed me yet?”

“They want to study you,” you reply, wincing at how harsh your voice comes out. “I think we’re quite far from their lands - a few months’ travel, maybe - but it’s hard to tell.”

“What - ”

“Enough questions,” you cut him off. “My turn.”

A plethora of questions crowd your mind, but as you think of the merman in front of you, you find that they can wait, because although he must have stories of the sea that you’d only dreamed of hearing, and although magic you could learn endlessly from is threaded through his being, he is primarily, before anything, a soul. He is a soul: a soul with eyes that make the permanent night you are lost within just a little more manageable.

You will have to find out whether the kraken is real or not later; you will ask him about selkie skins afterwards.

Instead, you ask him his name, and tell him your own.

Bakugou, he grunts in response before turning his head to face the wall, clearly ending the conversation. Frowning, you stare at his back - or where you presume his back is, in the darkness - and mull over the name he provided you with; you are certain he has given you the one he gives to strangers. You suppose that is what you are.

Pulling absently at your chain, you sit with your back to the wall, your knees to your chest, and think about the merman, about Bakugou. For a moment, you are seized by the absurd belief that his most grave injury is a bleeding heart, but that cannot be true, for he has not said anything that indicates it. Questions find their way to your tongue, but you let them stick there, stifling them before they deign to interrupt the silence.

Neither of you move from your positions until the door opens, revealing the first mate. Squinting, you rise to your feet, a muscle feathering in your jaw as he purposefully kicks Bakugou in the shoulder, lifting his lamp high so he can see the bandages you’d applied.

“I’ll need a top up on lamp oil if I’m to continue the healing process,” you announce. “And we’ll need food and water. He’ll have - ”

You hesitate, glancing over at Bakugou, but he just lifts a shoulder and makes a face of disgust that you know isn’t conscious. Deliberating for a moment, you wrack your brain for any clues about merfolk diets.

“Fresh fish,” you decide. “And crabs. The bigger the better. Also, he’ll need a tub big enough for him, filled with seawater.”

“Watch the way you address me,” the first mate snaps, taking a step forward.

You shrug. “You wanted him healed, didn’t you?”

Your first two requests come within the next few hours, appeasing the increasing hollowness that had resided in your stomach and sending the shadows inhabiting the brig retreating up the walls and into the corners of the room, but the tub doesn’t come until two days after. It is barely watertight, plugged with tar and made from rough sawn wood.

You haven’t exchanged words with Bakugou since you asked his name and he gave you one, though you find yourself on the receiving end of his red eyes more often than not. He’s silent as the hunters bring the tub in, as they fill it with pails of seawater, as they leave and slam the brig’s door behind them. He’s silent, even as he slips into the tub and into a thin slice of his home.

And then, after a moment, he turns to you, and there’s something painful and cutting and cynical in his eyes.

“You know, the water doesn’t speed up the healing.”

You nod. “I know it doesn’t. You were uncomfortable.”

His eyes blaze. “What do you want?”

You regard him, regard the intensity of the fire in his gaze and the way his chest heaves. His tail fin hangs out of the tub, but even so, water swills over the side and splashes onto the floor like it can sense his agitation. Loudly, the links of your chain clank against each other as you cross your arms.

“I do not want anything, Bakugou.”

He narrows his eyes. “All humans I have known but one are cruel, witch. You wish for me to owe you something.”

“I don’t,” you reply, noticing the strange look that creeps onto his face. “Who is this human you hold in such high esteem?”

A distant look erases the furrow in his brow, and you get the sense he is no longer talking to you when he speaks again: he is lost in some place far away, a place coated in the golden sheen that tints all good memories. His voice turns soft as he brushes his fingers over the scar on his chest.

“His name was Izuku,” he murmurs. “But I called him Deku.”

“Deku?” You echo, your voice crudely loud all of a sudden.

A flash of grief slashes across his features like lightning on the high seas, there and gone so fast you almost don’t catch it. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly shutters slam down behind his eyes and his expression melts away until his face is blank and cold. Regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

You wince. “I’m sorr - ”

“He’s dead,” Bakugou growls.

He doesn’t speak to you for three days. There is a certain rawness in his blood red eyes that makes you gentler as you change his dressings and reapply your poultices. He looks at you as if he hates that you are healing him instead of leaving him to die, so you avoid his gaze, staring instead at the scars that cover him like warpaint.

You get the sense that he is mourning this human he told you of all over again, and you cannot help but see the weight of it in the tension of his body and wonder if you could alleviate the pain.

On the fourth day, he shuts the vulnerability away somewhere deep inside of him, buried far enough beneath other things that he can pretend it never even existed. Yet you remember it, still vivid and fresh in your mind as you lie curled up on your side, watching the lamp’s flame until your eyes burn. He breaks the silence by clearing his throat, his gaze fixed on you.

“Witch,” Bakugou says softly. “How did they catch you?”

You glance over at him. “I was young and foolish and alone. It’s easy to snatch a girl from her home under those circumstances.”

“You have been here for years, then.”

“I have,” you sigh. “I tried to escape once. That’s why I’m chained down.”

“A weaker soul would not have survived this darkness,” he remarks solemnly. “You are strong, witch.”

You look down at your hands, watching your fingers fidget to and fro in your lap. Your tongue is frozen in your mouth - you had not spoken properly to someone in years before he was captured, and his behaviour confuses you. No words come to mind that express how grateful you are for his acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you settle with in the end.

He hums but other than that remains silent.

Later you discuss with him the possible logistics of an escape. He explains to you that he cannot channel the magic the way you can, but that he is soaked in the magic of the sea; he is unable to use it for spells because it is innately part of him, enhancing him beyond human capabilities. Together, you come to the conclusion that you must get off the ship before you arrive at the hunters’ lands, or your chances of freedom will have narrowed to almost nothing.

An actual method of subduing or injuring the hunters enough to allow an exit route evades you, though. After all, you are chained to the wall, and there’s no easy way of moving Bakugou - he is, evidently, far too heavy for you to drag around all by yourself.

Uneasy silence falls over the brig. You stare at the lamp again: with it, your ability to see has been restored, along with a piece of your humanity, but now its light seems to illuminate how small a space you are contained in, how strong the chain binding you to the wall is.

As you drift off to sleep that night, you find yourself gripped by the fear that Bakugou will never return to the sea, and instead, they will inflict unspeakable torments upon him.

You will be the one who kept him alive for them. You will be the one who he grows to hate, because you had the chance to let future pain pass him by, but you saved him, and by doing so, you failed to spare him from their torture. And while they cut him open and study his insides, you will be somewhere far away, still risking yourself to heal their most elite, almost as if they are beloved to you.

The thought gnaws at you as the weeks pass. Blood no longer soaks the bandages wrapped around his tail; his dorsal fin is almost healed. He is gaining strength, more rapidly through your magic, and it is clear he has shaken off death many times before if his scars are testament to anything. In particular, the one on his chest draws you: though it is long healed, you can tell it was deep.

He almost died back then, too - the scar tissue around its edges is strange, lumpy and malformed as if he was kneaded back together by a child who saw his flesh as nothing more than clay harvested gleefully from a river bank. Even so, the shape of it is familiar. You know you shouldn’t pry. You remember the way he flinched away when you first touched it, but you ask, anyway.

“Bakugou,” you ask him once you’ve finished changing his bandages. “What did you do to get a merfolk’s blade stuck in your chest?”

He snarls. “All you do is fucking dig, you shitty witch.”

“I - ”

Hissing, he swipes at you half heartedly, and you stumble backwards, dodging his fist and almost tripping on your chain, caught off guard by the agitation in his eyes. Stunned, you gape at him. The fury is vehement on his face, evident in the grit of his teeth and the tremor in his hands as he grips the side of the tub; you can tell he despises how he is trapped in here with you, fending you off with the sting of his words.

You open your mouth. You’re not certain what you’re supposed to say, other than an apology that he will shake off easily, but you hope that words will form on your tongue. He levels his gaze on you, and this time, within it dwells an overwhelming sorrow that stops you short.

“Don’t try,” he whispers. “You cannot change the past.”

Brow furrowed, you stare at him. You take in the pain carved all over him, and this, you realise, not his scars, is his warpaint - he holds it close to him, like a cloak of inwardly turned, savage blades, reminding him to keep his distance. It is present in the bow of his head, the slump of his shoulders, a weight so heavy it threatens to rend his flesh from his bones.

You get to your feet, and in the lamp light, the single tear that rolls down his face is turned to solid gold.

Balefully, he looks at you, yet he holds still as you reach out and smooth it away with your thumb. A rawness resides in his eyes that you wish you could soothe as you catch the next tear that spills over, gently as if he is made of porcelain.

“You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders, Bakugou.”

Your words wrench a sob from him. His fingers curl tight around your wrist, tearing your hand away from his face, silently weeping as he grips you so hard you begin to lose feeling in your palm. You watch as the anguish in his eyes evolves into anger, harsh and brittle and bleak.

“Get away from me,” he spits, voice strangled, and yet he does not release you, so you perch on the side of the tub and make a show of not looking at him so he is not alone in his privacy.

It’s then that you realise that whether or not he likes it, you have gotten through to him. In the month that goes by, sometimes he is cold and aloof, keeping to himself, and sometimes he allows you close enough that you can feel his warmth. You find you savour his company when it’s there.

His wound is fully healed, a pink scar bordered by healing scales, and his dorsal fin spine is back in working order. You check up on him still, every other day or so, careful to monitor them in case you have somehow healed him wrong, careful to keep your regular intersections with him, because although you would never admit it to him, he is amusing, and he keeps the darkness at bay.

You are unsure what he thinks of you. Sometimes, he smacks you upside the head with no real force, and you dare to label it as affectionate. He gives you the name which he gives to those that mean more to him than strangers, too - well, you wring it out of him.

(“Bakugou, what’s your name?”

A scoff. “Witch, have you hit your head?”

“We both know you’re not obliged to answer, so if you’re not going to tell me, spare me the insults.”

Pause. “Katsuki. It’s Katsuki.”)

There are times when he has nightmares, too. You surmise that most of them are about Deku, and that the scar branding his chest, the one made by a merfolk forged weapon, is linked somehow to this dead human. Incomprehensibly, he mutters in his sleep, snarling about krakens and storms and sometimes even witches, but it always leads back to Deku.

Sometimes he protests against him, speaking a language you do not fully understand, cursing and thrashing so hard you fear the tub will splinter, while sometimes he proclaims his love, his voice slurred as he slumbers, but each time, without fail, he begs: forgive me, Izuku, forgive me, Deku, I’m sorry.

Katsuki is unaware of what he gives away in his sleep. Often, he settles down quickly after raising his voice, but sometimes you look over to see him stiff and terrified and shake him awake; he then jolts upright, the water sloshing out of the tub as he reaches for you, his stricken eyes searching yours for something you do not know the identity of, but he always finds.

He does not let you go, not ever. At these times, you lean or sit by the tub and let him crush your fingers in his grip.

He never speaks of it in the morning.

You would not hide from him what you have learnt, nor the feelings that grow treacherously in your heart, but you are too cowardly to tell him of either. It is certain that he loved Deku, and that maybe Deku loved him too. What was it like, you often wonder, to have loved Katsuki?

When he holds onto you, still half lost in the dark lands of his nightmares, you think about it. He would have been less guarded, a young merman not yet covered in scars; he would have given Deku his name immediately, for he would not have learnt that he needed to be wary of humans. Still, he would have fought for him until the end with the same ferocity he would fight for his own heart - because Deku was his own heart.

And Deku, you imagine Deku saw people as they really were. You imagine Deku with bright eyes and a brighter smile, with a face that all his emotions could be read off as easily as a book. He must have been good, persistent, if Katsuki had fallen for him. Soft, even, but tough when he needed to be.

They fit each other, no doubt.

You feel guilty, as if your speculations are invasive, rummaging around within Bakugou’s heart where he has not let you set foot. Mercifully, he can pin his red eyes on you as much as he likes, which he often does, but he will not hear your mind.

Now that he is healed, that is how you pass your days, exchanging words with him when either of you wish to, while you wrestle with the unspoken in your head and while god knows what happens behind his eyes. It is normal for silence to fall after a conversation - it is not awkward, but not comfortable either. It is pensive, it is familiar.

And today, it is shattered by screams up on deck.

Katsuki perks up, his keen ears picking up things your dull ones cannot, and he tilts his head, listening intently. You do not have to hear what he does to know what is happening: there is the sound of clashing steel above you, the all too familiar war cries of the hunters. It is not often that the merfolk are prepared for the hunters as they pass by, but neither is it impossible.

The ship lurches, harshly enough that some of the water in Katsuki’s tub overflows. You wager it must be a whole pod, then, maybe two, and you glance over at him, wondering if he knows who they are, wondering if -

“Are they yours?” You blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your pod,” you clarify.

Bitterly, he scoffs. “If the merfolk wanted to rescue me, they wouldn’t have waited months.”

You freeze. The detachment in his voice does nothing to hide the betrayal beneath, and ice begins to crawl up your spine, for he addresses them as the merfolk, not as his kind, his people. Harshly, you swallow as you start to understand that the hunters would never have been able to capture a merman if he wasn’t alone.

“You don’t have a…” You trail off, feeling far too inadequate and stupid to continue.

“My pod renounced me the moment they learnt about Deku and I.”

A picture forms in your mind, of a Katsuki who lost his family because he gave away his heart to a human - of a Katsuki to which the sea was no longer home, but a huge expanse of alone. Horror closes over your head like cold water as your eyes slide down to the scar on his chest.

His pod didn’t stop at just renouncing him.

You had always hoped that beings whose very essence was rooted in magic would be fair and just as the tales said. Your hope had always been that the merfolk would see that humanity was not united in the purging of them, that they would spare you if your path ever crossed theirs. Never did you think they would be so blind as to turn on one of their own for something as reliant on fate as love. You are a fool.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it comes out almost like a sob.

“We are no better than you are,” he replies.

His voice is so devoid of hope that it cuts you to the quick. You open your mouth so say more, to try and fill that emptiness inside him if you can, but your words are stuck in your throat and before you can force them out the door flies open, banging loudly against the wall and almost extinguishing the lamp’s flame.

Three gravely wounded are deposited in front of you and then the door slams. Silently, you get to work, sealing the deep slashes to their flesh more carelessly than you should be - but with Katsuki watching, you feel sullied, a betrayer who works for the purgers of magic. Their blood coats your tingling palms, and yet not in the way you wish it could be.

You have just finished the last when four more are dragged in, and you’re hit hard across the face and ordered to work faster, which signifies only one thing: more are coming. As blood wells up in your mouth, you hope that the merfolk are victorious, even if it means sinking the ship and letting you drown within.

Hate rises within you again, searing and acrid like smoke clogging your lungs, but this time it is different. You hate them for what they have made you; a tool, a means to an end. The determination you nurse in your heart is unimportant as long as you do what they say, and yet you cannot defy them, and this is what you hate yourself for.

Prickling sensations begin to claw up your arms as you heal. You are lost in it, the blood and the battle and the patients, and you swear you see the same faces twice: hunters who you healed once coming back more injured than last time. Your energy dwindles like a dying flame and you dip into your reserves when you recognise the violent light in the hunters’ eyes.

You cannot ask for a break. They already bay for blood and death; what more is yours but just another magic using bitch’s?

You are being bled dry. You are no longer aware of your surroundings, just the halting of the flow of blood beneath your hands and the wheezing gasp of your breath and the rattle of the chain locked around your wrist.

They have not been attacked like this in a long time. You almost forgot how fast the darkness closes in when you send out your energy through your palms to knit flesh and skin back together again. Spots cloud your vision, and futilely, you swat them away. Muffled, Katsuki’s voice hums in your right ear, but you do not understand the words he utters.

Your hands tremble. You pitch forward, slumping over your newest patient.

A hand fists in your hair. Knuckles press into your jaw, far harder than a lover’s touch and yet it feels like it in the way your head lolls slowly to the side. It takes time, but pain radiates through your skull, vibrating your teeth and sharpening your focus, and then you can hear yelling, yelling for you to wake up, yelling for you to carry on or they’ll kill you -

There are so many of them. So many hunters with frenzied eyes and blades that shine where they are not coated in innocent blood, and they are hurt and they want to return back to the battle and you must abide by their demands. The air is too thin as it whistles in and out of your lungs. You cannot think.

You press your palms to the blood slick abdomen of the next man placed down before you and do as they say. Your mouth is dry, your head pounds, your eyes won’t focus, and yet, you do as they say, you always do what they say.

What a fucking coward you are.

Letting them push you farther than you ever would let yourself go. You’re right on the edge, right over the edge, clinging onto the side of the perilously vertical cliff face even as the mossy stone crumbles beneath your fingers and threatens to make you fall down down down. But still, you heal. Your body performs numbly what your mind cannot take any more.

All of a sudden, there is not an open wound for you to heal or guts to force back inside a torso, there are just crimson soaked planks and a raised voice. Loud. An incensed, raised voice, cursing and roaring. Can’t you see she’s almost gone? They shout, earsplitting enough to make your head pound. She can’t heal you fucking bastards if she’s dead!

Bakugou. No, not that name. It’s… Katsuki. Katsuki making all that racket. You don’t know when it happened, but now your cheek is pressed to the rough planks that make up the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Some more splatters to the ground and you notice that the din isn’t being made by Katsuki any more. Your eyes are hazy as you lift them upwards and see a hunter raise his fist again.

“Kats,” you slur. “Watch… watch out…”

The lamp goes out, which is strange, since the oil got topped up this morning. You pay it no mind, though.

You’re too tired.

You wake surrounded by water. For a moment, you wonder if the merfolk won, and if somehow you managed to get tossed off the boat and into the sea, but then you move your leg and it hits something hard and vertical which must be wood. Peeling your eyes open, you find you’re in… the tub? Katsuki’s tub?

Lifting your head, you’re met with a pair of concerned red eyes. One is almost swollen shut, and blood has crusted down the side of his face from a wound in his temple, yet he smooths his hand soothingly over your upper back, watching attentively as you come to.

“You’ve been out for just under two days,” Katsuki says. “You need to eat, get your strength back up.”

Your memory begins to trickle back, and with it floods a torrent of shame: you always told yourself that you survived out of spite, out of the belief and conviction that one day you would hurt them enough to negate all the healing they made you to do, but it was all a pretence. You were scared and so you took the easier road of complacency, and it has caused the deaths of hundreds of merfolk.

It is without a doubt that if you had healed even just a papercut more, that if Katsuki had not stopped them, the life force within you would have winked out, and you would have died. Death had loomed right over you, brushing boney fingers over your face, and even now, it lingers.

You are burnt out, exhaustion weighing on you as if a whole mountain rests on your back. Worse is the fear, revealed in the blinding light, shackling you, for you are its slave, and you cannot shake its hold off you.

Your face crumples. “I am spineless, for letting them use me so. I am a coward, a - ”

“They give you no choice, witch,” Katsuki remarks. “Do not put it on yourself.”

You shake your head. “You cannot ask that of me. How many lives have been lost because I obeyed when the hunters told me to save them?”

Bowing your head, you sob. Fatigue envelops you, the chain around your wrist unspeakably heavy, and you lean heavily against Katsuki; he holds you like you are precious, handling you with care so that the pieces you have shattered into do not fall apart and scatter onto the floor. He tips up your chin, forcing you to look him in those eyes of his as he wipes away your tears.

“What was that you told me, as I wept like you do now?” He asks. “You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders. That was what you said to me.”

Nodding, you feel more tears leak out when you squeeze your eyes closed. He strokes your hair, and you hide your face in his chest and wish you could do forever, for he is warm and he is far gentler than you ever imagined he could be. You are tempted, but he nudges you and chides you, reminding you that you will feel much better once you have eaten.

Wobbly as a newborn fawn, you climb out of the tub, Katsuki steadying you with a hand on your arm. Wrapping one of your blankets around you like a shawl, you retrieve a hunk of bread to gnaw on before planting yourself on the tub’s rim, loath to be any farther away from him than you have to be.

Though hunger worries insistently at your insides, sending tremors through your hands and weakness in your legs, you force yourself to eat slowly; you cannot risk wasting any of the food by throwing up. Katsuki rests his forearms on the sides of the tub, watching you with a keen gaze that you cannot read. You become more aware of the purpling bruising across his face and reach out without thinking.

He catches your hand before you can tap into the slowly replenishing well of magic inside of you, his fingers circling your wrist before he lets them slip down and lace with yours. Something ignites behind his eyes, and you find you are mesmerised - you lean closer to see how the spark dances.

“Katsuki,” you breathe, and then your lips are on his.

He tips his chin up to lean into you, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer to him, so tender that it makes your chest ache. You could stay like this for eternity, simply doing nothing but tasting the salt of him on your tongue and savouring the sweet, sweet scrape of his canines over your lower lip; he is all that matters, all that is.

Slowly, his hands come round to cup your shoulders, pressing you closer to him, and so you feel the moment his grip falters and he stiffens, feel the way he recoils from you as if you have burnt him, and you can do nothing to prevent it. You’re propelled backwards with the force he jolts away. Though it is only a few steps, you feel the gap between you yawn wide, stretching into an uncrossable chasm.

“No,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “No, not - not like - ”

Abruptly, he falls terribly, terribly silent. Stunned, you touch a hand to your mouth; your legs buckle, and you throw out a hand to steady yourself against the wall before sinking to the floor. It feels as if you are drowning.

Katsuki does not love you - how can he, when he fits with Deku like they were made for each other? You were wrong to hope for anything else, wrong to give in to what you wanted, because you have torn open old wounds that never properly healed. It is no longer significant that he does not love you, for you should have seen that already; what matters is that in your blindness, you have ripped him open.

You’re beginning to realise that it was not the lamp that kept the shadows back, but him. It is only natural that you are drawn to him like a moth to a flame, only natural that you were too weak to resist flying straight into the fire. This time, it is not only the moth who gets hurt.

You are left alone with your thoughts. Time passes, as it always does, but you pay it no mind. However hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes. You are numb, numb to the slow rock of the ship as it cuts through the waves, numb to the sounds of the crew at their battle stations again, numb to it all now that it is undeniable: you love him.

He cannot love you.

Wearily, warily, you raise your head when the door opens, revealing the first mate, soaked in blood. Crossing the room in a few strides, he stands before you, chest heaving, a frantic sort of desperation contorting his face as he tightens his hand around the hilt of his sword and glares at you.

“The captain is near death. We drop anchor home in a fortnight. I will be put in command if he does not survive, and if this happens, I will make certain that you come upon a death slower and far more painful than his.”

You do not answer, nor do you pay any mind to his threats. You can sense Katsuki staring in your direction, the feeling of his red eyes on your skin unmistakable: no doubt, he has heard what you have. We drop anchor home in a fortnight - a fortnight until Katsuki is delivered into hands who seek to study him, to slit him open while he still lives and examine his insides and the way his heart beats, ensnared in the cage of his ribs.

Just like that, you know what to do.

You wait silently until they bring the captain to you. The first mate did not lie when he said the captain is near death. Sweat creates a sheen on his brow, and though his eyes are open, he is barely conscious, for he has been sliced open from gullet to navel by a merfolk blade. Briefly, you touch a fingertip to the lip of the gash, ignoring the pained moan it causes and the disquieted mutters of the other hunters.

If you were superstitious, you would deem the wound too similar to Katsuki’s to be anything but fate, but you do not believe in such things. Instead, you put your trust in the strength of good steel and the sharpness of a tongue. Yes, you know what to do, and you will do it.

The chain fixed around your wrist is not broken, but it does not have to be. You are free to do what you wish, because before you is the captain, and he is leverage. There is no fear left in you, no shame to hold you back as you look up at the first mate; he opens his mouth, about to ask why you do not jump to heal his captain, but he pauses when he takes in your cold smile.

“Free the merman, and then I will heal him.”

A silence falls. They are left with no other choice but to do as you say, and they know it. The first mate’s hands ball into fists, a reminder to you of what will come once Katsuki is let go and you heal their captain, but it does not concern you any more. None of it is of concern to you, only his freedom.

“What the fuck did you just say, witch?” Katsuki spits.

His voice jolts the first mate into action. He heaves you to your feet by the front of your shirt, seething, and punches you squarely in the nose. Something cracks. Your head snaps back, the air knocked from your lungs when he drives his knee into your stomach and lets you crumple to the floor by his feet. Gritting your teeth, you glower up at him.

“Come at me all you like,” you hiss as blood pours down your face. “It will not save your captain.”

He crouches down before you. You do not listen as he shouts at you, because you see it in his eyes. He knows you have them all backed into a corner, he knows you’re aware he will not risk the captain’s life. Over his shoulder, Katsuki urgently mouths something to you: do you know what they will do to you because of this? They will do worse than just kill you!

“Let them,” you reply, and as you gaze at him, you smile again. To the first mate, you say: “Bring me up on deck. I want to see.”

The first mate hurls you away from him, barking orders at the other hunters, but all you hear is the crash of the waves outside and all you taste is the nectar of victory on your tongue. You watch, still smiling, as they grab Katsuki and drag him from the tub. He fights, of course he does, screaming your name and slashing at the hunters, but there is but one of him, and he is unarmed.

Cursing, the first mate unfastens your chain from the ring in the wall, wrapping the length of it around his hand and jerking you forward with it, pulling you to follow him through the ship. There is murder written on his face and in the curl of his lip, and you let it slide it off you like water from a sea bird's feathers.

He throws open the hatch, and for the first time in years, you see the sun. Slowly, you step into the light, and the salty breeze tugs playfully at your clothes and hair, fresh and briney and strong, pulling tears from your eyes. All around you is empty space, just blue sea and blue sky and the wind that dances gloriously between them as far as you can see.

The air is invigorating and crisp in your lungs. Hesitantly, you take a step forward, then another and another, seeing the way the sun plays on the water’s surface, scintillating as it warms your cold skin. It is as resplendent as you remember it.

“Witch!” Katsuki cries, shaking the hunters’ hands off him. “Why? Why would you do this to yourself?”

There are countless ways you could answer him. Instead, you take him in one last time, his spiky ash blonde hair and his crimson eyes and the way his scales glitter under the sunlight. You do this for love: if you can’t give him your heart, you will give him his freedom.

“Go,” is all you say, and though tears stream down your face, you smile.

“I will not forget you, witch,” he replies, voice thick. “I swear it.”

Running to the side of the ship, you cling to the taffrail and lean forwards to watch as he dives overboard. He slices through the water, the amber of his tail bright as he goes, further from you with each passing second, and your breath catches in your throat - he is more beautiful than you imagined he would be in the light.

As he crests a wave, he looks back at you, and you see the shimmer of his scales and the graceful arc of his dorsal fin one last time before he twirls in the surf and dives. With that, he is gone, and you are alone again, yet you do not fear what is to come.

A hand grips your shoulder, nails digging sharply into your skin. “Enjoy your peace, you thankless bitch, because once you heal the captain, all you’re going to know is pain.”

You turn to the first mate and laugh in his face.

He loves you.

Bakugou Katsuki fucking loves you.

He loves your deft hands, careful despite their calluses and nimble despite the chain around your wrist. He loves the smell of you, herby and laced with petrichor. He loves the brightness dancing in your eyes when you laugh. Most of all, he loves your sweet soul: the fierceness woven into it like second nature, the blaze of your heart when you stand up for what you believe in.

He was stupid for pulling away from that kiss. You had fit your lips to his, and suddenly panic rose in his chest, and he jerked backwards as if ignoring his heart would silence it; he was scared to love another human, scared because last time it led to pain. His fear had hurt you, and this is his regret - that he was the one to cause the slow dimming of the light in your eyes.

There are countless other things he regrets. He should have trusted more easily, he should have fought harder as they yanked him out of that silly tub and away from you, and he should never have left you by yourself on that ship with those despicable hunters.

He didn’t tell you he loved you, and now he is scared he will never get the chance.

He has left you in a den of beasts. Deku would never have let this happen if it was Katsuki in danger. Deku would have found a way to get him out. In fact, Deku did, he saved him instead of himself, and now Deku is gone, and he fears his heart is not strong enough to lose another. He does not want to lose another.

That serene little smile on your face as you watched him go - it haunts him, fucking burns itself into his retinas, because you knew. You knew precisely what you were doing, when you bargained with that hunter’s life, and you knew exactly what they were going to do to you for making them let him go.

You must be hurting right now. You must have been beaten within an inch of your life. You, who broke down the walls he rebuilt, brick by brick, after Deku was gone - the same walls that Deku himself tore down too. Katsuki is beginning to think that their foundation has always been flawed, or maybe they crumbled like Jericho simply because you shine brighter than the sun on the waves, and he could not look away if he wanted to.

He has been tailing the ship for little over a day. Keeping out of sight and in the shadows is easy; he has felt the sting of their harpoons enough and he will not risk an injury when getting you away from them is the priority, yet he can’t help but resent the way he must hide. There is no other way, though. Currently, he has no plan, and he must bide his time.

Katsuki was never the most patient, but he has no choice but to be patient since he has no sword and no allies. It is plausible that he could scuttle the ship by himself, but he can’t risk it with you chained inside and possibly unconscious.

But then he sees it - a shape in the distance.

It is an isle, small enough that it could sustain maybe one hamlet of people, and rather plain, with rocks that make up a small cliff on one side and a sandy beach dotted with rock pools on the other, a thicket of trees spanning the distance between. One could call it nondescript, but there is nothing nondescript about it to Katsuki.

He has bled out on that golden beach. He has fought to protect his own life and the life of another in the waters near that isle, and he has failed. He has wept on that shore, wept enough to cleanse the blood soaked sand beneath his newly fixed body that held his newly broken heart.

That isle is where Deku washed up, half dead, a decade ago. It is where he watched from afar as this green eyed, freckled human nursed himself back to health, and where he watched from a little closer as he learnt that humans were more than what they are portrayed as in the tales of his pod.

He understood many things on that isle: what love was - the touch of his lips to a man with unruly green curls and an infectious smile, and what betrayal was - when his pod found out and the waters were tinted red because of it.

Just like that, he knows what to do.

Hidden in the underwater caves below the isle is a monster that slumbers until a soul dares to wake it. The humans call it a kraken, but the merfolk leave it unnamed, for it is too great to be reduced to a simple moniker. He has seen it once before, through the haze that descends over one close to death, and felt as its power stymied the lifeblood that poured hot from a wound spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel.

Both he and Deku had lain on the beach after his pod ambushed, both bleeding from fatal wounds. He had been too fucking weak to get to the kraken first, and so Deku had been the one to sacrifice himself and give himself to the monster so Katsuki could live, when it should have been the other way round.

This time, though, he is strong enough.

He remembers slipping back into the ocean with his freshly healed wound so the saltwater of his tears mixed with the sea, unable to understand why Deku would leave him. Now, he understands all too well, and he will not fail to protect the one he loves again.

Summoning the kraken means no going back. After waking it, the summoner is transported into the kraken’s form, and they have a limited time within it before the kraken reaps its payment - the summoner’s soul. It will shatter their spirit and ensure they cannot return to their body.

Katsuki dives down deep, breaking away from the ship and swimming ahead of it to find the gaping mouth of the cave that the kraken slumbers within. He is far down enough that the water is murky, frigid as it weighs heavily on him, the sun a weak pinprick of light suspended somewhere above him that does nothing to pierce the gloom.

The entrance is curtained with seaweed, the cold fronds caressing his skin as he slips past them. Nestled in the darkness, it lies there, slumbering: a behemoth shadow, looming as high as the cavern’s ceiling and filling its width like the berth of a warship docked in a seaside hamlet’s harbour.

As he swims towards it, he realises he has already had his last glimpse of you through his own eyes. The last time he will see you, he will be fighting to keep hold of himself before he loses his soul to the kraken, and then it will just be bottomless darkness until it is summoned again. You might not even know it is him inside the monster.

It doesn’t matter - a lot has ceased to matter to Katsuki. He can no longer deny that he loves you, and with that epiphany comes another: you knew what the hunters would do to you when you bargained for his freedom, and yet you did it anyway, with no fear of the consequences. Now, it is his turn to put his life on the line for you, and though he may lose it, you will be free.

He will never feel the sweet touch of lips again, but that’s alright. He hopes that you will find another to make you happy, another who will make your heart soar and help you forget him. They will be to you what you were to him: a light to scare away the shadows, a star in the night sky to guide you, even if at times, just like him, you believe you do not wish to be guided.

Katsuki pictures your face as he draws near to the kraken.

Its flesh is odd beneath his palm - slippery and uncomfortably cold. Pressing his palm to its skin, he wills it awake, and it obeys him alarmingly fast, an eye as big as his head snapping open and rolling around until it fixates on him. An abyss of a pupil sucks him in, beckoning him forward to a place that will be the last he ever visits.

Though he knows his body remains still, he feels himself fall forward, sucked towards the magnetic emptiness within the kraken as if it aches to be occupied. For a moment, he resists, pure instincts making him struggle against it, but he forces himself to let go. Sensation briefly forsakes him.

When his vision is restored, he finds that he is looking at his body, limp and vacant. Already he can feel a difference in the water, the sharp tang of fear drifting toward him on currents that hadn’t been there before as creatures begin to flee, aware that something ancient has been roused from its sleep.

A tempest is brewing.

Katsuki - or a version of him that no longer is really Katsuki, but instead a wrathful monster caller - cannot see the dark clouds amassing above, but he knows they are scudding across the blue skies to taint the high midday sun, and it is his doing. Cruel winds accumulate in the shadows cast by his thunderhead, and he can hear the sharp snap of canvas and the raised voices of a crew readying their ship for a storm.

Unfurling a tentacle, he curls it around his old body, careful not to crush it, and reaches up high enough to deposit it on the beach. He begins to move the kraken out of the cave, dislodging pebbles that would have been boulders as the bulk of its body manoeuvres through the exit.

In a way, he is disconnected from the body that is his now; there is empty space that he is not large enough to occupy, like he has donned a garment made for a merman the size of a mountain. It is strangely silent inside this huge vessel, although he is not alone. Shadow wreathed souls lurk in the corners of his mind, and he knows they are disgusted by him.

He is not surprised. Historically, the kraken have been summoned only in the utmost peril. To the merfolk, the kraken are as sacred and as old as the sea, called upon in the wars of old, when the magic beings of the sky were eradicated. Despite being only scattered shards of themselves, the past summoners look down on him, because he does not summon to seek the solution to mighty matters.

For the second time in a lifetime, the kraken is being summoned for a cause as selfish as love.

There’s an awful symmetry to it, really. He imagines the way they must have abhorred Deku, a dying human who did not use the kraken’s power to destroy, but to knit together the wound of a simple, unnoteworthy merman.

Faces contorted beyond recognition flash before his eyes and hands claw at his sides with nails as vicious as knives. They want blood, they want a whole fleet to rip through and ruin. He tells them that they will have to settle with one ship, and they cry their discontent in his ears, their voices rough and rasping, like rusting metal on stone.

He has not broken the surface of the water yet. His body prowls many leagues down, but still, he spots the shadow cast by the ship, and the moment he does, his vision narrows, blurs, and he sees winking lights on board: the lives of the crew, twinkling and tantalising and begging to be snuffed out.

The kraken jets upwards and breaches, spraying up a wall of water, and though he does not command it, he bellows a war cry, the sound so bloodthirsty and wild it almost sweeps him up and incapacitates him. The shadow souls close in, fragments of vengeful souls garbed in shadow, greedy and eager to see him torn apart, and he shakes them off, wrenching himself from their grasp with all his strength.

A twinge pinches at his side, and he glances down to see a volley of harpoons glance off his hide, leaving shallow gashes in their wake. The crew swarm on the deck, their terror sour as he breathes it in and savours it. They are but ants, small and irritating with their measly weapons and made to be crushed and devoured -

He seizes the mast and uses it to rock the ship from side to side, fighting to keep the visions of blood staining the water red away from him. Too fast, his control is slipping, and he feels the souls swarm around him, filling his field of view with darkness until all he can see is those tiny flames that he must put out. There is something he wanted to do, something he needs to do -

Selfish, the souls hiss in his ears, trying to sink their hateful claws into him again, and he agrees with them.

He loves, and therefore he is selfish.

It is no bad thing.

The storm clouds gather over the ship, roiling and rumbling with thunder. Lightning strikes, a bolt of white fury that splinters the deck and extinguishes one of the little lives on board, producing a delighted cackle from the souls at his back, but he ignores them. He knows what he must do.

“Bring me the witch,” he roars.

His voice comes out warped and foreign, the words of men coming out strange and misshapen on his tongue, but the crew understand enough, scuttling to obey, desperate to believe he may spare them if they give you to him. The grip of the souls tightens, squeezing at his throat - he has spent too long in their presence already, and they nip at the edges of his mind, stealing away parts of him when he isn’t looking.

He realises with a jolt that he does not remember his name any more.

It is fine, though. He will join the souls in their namelessness soon. They are a cacophony in his head, and he can no longer hear anything but them, the burn of their claws threatening to tear him apart and shred him the way they are already torn apart, but he barely cares.

The little gnats bring another up and present it to him. This one shines brighter, suffused with a magic the souls cannot wait to devour, and they encourage him forward - surely he too will enjoy the honeyed taste of this offering? Plucking it off the ship’s deck, he brings it to his eye level, and his shadow companions clamour for him to crush it, but he hesitates.

It looks at him like it knows him. In its weak, tiny voice, it yells something that gets lost in the howl of the winds, but even so, it makes the souls shrink back, receding enough for him to remember that this little thing he holds is important. Important for what, he can’t recall, but it is important all the same.

Kicking its legs, the small being beats its fist on his tentacle, still shouting. He leans closer, wincing as the shadows scratch and tear at his back, trying to draw him away again.

“Katsuki!” You scream.

He jolts. It is you, his little, beloved witch - you are why he is being so selfish, summoning the kraken just to save one life. Peering closer, he notices that you are bruised all over, and suddenly the storm worsens overhead, crackling as bolts of lightning stab down like vindictive knives and the wind tears at the ship full of aghast hunters, tossing it violently among the waves.

Carefully, he places you on the beach, next to a body that used to be his. You scramble towards it, limping, and he turns away, looking back towards the ship and the lights it is infested with that still need to be destroyed. Anger comes easily to him, because these are the ones that have marred you with bruises.

The shadows close in again.

Roaring, he tears at the ship, rending it in two and crushing those that leap overboard, yet the souls are never appeased, never satiated. It feels as if power leaks out the seams of his spirit and if he does not let it go it will destroy him from the inside, but he knows he cannot let go. He needs to hold on, to hold himself together, for something that drifts further and further out of reach -

It is as if he has been tied to the bottom of a sea trench for so long, drowning in darkness, that the surface is just a fanciful thought. He does not remember the sun’s sweet face, nor the sound of your voice as you called out the name he has lost again. They sink their teeth into him, ready to tear him apart.

He struggles. He will not go without a fucking fight, he will not let them have him before he has tried valiantly to swim upwards to the sun, where the shadows will not survive.

But the light is so far from him. It floats away every time he strives to be closer, or maybe there are hands holding him back, ripping him open and tethering him to the blackness. They cling to him, shrieking in his ears, sinking curved claws into him and refusing to let go, ready to reap the kraken’s payment.

He is losing himself.

And then - a hand, gentle, touching his face. Emerald eyes fill his vision, wide and lovely, and suddenly he is able to ignore the souls and their blaring dissonance, the pain in his side fading away into nothing. There is a soul that still remains named here, mixed in with those who have been rent apart by hate.

“Kacchan,” the soul says earnestly. “You must fight it, Kacchan.”

“Deku,�� he sobs, leaning into the soul’s warm palms as he wipes his tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Deku smiles, and Katsuki weeps, because he looks so proud of him, as if he is worth an eternity spent trapped within a kraken alongside shattered souls that only wish for chaos and destruction. He weeps, because here are Deku and Kacchan, back together again, but they cannot stay this way forever.

“I understand,” Deku whispers, and his touch heals Kacchan once more. “I understand you love her. You need to fight, you need to return to her and love her like you want to. I died so you could live, Kacchan. Let go.”

He looks down and sees the way he clutches onto Deku so hard he is white knuckled, while Deku cradles his hands in his scarred ones, softly as if Kacchan is fragile. Trembling, he loosens his grip, and he feels the light draw closer, the sun’s rays warming his face. Something tightens in his chest when he finally allows himself to release Deku, but it hurts in the manner of stitches pulling taut inside him and binding him together again.

One last time, he looks over his shoulder, to where Deku watches as he goes, smiling brightly, shining like he is a star plucked from the night sky. His brilliance holds the shadows back, rendering them powerless. He pays them no mind, though - his viridescent eyes are lit up and fixed only on his Kacchan.

Deku says something, but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the crashing of the waves and the winds of a dying down of a storm. Still, Katsuki knows what he said by the shape of his lips: I love you. Smiling, he takes a final look at him, at those unruly green curls and those sweet eyes and bright smile, and then he turns and is bathed in light.

The kraken sinks again beneath the waves, but Katsuki does not sink with it.

You know it’s impossible, but you sense the moment Katsuki is back in his body. You’ve heard the tales of the kraken, and you know he should have been taken from you, but there he is, present in the weak pulse of his heart beneath your palm and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Shallow cuts have appeared all over his body, remnants of the damage of the hunter’s harpoons.

His eyes are open, but barely, and he blinks slowly, fighting to keep them fixed on you, giving you only glimpses of familiar crimson. There is a strange looseness to his awareness that must come with the recency of doing the impossible, but still he grips your hand desperately, struggling to stay awake long enough to force words out.

“I - I lo - ”

Before he can finish, his voice cracks and he coughs. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to start again, but you smile, tears blurring your vision as you press a finger to his lips and hush him, and thankfully he relaxes under your touch, curling closer to you and seeking shelter in your embrace. Once he is rested, he will have all the time in the world to tell you whatever he likes.

What matters is that he is here. That in itself is beyond even a miracle.

Almost disbelieving, you cradle him to you, pressing your forehead to his as tears you cannot stop spill down your face and mingle with his blood. You are bone tired after repeatedly healing your own cracked ribs and fractured wrists, but you are whole enough for now - you won’t waste your energy on your own bruises while he still hurts.

So you hold him against your chest, sweeping your fingers delicately over the deeper of his cuts to seal them. The sky has cleared, the storm clouds departing as fast as they arrived, and the sea is dipped in ruby by the bleeding sunset. It lacquers the wet sand with the glow of dying embers as the incoming tide smooths over where the storm had churned it up, erasing the mark left on the island as if this afternoon had never happened.

If it were not for Katsuki in your arms, it would be like the kraken never came.

You glance down at him. He seems at peace, though worn and battered, as if he has reconciled something deep within his heart; he has closed his eyes, simply leaning against you with his face pressed into your side, his warm hands tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You cannot help but smile. Because of him, you are free. No chains bind your wrists, no threats limit you in what you decide to do next. You are not sure where you will end up later, but for now you intend to fall asleep beneath the open sky, beside the one you love infinitely more than any life you might have had and even this new life he has fought and bled to give you.

When you drift out of your dreams - just simple, golden things full of a contentment that lingers past waking - the tide is high, the ocean lapping at the sand at your feet. The moon is almost at its highest point in the sky, depositing a residue of silver on everything around you.

Katsuki stirs in your arms, and when you glance down, you are met with the twin beacons of his eyes, luminous in the dark and full, brimming and spilling over with unspoken things that leave a deep ache in your heart. Trembling, he grips your hands, and you lace your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles and stroking his face as the tears begin to flow.

He cries like he is mourning. You wonder what he saw while his soul donned the kraken’s skin, how poignant it must have been to wrench these fitful sobs from him. Cupping his face in your palms, you wipe his tears away, and he clings to you to keep you close while he bares his newly healing heart to you; it is wrapped in the past’s scars. He shows you the rawest parts of him, and you soothe them as best you can with your healing hands.

There is no magic to this cure, though. It is just the love that burns within you, consuming you so entirely it makes you shake. You did not know it was possible to love like this, but the proof weeps in your arms, a merman who summoned the kraken and somehow conquered it so he could make it back to you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, tracing the strong lines of his face with your fingertips.

Curling his arms around you, he hides his face in your neck. “Deku stood with me against the dark inside the kraken,” he replies softly. “He held them back so I could come back to you. I - I thought I had lost him forever, when he summoned the kraken to save me.”

Carefully, he brings your hand to touch the scar stretching down his chest, and you outline its edges, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breathing beneath your fingers. You would be happy to stay like that forever, linked to him by your skin on his and the synchronised beat of your hearts.

“He told me to fight so I could return to you,” Katsuki murmurs. “So I could love you.”

Your breath catches, your voice sticking before any words come out. He is blunt and honest as always, but this time, he is without his walls, without his guard up, open and vulnerable for you to lash out at him if you wished to, but he trusts you will not. Still, you hesitate, your throat constricting.

“I… I didn’t know him, or what he was like, but I know I can’t be him to you,” you falter. “I cannot be Deku, Katsuki.”

You do not expect your voice to come out so small, so timid. Neither do you expect the overwhelming tenderness that fills his eyes - no one has ever looked at you like that, as if they really see the whole of you, the blemishes and shadows on your soul and they love those too.

“I don’t ask you to be like him,” he replies. “No one will ever be like him. No one will ever be like you, either. I love you because you are you, not because you are him.”

“Katsuki,” you breathe, unable to swallow down the tears welling in your eyes.

“You know I can’t give you the life you deserve, either,” he continues, voice thick. “If you tie yourself to me, you tie yourself to the sea too, regardless of if you like it or not.”

Searchingly, you look at him, and it feels for a second that as you meet his eyes, you know the whole ocean, down to its unexplorable depths, down to every grain of sand and every critter it shelters and sustains. In that moment, there is a total, utter understanding within you - you would love him whatever the condition.

“I would tie myself to the most pitiful of the things on this earth if it meant I could love you, Katsuki.”

“I too, witch,” he replies, and a fond little smile pulls at his lips. “I would summon that kraken a thousand times if it meant I could win your heart.”

You laugh, out of pure joy more than anything else, and he laughs too, rolling in the sand so he can prop himself up on his elbows. Flopping over, you adjust yourself so you can rest your head against his stomach, lifting your eyes to watch as he tips his face up to the sky, letting the stars reflect in his gaze, as if he holds the galaxies of the universe in each pupil.

Your fingers find his as you stare up at the moon where it hangs highest in the sky now, full and silver as the stars. A new moon: symbolising fresh starts and new beginnings, or maybe even the waxing of a love that was planted in the darkness of the brig of a ship soaked in blood, nourished by nothing but the weak flame of a lamp and swift hands knitting flesh back together.

A familiar prickle trails coyly down the side of your neck, and the sound of sand whispering against itself reaches your ears as Katsuki shifts beneath you, lightly skimming the high tide’s surf with his tail. You are not ready to leave the easy silence you’ve made yet, so you bask in his presence and his warmth a little longer.

The moon has just begun its descent when you turn to face him. He’s just looking at you, looking and looking and looking as if he can’t get enough. You smile, aware of the fresh edge in his gaze that was not there before, the string binding your soul to his pulling delightfully taut.

“You’re as beautiful as the ocean,” he mumbles, fiddling with a lock of your hair. “More beautiful than the ocean. But in a different way, you’re…”

You grin. “Worse?”

“Worse,” he agrees, smirking, but he looks at you as if you breathed life into his seas. “Much worse.”

Time stops for a moment, and you sit up, bringing your face close to his until your breaths mingle - you cannot help but let his crimson eyes consume you, heart and soul. You linger there for a moment, the air crackling between you, both of you waiting as if to see who will give in and pounce first.

Bringing his hand up, Katsuki lets his fingers slide under your jaw, lifting your chin so you are merely a hair’s breadth away. He fills your senses; you can feel the warmth of his body, the roughness of the calluses on his fingers, the feather-like brush of his breath against your cheek, smell his briney sea scent, hear the swish of sand as he shifts infinitesimally closer. A lethal spark gleams in his eyes, tying you in helpless knots.

You lean forward and claim his lips.

It draws a quiet groan from him, and suddenly you are beneath him in the sand and his hands are all over you, grabbing handfuls of you and shucking the damp material of your shirt up and over your head so he can touch your skin. The way he looks at you, with those stirring embers that tug at something low in your stomach, reduces you to a sailor under the influence of a siren’s song - he is irresistible, he is magnificent.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him ever closer, licking into his mouth as if you might find the god’s nectar hiding beneath his tongue. He nips at your lower lip with those keen canines of his, and you cannot help but buck your hips as the tide swirls around the both of you.

Chuckling, he skims a palm over your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook over his hip. It brings your clothed core right against the length of his hardening cock that has emerged from the slit in his tail; you stifle a moan at the feel of him, grinding agonisingly slowly down on him and sighing as he trails wet kisses and purpling bites down your throat.

Katsuki licks at the spot under your jaw, and this time, at the second graze of his teeth against your skin, your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at it and squeezing another sweet noise from him. You keep your hands threaded through his ash blonde locks as he licks at the valley between your breasts. Meticulously, he marks your plush flesh with the imprints of his teeth, laying his claim on you.

When he reaches your stomach, he mouths at your skin, nipping playfully just over your hip bone before he raises his eyes to meet yours. They are heavy lidded and sultry, and they stir the fire building in your core as he toys lazily with the waistband of your trousers. His fingers are casual as they curl beneath the fabric.

“Let me taste you, witch,” he implores.

“I cannot argue when you look at me like that,” you reply, breathless. “Nor would I, anyways.”

That is all the consent he needs before he is helping you out of your remaining clothes, almost ripping them in his hurry to have you on his tongue. His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass and guiding your legs over his shoulders, and there he pauses. Yearning blazes in his crimson eyes, and then he dips his head and puts his mouth on you.

You gasp his name. Your hands scramble for purchase before you bury them in his hair again, yanking to encourage him further, and he responds by sucking harshly on your clit, making your hips jump and buck into his face. He groans into your heat, and the vibrations of it make you see stars.

Slowly, he pulls back, glancing up at you, and the sight of him is enough to make you moan: his eyes are glazed, fervent, worshipful, and your slick drips down his chin, the moonlight making it seem like liquid diamond. Bewitched by him, you choke out his name, and he smirks and slips two fingers inside you. Your legs begin to shake when he pumps them slowly in and out of you, bending them at the knuckle so he can hit that spot inside you.

The friction enraptures you, mounting in the pit of your stomach and winding up tight, and your thighs close around his head, clenching as Katsuki pushes you closer and closer to the edge. Turning his head, he sucks at your skin, marking you there, too.

You balance on a knife blade’s edge.

Abruptly, he slides his fingers out and your pussy clamps down a second too late; already, you open your mouth to lament it when he bends his head and replaces them with his tongue. Your words dissolve into wretched moans; you grind your hips against his face and lightning spears through you when his nose nudges at your clit.

Pleasure rises within you, a gradual, swelling thing that sneaks up on you in the unhurried nature of his movements. You can feel his smile against your cunt. You can feel the light burn as he grips your flesh, anchoring you to him so you could not pull away and part him from the taste of you even if you wished to.

You cry out his name as you come.

Katsuki nestles you close to his chest as you come down from your high, kissing your face as the aftershocks send shivers down your spine. Tenderness resides in his eyes, right beside a longing that makes you melt into him, weak with ardour as you slip your hand between your sea damp bodies to curl your fingers slyly around his cock.

His lips part as you jerk him, and you cross the small distance between you to bite at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth and swiping your tongue over it as you feel him grow impossibly harder in your palm. Ridges swell down his length, flushed a coruscant orange that blurs down into obsidian at his base.

Tipping your head back, you look him in the eye. “I - I need you inside me, Katsuki.”

The words are clumsy on your tongue. You do not know how to articulate the pressing need to feel him, to not know where you end and he begins, to collide with him right there on the beach of this island that houses a kraken, to get lost in the salt on his skin and the eddy of the sea at your joined hips.

Lowly, he curses, treating you as if you are holy as he spreads your legs and settles between them, gripping the curve of your hip with one hand as he lines himself up. You press your lips against the warm bronze skin of his shoulder, sighing against him, urging him forward, urging him closer, a blissed out sound slipping from you as the ridges of his cock push past your entrance, the stretch nothing short of divine.

At last, he is sheathed fully within you. His hips kiss yours, and he remains there, pulsing hotly within you, the pleasure on his face bordering on pain as your cunt bears down on him, yet still, he will not move. Jaw clenching, he squeezes his eyes shut, and a hoarse groan tears itself from deep in his chest.

Panting, he bows his head, and when he looks up, tears rim his lash line, glittering like individual crystals dipped in the light of the stars. One rolls down his cheek and plops down onto yours, and you raise a hand to caress his face, raking your fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead; he leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm.

Slipping your hand round to cup the nape of his neck, you bring your mouth to his. Delicately, Katsuki kisses you before pulling back to press his lips feather-light to your eyelids - he lingers there, his breath fluttering warmly against your skin, his thumb drawing circles on your cheekbone.

Again, he kisses you, and it is only then that you taste the salt of your own tears on his tongue.

Your soft, raw sob echoes across the beach, and you dig your nails into his wide shoulders, urging him to move. With a gasp, he begins to rock his hips into you, and it breaks you apart. You keen, pushing back into his fluid, achingly unhurried strokes, scrabbling at his back in an attempt to bring him closer, to let him consume your very being.

Right there on the sand, under the moonlight with the seafoam lapping at your sides, he fucks into you, slow and deep, trembling and crying above you, and tenderly, you kiss him again. The roll of his thumb over your clit sends thrills chasing down your spine. He dips his head, burying his face in your neck, and fiercely, you hold him to you.

“Mine,” Katsuki whispers, and his teeth sink into your skin.

Something snaps inside you, and the fire in your gut blazes. Your cunt clenches hard around him, vice like around his cock, and you feel him twitch when your velvety walls clamp down on him, feel his soft exhale and know that he too knows the burn of the inferno in your core.

“Please, Katsuki,” you whine. “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice rasping in your ear, and suddenly you are empty.

Before you can protest, he flips you over, pressing your back into his chest and you reel, momentarily blinded by the night sky stretching high and wide above you. He is solid beneath you, and he knocks the breath from your lungs when he surges up into you.

You can feel all of him. Ruthlessly, Katsuki pounds up into you, as if he is desperate to taste the sea salt on your skin and inhale your scent and never let you go. Your body jerks with each thrust, your voice cracking as you cry out his name, the new heady angle of his cock inside you leaving you writhing, lost in the bliss he wrings from you.

His tail thrashes in the surf as he fucks up into you. You are limp in his arms, trembling all over as your back arches - he squeezes your breasts in one hand while the other settles between your legs, his skilled fingers working over your clit to kindle a mind shattering type of euphoria within you that renders you boneless and speechless, your jaw slack.

Your head falls back on his shoulder, your eyes falling shut as you moan, your pussy constricting tight around him. A hand circles your throat, squeezing lightly, and you mewl, your cunt unashamedly spasming at the feel of his calloused fingers about your neck.

“Let the moon and stars witness how I pleasure you, my love,” he snarls.

Your eyes roll, your toes curl. Somehow, he fucks up into you faster, harder, and his cock hits places that cause your vision to white out, the relentless friction of his ridges on your walls enough to make you sob and claw at the arm he uses to keep you in place. Distantly, you can hear yourself begging him, pleading for him to go harder, deeper, to not stop, to ruin you.

You scream Katsuki’s name as you come for the second time tonight. Uncontrollably, your thighs shake, and your cunt convulses around his cock; you can feel him slowing his thrusts, letting you ride out your high, but despite the overstimulation building in the tautness inside your stomach, you grind against him.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Want - want you to come inside me.”

Your words elicit a groan from him. “Fucking filthy, aren’t you?”

Helplessly, you whimper in response, your pussy fluttering as he hammers up into you. He swears as he comes, spilling hot inside you, the sweet sound he makes muffled when he bites down on your shoulder. Both of you lie there for a moment, catching your breath, before gently, he manoeuvres the two of you so you lie on your sides, careful to keep himself deep in your heat; he is warm against your back.

Katsuki splays a palm over your stomach, holding you close, and you lace your fingers with his, sighing happily as he begins to pepper kisses over your back. You can feel the upwards curve of his lips as he smiles against your skin.

“Are you alright?” He asks, nuzzling the nape of your neck.

“Better than alright,” you confirm.

You remain silent for a while longer, happy just to lie there cocooned in his arms and the quiet wash of the ocean; you can feel the pulse of his heart against your back, steady and comforting. A hushed, steady noise comes from him, a satisfied noise, almost a purr. His cock is beginning to soften inside you, its ridges coming down - you both groan as he slips out, moving so his length is tucked against the curve of your ass.

“How did you know it was me?” He asks suddenly. “When I summoned the kraken.”

You squeeze his hand. “I saw you in its eyes. You know, I couldn’t have missed it if I tried, especially not when you yelled for the hunters to bring me to you. I heard it all the way from below deck.”

He laughs, and you shuffle closer to him, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“I didn’t even know the kraken was a real thing,” you tell him. “I wasn’t scared, though. I knew I’d be safe when I saw it was you.”

Katsuki scoffs. “You’re horrendously sappy, witch.”

You laugh, pushing your ass back against him. “I think you like it, merman.”

Laughing, you roll to and fro in the sand, with you grinding on him as he grips your hips and tries to wrestle you into submission. Eventually, he manages to incapacitate you by holding you tightly against his chest, dipping his head so he can whisper hotly in your ear.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to fuck you again,” he grits out.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you challenge.

Giggling, you wriggle out of his grip and plunge further into the shallows, just catching him muttering something about insatiable and damn witch before he dives in and streaks after you, his dorsal fin cutting through the water. A hand closes around your ankle, and you squeal, flailing as you shake him off.

Clumsily, you take off towards the rock pools, wading through the sea water as fast as you can. You know Katsuki will catch you (you’re not exactly opposed to it - you’re running into the sea rather than out of it, after all). Again, he makes another grab at you, and you romp with him in the waves, grinning as you fend him off by splashing water at him, squirming out of his arms again.

In the end, he grabs you around the waist and traps you against one of the tide pools, the rock rough against your back as he smirks down at you. The sight of him above you is enthralling: droplets run down his chest in rivulets, rolling down the grooves his muscles make, and the moon hangs the sky behind him, crowning him with a halo made of silver. Your mouth waters.

Taking your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he brings his face close to yours. A shiver runs down your spine. His red eyes fill your vision, glowing in the night, hypnotic and burning with craving so devout it borders on veneration.

He smiles. “Caught you.”

Katsuki takes you again, against the rock at your back. Afterwards, you lie there, spent and tangled together in the waning moonlight until you grow hungry again and you straddle him, mesmerised by the sight of him staring up at you, pleasure twisting his features as you ride him. You fuck and make love until the sun begins to rise, and it is only then that the two of you are finally sated.

So there you lie, held in his arms and the sea’s embrace - and inexplicably, you find that you do not regret all the pain you suffered at the hands of the hunters, because if it was not for them, you would never have been in that brig to heal him. Inside you, something blossoms within your soul, young and fresh and beautiful as the new moon, and it spills forth from your lips, a whispered confession pressed to his skin like a kiss.

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Cupping your jaw, he brings his forehead to yours and murmurs your name. “I love you too.”

Katsuki glances down at you, where you are curled into the curve of his side like you were made to fit him, and he feels his failing, tired heart bloom once again. You have healed him in ways that run deeper than just his flesh.

He looks in your eyes, and when he does, the sea looks back.

You are his home.

A/N: by the way guys, afterwards they travel somewhere cool and the reader sets up a lil witchy abode by the sea and the villagers come to her for cures and half of them are lowkey a bit terrified of her mermaid husband but it doesn’t matter because she still gives really good remedies and he hasn’t eaten anyone yet and sometimes she and bakugou go out in their boat and attack hunter ships for funsies

also here's a picture i found off pinterest which i kind of imagine his tail being like except it's a bit more rigid and the dorsal fins are more spiney and longer, also there's more black and less red

taglist: @freakingsparkydreamer @d1orhaz3 @msjaeger @mellasimp14 @eyesforbkg @cottagedumpling @silkdolli @teeesthings @raksstuff

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pa1nrema1ns · 2 months ago

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Master and Apprentice || Sung Jin-woo (Part 1 of 3)

Siren!Jin-woo x Deaf!Omega!reader

A/N - Hello everyone! This fic was inspired by the lovely @forbidden-sunlight's siren!au. We both collaborated on this piece and it serves as a direct sequel to her imagine, so do be sure to check it out first! This story picks up right where her imagine left off.

╰┈➤ Chapter Index

🪸 Prequel by @forbidden-sunlight 🌊 Part 2: Two Intertwining Melodies

Content warnings: 18+ MDNI, mythical creatures au, canon divergent, a/b/o dynamics, afab!reader, suggestive themes, obsessive thoughts, slightly ooc Jin-woo (he's very reverent towards Ashborn), mentions of violence, death, and despair, forbidden romance (humans and sirens are natural enemies), eventual yandere!Jin-woo.

Word Count - 3.6k

Summary - Sung Jin-woo seeks answers about his potential mate from Ashborn in the deepest depths of the abyss.

Dividers by @anitalenia and @firefly-graphics

After what feels like an eternity, Jin-woo comes to an abrupt stop. He wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he couldn’t finish this journey unless he was in the right frame of mind. If he was going to face the sea monarch, Ashborn, then he needed to compose himself. He was his mentor’s prized disciple, after all.

Resolute in his decision, Jin-woo pinches his brow, shuts his eyes, and releases a deep, suffering sigh. He had to stop ruminating over the useless ‘what ifs’ of his current situation and focus on the matter at hand. You emitting pheromones in his presence was proof enough that you were a compatible mate, but this would be meaningless if you were unreceptive to him. It also begs the question, was humanity even capable of consorting with sirens? In search of an answer, he reminisces about the tales of old passed down by generations of his kin, as well as the many speculations made by humans.

No one knew the exact origins of his species. Most humans assumed the progenitors were Persephone’s handmaidens, punished by Demeter after Hades had taken her daughter to the underworld and forced her into becoming his queen. Some stories also claimed that seafoam birthed them, but Jin-woo scoffed at this particularly ridiculous rumor. A scholar had recently published an article on how sirens may actually be the offspring of the river deity Achelous and a divine songstress, citing notations from various mythos on this theory. In truth, reality was far simpler than any of these far-fetched narratives.

There was just no definitive explanation for the existence of sirens. They were not interchangeable with the peaceful denizens of the ocean, known as mermaids and mermen. While all fell under the umbrella of the term ‘merfolk,’ the sirens had a far more hostile and bloodstained relationship with humans.

Since time immemorial, his brethren were viewed as nothing but a scourge upon this world of humanity. Beautiful as a raging typhoon and every bit as devastating, the sirens served as harbingers of doom and destruction for those foolish enough to risk the perilous waters. Their heavenly voices were tantamount to the funeral dirges used to usher the dead into the afterlife. It would be understandable to believe that the sirens were the monsters in this baleful story. However, human nature at its core is fraught with wickedness, and men soon grew wise to the machinations of merfolk.

Odysseus was the first to survive an encounter with sirens. During his voyage to Ithaca, the cunning man had instructed his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, effectively blocking the intoxicating songs that had ended the lives of so many before them. Emboldened by the success of Odysseus’s scheme, other sailors began using this method to conquer the sea and establish trade routes. Within a matter of a couple hundred years, humans not only overcame their fear of sirens, but they also poached them. Huntsmen would capture, torture, and kill Jin-woo’s ancestors simply for crossing paths with them. Worse yet, these scoundrels would often murder merfolk solely to harvest their organs, bones, and scales. They would then use the defiled corpses as ingredients for commodities, medication, and even aphrodisiacs. It was truly grotesque, if not outright barbaric, and more than justified the ire his kind felt towards humanity. While they hunted for the noble sake of survival, men did it for bloodsport and money.

The horrific fates suffered by many of their beloved brothers and sisters particularly infuriated the alphas, with their robust constitutions and natural sense of leadership. With a thirst for vengeance, they began targeting and attacking ships, ports, and even beaches. The alphas considered any place or vehicle that harbored humans as eligible targets. The less temperamental betas remained neutral and avoided the bloodshed, opting to prey upon shoals of fish and other maritime animals instead. Omegas could not join in the hunt, as they were far too precious to lose. They were the most cherished and talented singers amongst the sirens and required around-the-clock protection because of their significant rarity. These were the origins of the current hierarchical structure Jin-woo adhered to.

After recalling the tumultuous history of his people in its entirety, Jin-woo clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. This was so damn frustrating! Rather than granting him an understanding of his attraction, it just proved all the more why it was so illogical.

Defeated, Jin-woo raises his head, opens his eyes, and continues to swim.

Another hour passes before he finds himself at the ingress of Ashborn’s lair. His enigmatic teacher lived in almost complete obscurity. Devoid of any light, and enveloped by a suffocating aura, this nautical cavern intimidated all who dared to approach it. Well, almost all that is apart from Jin-woo. He effortlessly permeates the invisible barrier designed to keep intruders at bay and ventures into his master’s spiritual domain.

Despite being an ancient and powerful king of the sea, Ashborn made the strange decision to emulate a land-like environment in his personal chambers.

As Jin-woo manifests into the realm, his appearance gives way to a form more befitting of a land dweller. His tail separates into two legs, his scales smoothen into skin, and he loses the winged fins on his ears and back. Once finished with this metamorphosis, Jin-woo takes a deep breath. Fresh pine, grass, and flowers perfume the air as he’s greeted by a lush valley. It had been a while since he had visited, and the setting had required him to transform into a human. Interestingly, transfiguration was one of the first skills Ashborn taught him. Speaking of his mentor –

“My disciple, it is good to see you again, though you appear…troubled. Tell me, what ails you so?” A rumbling voice rings across the horizon, signaling Ashborn’s approach; the tenebrous essence of the powerful deity contrasting with the greenery of the land. He appears in front of Jin-woo as a great dark knight. Much like his surroundings, Ashborn’s current visage was nothing but an illusion. Even the bravest of warriors said that his lifelike image invoked sheer terror in their hearts.

Many speculate he possesses a massive stature, at least several leagues in height and breadth alone, with piercing eyes and endless tendrils of dark hair. Others claim he is the son of Poseidon, one of the twelve Olympians, and a God of destruction who presided over the sea. However, Jin-woo never once witnessed this side of his teacher in all the years he’s been under his mentorship. Ashborn certainly exuded dignity, but he still displayed a humble attitude. And without fail, he would always appear in that strange, armored suit whenever he was in Jin-woo’s presence.

“My teacher, I must ask for your help on an urgent matter,” Jin-woo starts, anxiously running his tongue across his bottom lip. “This morning, while I was scavenging, I stumbled across the unmistakable aroma of an unmarked omega. It…it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. As if I was being beckoned by someone or something. I wanted, no, I needed to heed its call.”

Ashborn listens in silence, his expression indiscernible. Jin-woo continued.

“When I arrived, I was in front of a monstrosity of a ship – a yacht right by the sandbanks. At first, I assumed that someone had taken an unfortunate siren captive. But when I finally saw her–”

“You recognized she was human. Not only that, but she belongs to the lowest level of the hierarchy, an omega. Speak if I am wrong, my dear pupil.” Jin-woo lowers his head in shame, fringe obscuring his eyes. This action all but confirms it.

“I don’t know what to do or how to proceed, teacher. Everything I’ve learned about these creatures has made me detest them. But I can’t bring myself to hate her. How could this even be possible? We are not even of the same species. She’s my enemy, my prey…. At least, she’s supposed to be.” His voice lowers into a near whisper as he ends his confused rambling.

“And yet you don’t view her that way, do you child?” Ashborn poses a question he already knows the answer to but needs to hear in his pupil’s own words.

“No, I don’t,” Jin-woo replies grimly. “I yearn to know more about her. And not just that. I want to meet her, court her, and make her mine. If she’ll even have me, that is… So please, teacher, tell me if there is any meaning behind what I feel. Am I destined for something that bears no place in reality?”

Ashborn remains uncharacteristically quiet while faced with such a loaded question. All is eerily silent for a few moments, save for the cheerful chirping of the illusionary songbirds. At last, the monarch gazes at Jin-woo and gives him the answer he so desperately desires.

“It is entirely possible Sung Jin-woo, alpha of Jindo island, for I am proof of such a fantastical circumstance. My first and only love was also a human omega. A woman I devoted my entire being to over a millennium ago.”

Jin-woo’s eyes widened in shock at this revelation. His mentor had fallen in love at some point, and it was with a member of the human race? This was unheard of.

“I never knew you had a lover,” Jin-woo murmurs softly. “What was she like? Do you still remember everything about her after so many years?”

“Let me show you, my disciple. It is a tragic tale that words alone cannot properly convey.” With a wave of Ashborn’s hand, their surroundings began to morph and alter. The valley transforms into a spacious, yet quaint medieval village composed of several wooden houses with a bustling marketplace at its center.

When Jin-woo regains his bearings, he notices his mentor has also metamorphosized. A man with a sun kissed complexion, long dark hair, and a beard stands where he once stood. Though visibly unrecognizable, he was unmistakably Ashborn. A crimson cape was clasped to the pristine silver armor he wore. A paladin. Jin-woo recalls. He had some knowledge of the past lives of men through his rare excursions onto the Mainland. While disguised as a human, Jin-woo once traded in his goods for a textbook on history. He was loath to admit just how intriguing he had found it.

Ashborn speaks, his voice no longer resonating within the confines of shadowy steel.

“It was here in this village that I came across her. She was the only daughter of a peasant farmer. A strong-willed, rapscallion of a woman with a wit sharper than any blade. I can remember her beauty, her warmth, and her tenacity as clear and concise as the day we met.” He says with a wistful gaze. The scene then shifts to a woman in a pure white gown. Her eyes remained hidden, but it did nothing to impede upon her loveliness. The woman runs animatedly towards a man who looks identical to Ashborn’s borrowed likeness and leaps into his arms. The man then effortlessly spins her around before bringing her into a kiss. Jin-woo watches on, mesmerized by what was unfolding in front of him.

“I feared her rejection once she knew the truth of my identity,” Ashborn admits. “On the night we first made love, I finally revealed to her my status as ruler of the sea. However, it did not matter. She loved me wholly and unconditionally, regardless of who or what I was. Such was the strength of her resolve.” In the next instance, they return to the same valley from earlier. What differs this time is that the man and woman are there, unacknowledging of Jin-woo and Ashborn’s presence. Lost in their own special world. The woman has a flower crown on her head, and she sits on the grass, holding the man’s head in her lap. Both appear happy and at ease.

“For the first time in my existence, I experienced true contentment. I long to return to those days, but alas, our bliss did not last.”

Ashborn solemnly shuts his eyes as darkness overtakes the sky and rain falls. The man is now shown standing at a grave with an expression of anguish marring his face. The woman is nowhere to be seen, although Jin-woo knows exactly where she’s at.

“A plague was scourging the land and indiscriminately ending the lives of thousands. I tried to protect her with my magic, but it was to no avail. She fell gravely ill despite my best efforts. I discovered shortly thereafter that omegas were more susceptible to sickness than their contemporaries. If I had known beforehand, I would’ve brought her to the sea with me, away from that damned disease. But I was a fool who was willing to love and live with her as a man, not as a king. And as punishment for my hubris, an ailment snuffed out her life.”

At the end of his recollection, Ashborn’s lair returns to its original state. His mentor had also regained his shadowy exterior. The valley appears completely untouched by time, as if it were still one thousand years in the past. That’s why his lair looks like this. Jin-woo thinks as he finally recognizes its significance, It was their personal sanctuary. After a few moments of silence, Ashborn speaks.

“Although our circumstances are similar, you still have the privilege of choice. I cannot turn back time, nor can I change the past, but I am grateful. I experienced unspeakable grief, yes, but I also would have never encountered such love, tenderness, and passion had I not taken a chance on my omega. You, my disciple, still have free rein over your decision. Should you choose to pursue this woman, you have my blessing and irrefutable proof that she is a viable mate for you. If not, you will still receive my unwavering support in your future endeavors. The choice is yours to make.”

Jin-woo’s throat bobs. He feels an incredible sense of guilt at unearthing his master’s secret.

“My teacher, I apologize for prying into your past. I – I did not mean to bring up painful memories for you. I cannot imagine what you have endured. As of right now, I am not sure what it is I want, but I know for a fact I cannot give up on this human. I will need some time to contemplate and sort out my feelings. If you will excuse me.”

Jin-woo bows his head before turning to take his leave. As he approaches the exit, a sudden thought emerges at the forefront of his mind.

“Teacher, there is one more question I must ask. This human, she does not speak with words. She communicates with her hands and gestures. Is this some type of sorcery or spell that she’s casting?”

“It is most likely sign language, a manner of non-verbal communication used by humans who are unable to vocalize or hear. Perhaps she cannot speak, or has a hearing impairment, so she must express herself through other means.” Ashborn answers, curiosity lacing his voice.

Jin-woo feels his heart sinking. A siren’s serenade played a pivotal role in the mating ritual and was performed just prior to consummating an eternal bond. If what Ashborn said is true, then there is a possibility you could be immune to his song. This meant he wouldn't be able to use it on you when the time came…

He grits his teeth as he remembers your smiling face. Try as he might, Jin-woo just could not get you out of his head, nor was he willing to let you escape his grasp. You may not have realized it yet, but you had unknowingly sunk your fangs into him and the seeds of obsession were already beginning to take root. Rather than being discouraged by Ashborn’s observation, he instead finds himself reinvigorated.

“Teacher, disregard everything I said earlier. I now know what it is I must do.”

Ashborn peers into the eyes of his disciple, relieved by the determination that lights them. This was much more like the obstinate young man he knew.

“I choose to seek this omega and stake my claim, no matter what challenges may await the two of us,” Jin-woo proclaims proudly. “I will make her mine, but only if she consents to my proposal. And if not through song, then through other courtship methods. I am strong, stronger than any other alpha in my territory, and I know I can protect her from all who would wish her harm. I won’t let my mate slip through my fingers.”

“But what of maladies and the passage of time? You can fight against gods and monsters until the end of your days, but sickness or her ephemeral lifespan will not spare this young woman. In the end, your time with her shall be fleeting.” Ashborn ruthlessly counters Jin-woo’s declaration of protection.

Jin-woo bites his lip, not expecting this development. However, before he can muster a response, his mentor graces him with an answer.

“I know of one way you can overcome this. There is a recipe for an elixir known as the Holy Water of Life. It is a miraculous potion that can imbue invulnerability to communicable diseases, extend lifespan, and transform the consumer into a siren. I unfortunately did not have knowledge of such a panacea while I was with my love. Of course, I live with the regret of not discovering it sooner, as now I have no such use for it, but this does not mean I will idly stand by and let history repeat itself with my protégé.”

With a flash of light, an ancient scroll appears in front of Jin-woo. It unravels by itself to reveal its contents to him. Jin-woo’s eyes widen as he reads. Is this…?

“Behold. The ingredients for crafting the Holy Water of Life. I bequeath this boon unto you, my disciple. However, heed my warning as the acquisition of these components requires you to conquer all 100 floors of the Demon’s Castle and to defeat its king, Baran. This is a treacherous dungeon that may claim your life if you are unprepared for it, but it can also impart you with unspeakable power should you prevail.”

Jin-woo perks up at this information, his interest now fully piqued. “Tell me, master, where can I find the Demon’s Castle?”

“It hides far away, in the city of Seoul, within an incorporeal dominion. It is a flame-ridden landscape that will require you to assume the form of a human to enter the castle. Knowing all the risks it entails; do you still accept my offer?”

“I do,” Jinwoo confidently states.

“Very well,” Ashborn nods his assent, and a key materializes into Jin-woo’s palm.

“Use this key to open the gate to the Demon’s Castle. I have also implanted it with the coordinates to the dungeon’s location. You need only close your eyes and grasp onto the key to visualize it.”

Following the instructions, Jin-woo sees a map that details the exact distance from his current whereabouts to the metropolitan area of Seoul. It will be a lengthy trip, even with his impressive swimming prowess. He estimates it will take roughly half a day to arrive at his destination. Undeterred, Jin-woo presses onward.

“Teacher, I cannot thank you enough for all your help and guidance over these last few years. I give you my word; I will return alive and well, both with the elixir and Baran’s head. And then I will meet with the omega and court her in earnest.”

He departs without another word, although his promise relays an unspoken farewell between them. After some time passes, Ashborn stares at the vast skies of his domain and muses to himself.

“You have grown so much from when I rescued you from the Cartenon Temple all those years ago, Sung Jin-woo. I could not be prouder of you, my disciple. Till our next encounter.”

12 hours later...

Jin-woo finally emerges from the dark, briny waters that frame Seoul’s coastline.

After leaving Ashborn’s lair, he briefly returned home to pack and prepare for the journey ahead. Both Jin-ah and his mother were worried about his sudden departure, so he did the best he could to assuage their fears by giving them a sanitized version of the truth.

Jin-woo claimed Ashborn had provided him with a list of rare ingredients that were only available for purchase in the human markets at Seoul. He even promised to bring back a box of chocolates as a souvenir, something his mother and little sister had enjoyed during one of his return trips to the surface. He then traveled the full 413-kilometer distance from Jindo-gun to Seoul, stopping only for a few hours to rest and recuperate.

As he approaches land, he assumes the form of a naked human man and walks inland from the sea. However, Jin-woo comes to a halt when he becomes more aware of his current state of nudity. While it didn’t bother him, it would cause a lot of unnecessary trouble if any nosy beachgoers happened upon him and asked questions. It is also…pretty embarrassing to admit that he is…wobbly on these legs. Very much so.

He quickly summons his magical inventory and grabs a simple black t-shirt, boxers, fitted jeans, and athletic sneakers (‘Adidas’, the portly sales attendant had called them). As worthless as he found human decorum to be, Jin-woo needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible while he was in disguise. Once dressed, he strolled into the city. After 45 minutes, he found himself at the designated street junction on the map. Taking a deep breath, he brings forth the key, turns it, and unlocks the gate.

⚓︎ To be continued...

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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell.

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you.

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself.

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out.

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you.

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin.

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls.

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me!

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise.

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies.

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

“I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress.

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight.

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring.

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water. You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips.

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip.

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone.

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all.

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement.

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release.

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt.

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are. He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly, shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you. You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab.

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation.

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm.

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure. “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

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circeyoru · 4 months ago

Text

The Only Reason

[Yandere!Sung Jinwoo x Worker!Reader]

Note: I have no idea what to call this AU, but I don't think a lot of people will read this so... Haha~ Mental AU? Chaos AU?

Update! This AU is called Mana Chaos AU! Plus there's Part 2 up!!

Part 1 (here) 一 Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4

Once, the world’s strongest Hunters were revered as humanity’s saviours and heroes for the weak and ordinary. They were once treated like celebrities and hold the highest power and authority. They were respected, praised, and idolized. They still were, now, with a hint of fear.

It all happened due to the infamous incident now dubbed as <The Outrage Incident>. It happened like any other day, in any other country, in any other city. But to only that one strong Hunter. He was an S-Rank Mage, a successful and loved one at that. The story goes like this.

One day, this powerful Hunter was out on the street enjoying a day off, but something set him off and he used his powerful ability to set things right. It would have been the end of it since an S-Rank’s threat was enough to make the majority crumble. However, his power got out of control and caused an outrage to his being. He was using his powers in public and there was no dungeon outbreak or monsters nearby for him. No amount of justification could calm the public.

After that one incident, other countries’ S-Rank or higher started to experience a similar issue. The worst case was that even Healers of their level didn’t escape such a phenomenon. Soon, the public feared the strong protectors they once saw as shields and swords against the gates.

Researchers and scientists were put to work quickly to investigate why and how this issue was happening now. The answer was in the overflowing mana levels within their bodies that couldn’t be contained since the human body was weak and frail for such a change. Addition to that, it correlated to the Hunter’s emotional level and their control. Institutions were built to imprison house the S-Ranks while monitoring their situation.

Whenever an S-Rank’s mana levels and emotions show signs of <Outrage>, a term they now use to describe the Hunter going haywire with their powers on everything and anything around them, they will be sent to a dungeon alone. In the people’s eyes, it was better for that one Hunter to die in battle than kill innocents. Because at first, it was only the S-Ranks, but then some A-Ranks would fall victim to <Outrage> as well.

The professionals have named the correlation as Emotional Mana, EM for short, which made way for the Emotional Mana Institution, EMI for strong Hunters. The Hunters were treated like mental patients or worse, forced into a straitjacket and some had a muzzle for certain Hunters. These were specially designed and created items that limit and restricts a Hunter’s use of their powers and abilities.

It was a miracle that someone managed to create such equipment. That someone was also targetted by the S-Ranks after being announced and killed for such a disrespectful act, still the blueprints and prototypes were created and other talents that took over were able to finalize the perfect form.

“Personnel 002, you were specifically requested by SM-10.”

You looked up from your laptop and paused in your rapid typing for just a few second before you looked back to your screen and continued typing. That code name was to protect you and everyone else that worked in EMI or have some form of connection to it, so that no innocent is sacrificed for the greater good. Still, you can’t get used to it nor do you want to. “I’m busy.”

“Please… SM-10 is way too picky with the people that enters his cell.” This person, Supervisor 843, was one of the newest employee to join the crew. Though, unlike the name of the duty, they were people that were disposable hence the frequent newcomers and high number. “Please help me.”

You sighed and glared up at the person who had a mask over their head and a voice changer to mask their identity. Though, with the way they were speaking, you could deduce this person was a ‘she’. You got up and snatched the file extended to you. Just when you thought you could rest and work in peace, trouble comes knocking on your door. “Get me a drink and some refreshment, I want to see it on my desk by the time I’m back.”

“Yes? Yes!” Supervisor 843 bowed and clapped her hands together, “I’ll do so!”

As swiftly and automatically, you made your way through the hallways and doorways, tapping your access card to unlock needed doors and lifts for your travel. On the way, other Supervisors nodded their heads and bowed in your presence when you walked by. Unlike them who wear a uniform, you only have a lab coat over your usual outfits. You don’t even have a mask or voice changer.

Why?

You stood in front of the door that was labelled in bold ‘SM-10’, meaning the 10th S-Rank in Korea that belonged to the Mage class. The guard dressed in black from head to toe nodded their heads at you before they started unlocking the various security checkpoints and locks for you to enter into a battlefield in its own right.

“Will one hour be enough, Personnel 002?” One of the guards asked.

“Not sure, just be alert in case I need to rush out.” You spoke stoically with indifference.

Step by step, you walked in, announcing loudly of your arrival to the individual inside. The doors closed behind you and locked you inside with what everyone feared. You sighed and put away your glasses since there was no need for it right now. The room was eerily silent and cold, something you were long used to.

You took a few more steps, walking deeper into the room where it seemed to get darker and darker even though the lights in all housed Hunters would be on 24/7 to monitor their actions and activities within the room.

Just when your vision failed you to the point where you can’t see what was in front of you, you were enveloped in a pair of strong arms, your entire form effortlessly pulled back till your back was pressed against a firm wall of muscle one would call chest and abs. Hair tickled one side of your cheek and neck, you felt a breath cooed before a deep voice rang in your ear, “I’ve been waiting for my favourite Personnel~”

It wasn’t at all odd that your name was called as well, if it was someone like him, he’d know everything there was to know. In fact, everyone should be worshipping him right now for his controlled and well-mannered behaviour. Especially when he could have destroyed this entire facility and killed everyone in it within seconds if he so wished.

“Jinwoo. I need to work, don’t bully the newcomers.” You sighed while looking to the side as if making eye contact with him.

“I like it when you call me by name and not some code, thanks for that.” Jinwoo hummed as he played with your fingers. “I guess I’ll think about it. It’s a bit bored here, you understand.”

“You removed your straitjacket again.” You let him fiddle with your fingers as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “You’ll get caught one of these days and then it’ll be game over.”

“Igris helped me remove it. You know how they are with seeing me constrained and imprisoned here.” He chuckled and leaned back, but it turned out he was just taking a seat, presumably on his bed since you still couldn’t see anything in the darkness. “Don’t worry, I’ve made sure no one could see me free and they didn’t kill anyone. Yet.”

Every Hunter that was admitted into the EMI was evaluated and thoroughly investigated to create the perfect profile for reference. All their fighting style, powers and abilities, weapons of choice, gear type, and any other detail was accounted down. It was all for people to be prepared in case one would have an <Outrage> and they were needed to be countered by weaker Hunters.

For Jinwoo, however, his profile was lacking to put it in the best terms. His mana levels were unmeasureable, yes, so he was placed as an S-Rank. Though, his powers and abilities were unknown. Since he was a Reawakened Hunter, most would assume he was the same class as he was as an E-Rank; a Fighter Class. But he exhibit <Telekinese> and <Shadow Manipulation> so he was placed as into Mage class.

That wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg.

You saw through his innocence and lie, uncovering his true powers and abilities. To be honest, even if you told your higher-ups of Jinwoo’s secrets, there was nothing they could do to counter it. Jinwoo was a league of his own and only you knew it. He was no mere S-Rank, he was definitely a National Level Hunter.

Ah, yes. The question as to why you don’t wear a mask or bother having done anything to hide your identity. It was not because you’ve been in one of the people who has been in service of EMI for the longest time or wanted something as shallow as respect from the newcomers or other coworkers. It was completely because you knew it was useless to hide when someone like Sung Jinwoo had his eyes on you.

“I’ll try and arrange a dungeon for you to raid.” You marked down on your phone while Jinwoo continued to treat you like a teddy bear.

“You have to join though. If you don’t…” Jinwoo’s voice went deeper as glowing eyes stared at you from the shadows, “I don’t know what I’ll do to get your attention…”

You nodded, pushing down the urge to flinch or jerk away from him. It was normal, something you expected but still unnerving to hear with your own ear from his lips. You swear this place made the Hunters mad in the head, it was a place that made them sick and mentally ill, it wasn’t actually helping them at all. “Yeah, of course. I’m sure everyone will be relieved to hear it.”

Jinwoo smirked as his arms tightened around you, his face buried between your neck and shoulder. “You’re the only reason I stay here. Remember that. If you leave here… Leave me… I’ll do what Thomas Andre did to America.”

Note: I can't help it, it was supposed to upload the requested ones first, but then this idea hit me like a truck (without the isekai part), so now here it is. There are like 2 requested stories written and ready to be posted, but I'm double checking and stuff. Hope you like this AU/idea.

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

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#Circe's Nighty Writings #Solo Leveling #Only I Can Level Up #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #jinwoo #The Only Reason #yandere sung Jin woo #yandere sung jinwoo #yandere jinwoo #Yandere sung jinwoo x reader #yandere sung jin woo x reader #Mana Chaos AU

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blueberrypancakesworld · 1 month ago

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Hiii! Could you write a one shot with both Caracalla and Geta? The idea is that the reader is their favorite concubine (or legit their wife idk if that's how it works lmfaooo) but she's a witch? Like she's an oracle or something, they keep her around because she brings them luck and what not (they also kinda love her but they're both insane so...)

No worries if you don't want to write this!

The oracle of the emperors

Geta/Caracalla x witch!reader

warning : hurt/comfort, power inequality, kissing, mention of smut (light smutish), family issues

Summary : In times of war, one had to resort to everything, be it rationing, ambushes, burning or fetching the walking omniscient shadow from the alleys of Rome. An oracle surrounded the two emperors and was so much more to them than just a surrogate for the gods.

info : I love the idea, almost an au in Gladiator (maybe more someday) thanks for the request and have fun reading :)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rome was a world city, an empire for decades no for centuries, it would outlast all time. Everything would fall to make way for the glorious holy roman empire and no one would stop it, no country, no army, you just had to keep conquering and conquering.

An idea, a thought, a dream that had burned itself into the minds of the two emperors - they wanted more, had to and needed more. The reign of Geta and Caracalla was to be glorious, but the body cannot bear what the mind dreams of, especially not when its own warlord threatens to withdraw.

You can't keep a man from dying for a lifetime without risking his downfall, a fact that the two also saw...but if the fighting force failed, what could be done to win more easily and quickly?

Gods, oracles and witches, the supernatural, that which could see more than only man could see.

Since the conquests, the oracles had only predicted victories, but why did more and more bases go under, why did the harvests come to an end and why did the emperor's gold seem to dwindle?

Wrong answers were punished with death and the temples remained mostly empty, the only thing that was known to help was the shadow of Rome, the woman who was found before she was even looked for.

Her figure emerged from the streets wrapped in the dark fabric, the rustling of the small bones in her pouch accompanying her as the people looked at her in awe, as much as she was feared she was revered, ,,The sound of water will bring you a poet, just as these bones of death brought me to you...my honorable emperors” she greeted them as she came up the stairs to the palace and saw the golden gods in human form.

Of one she had dreamed his gold would cover the Senate like blood that would not stop flowing and the other she had seen an agonizing spirit that would perish along with all of Rome.

,,You will be placed in our service, no harm shall come to you as long as your words are of use to us,” Geta assured her as he showed her a bedchamber larger than anything she had ever had and still needed some work, for as much as she saw and heard them all, she knew how to interpret the looks in their eyes.

And the looks of the brothers were full of desire.

After a very short time she was surrounded only by the two of them, hardly any other servants or concubines, the campaign was victorious as she had predicted, but her warning also came true.

It only took a full moon for the “poet” to arrive inside the palace and she saw the amused look on Caracalla's face as he grabbed her hand, ,,You predicted it!” he said, and his brother looked at her, a look she took as respect.

When they were with the brothers during the day, she was with Geta, his hand at her side, the human god who wanted to be closer to Olympus through her, ,,You belong to me, here, in the Senate and out there,” he reminded her whenever they took up political matters.

Dark eyes with make-up looked at her whenever she moved the figures on the map, whenever she whispered her proposal to him in the senate and when he drew her to his bedchamber.

Why should she say no? Even a fool would have slept with the most powerful man whose voice was almost as intoxicating as his body, his kiss intense he wanted this power she had, his gold soon adorning her too, gifts in the hope that she would stay with him, touches of lust, he desired her power and beauty until the day she asked the question.

The fire turned bluish and she heard the cry of a monkey asking him, ,,You speak of belonging but this mine, is it none of your brother the Emperor Caracalla's concern?" a question that drove him from her, his face became incredulous and she saw the disbelief in his eyes.

He felt betrayed.

A betrayal she thought he would spear away, but her last prediction that this mine would mean his end must have frightened him, frightened and almost more God-given.

The gifts of gem and gold he made sure she wore, as much as he tried to hold it back she belonged to one god and not two at the same time.

Geta would spend hours in the temples, making people feel at ease and being addressed as a god. it was during these days and weeks that the monkey Dundus would often run up to her and she would see the uncertain look on Caracalla's face.

As much as he was fascinated, he was also afraid of her, ,,Witches are a bad omen...but you helped us,” the younger one said as he ventured into her room and watched, curious about what she was doing there.

Instead of luring him with physical devotion like his brother, she put a motherly smile on her lips, ,,Look even I can make fruit dance” she lured him and he sat down on her chair while she instructed him to close his eyes, she mixed a few simple tinctures and dripped them on the grapes.

A simple reaction of plants, but for Caracalla, who clapped his hands in delight, it was worth almost as much as the whole of Rome, ,,You see, I can't be angry at all, my sweet king,” she murmured to him and hugged him carefully, an embrace he wanted more and more from then on. during the day she belonged to Geta, who soon ignored her warning.

Why listen to a witch when he was a god? The jewelry covered her body, his love visible on her body and at night she took care of the younger one, so much pain and suffering as she held him like a child who would soon take advantage of her when his madness took over, ,,His gold, his jewelry but you're mine, aren't you? I need you alone, not shared,” he ordered, fingers clutching hers helplessly.

A question she answered with a kiss and the game between the two emperors continued to grow daily. The bones in her bowl became more and more when she made new predictions and she went from a god to a delusional one whenever one of them needed her.

Gold and make-up adorned her body and whenever Geta and Caracalla met it seemed as if Rome was on the verge of collapse.

In the midst of this they stood, the most influential authority taking on the two emperors while Rome changed around them, brothers not seeing that the shadow had closed in around them when the first thought had fallen upon them.

She felt at home in the madness of the two and the threads that held everything together, because no one could separate such a love. Yet to everyone else outside the palace she was nothing more than the concubine of the brothers Emperor Geta and Caracalla.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #emperor geta x reader #emperor caracalla x reader #male x female #reader is female

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kingofbodyrolls · 1 month ago

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Moonglade (m) | kth

You’ve always been captivated by the sea—a love as deep and endless as the tides. But when tragedy strikes, that love turns bittersweet, and you find yourself drawn to the very thing that stole a part of your soul. Night after night, you pour your sorrows into the embrace of moonlight and whisper your pain to the stars. Then, one fateful evening, a merman surfaces from the depths—a being of myth and wonder. Will you dare to believe in fairytales and the magic of second chances? In hope, love, and the possibility of forever? Perhaps, he’s here to show you that even in the darkest corners, beauty and light can still thrive.

→ Pairing: taehyung x reader (female) → AUs: mermaid!au, fantasy!au, magical!au → Trope: strangers to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / angst / romance / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 15.4k → Warnings (general) + triggers: mention of an accident at sea (doesn’t happen to reader), technically Tae’s first time with a human, this is again somewhat of a crackfic. → Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex (stay safe!), breast play, fingering, multiple orgasms (yes, it’s very very vanilla). → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: this one takes place before Seokjin’s ‘When it Sinks In’. To be honest, I don’t know what I feel about this one… like I like it, but.. I’m so sorry that the smut turned rather short and ehh…Yeah, I don’t know. I might be too hard on myself. But here it is! And I hope you like it, please let me know 🪸

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a collection of series that are stand-alone one-shots, but all of them are set in the same universe. They are slightly connected though 🤭

Taehyung adores his underwater world—his home, the ancient and wondrous city of Naraeum, nestled deep in the sea beneath the waves. Though Naraeum stretches vast and magnificent, with coral spires and shadowed grottos echoing songs of old, his heart has always been tugged by a strange longing for the world above, the realm of humans. For Taehyung is a curious soul, drawn to the mysterious trinkets cast into the sea from distant shores. He loves nothing more than to seek out these treasures, to hold them in his hands, to wonder at their history, and to dream of what stories they might hold.

Today, he’s joined by Namjoon, his friend and fellow collector, whose fascination lies not in human relics but in the jeweled stones and sea-polished crystals that glimmer beneath the sands. Together, they comb the seabed, weaving through a forest of swaying kelp, their laughter rising like bubbles through the emerald currents. The seafloor is dense and rich with secrets, the sands thick with memories of shipwrecks and forgotten eras.

Suddenly, Taehyung catches a glint—a flash of something golden hidden beneath the silt. With a quick flick of his shimmering tail, he dives down, his fingers sifting eagerly through the cool, coarse sand until they find purchase on the small object. It’s a locket, tarnished and weathered by time, yet beautiful, its surface etched with delicate engravings that seem to whisper stories only the waves remember.

“What did you find?” Namjoon’s voice is soft with wonder as he swims close, his own satchel bulging with crystals and fragments of shells.

“A locket,” Taehyung murmurs, gazing at the relic in awe. Reverently, he loops it around his neck, letting it rest against his chest like a secret that has finally found its keeper.

“Are you just going to wear it like it’s yours? You don’t even know who it belongs to. What if someone’s searching for it?” Namjoon asks, crossing his arms, one brow lifted in mild reproach.

Taehyung huffs, clutching the locket as if it might vanish from his grasp. “I doubt any human misses it,” he mutters, voice carrying a soft defiance. “They’re the ones who cast it to the sea. Besides—finder’s keeper.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes but follows along, his own curiosity piqued, as they drift along the sandy seabed, sweeping their gaze over shells, stones, and hints of hidden treasure. Gradually, their winding path carries them back to the heart of Naraeum, their bustling city, where ancient, towering coral spires glow softly in the filtered light. They spot Seokjin waiting by the marketplace, chatting with a mermaid they don’t recognize.

“Hi, guys!” Seokjin waves as they approach, his face bright with a rare excitement.

Taehyung, always one for meeting new souls, looks curiously at the girl beside Seokjin, though he notices a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the way she clings to his friend as if his presence alone anchors her. “Who’s that?” he asks softly, nodding toward the mermaid, whose gaze flits away, half-hidden by a veil of long hair.

“This is Soo-ah,” Seokjin explains, voice gentle. “I found her wandering near the outer reefs. She seems to have lost her memory—she doesn’t know where she’s from or which Cove she belongs to. I thought it best to bring her here.”

Understanding fills Namjoon’s eyes, while Taehyung’s expression softens with sympathy. He stretches a hand toward her, a warm smile on his lips. “Welcome to Naraeum, Soo-ah. I hope you’ll feel at home here.”

Soo-ah returns his smile, faint but genuine, her fingers brushing his in a tentative greeting before Seokjin nudges her forward, eager to show her the city’s wonders. With a soft laugh, Taehyung watches them go, feeling a flicker of something unplaceable in his chest as they disappear into the crowd.

A few days pass, and Taehyung is thrilled to have roped his friend Jimin into joining him for another treasure hunt. They swim beyond the city’s edge, far into the open sea, until the distant shore is visible, a shadowed line against the water’s surface. Jimin grumbles, claiming they’ve been swimming forever, but Taehyung only grins, his heart thrumming with anticipation. In the depths, beneath the waves, he knows more secrets wait to be uncovered.

“Look! A tiny mirror!” Taehyung squeals with delight as he catches a glint of light reflecting from the seabed, his eyes wide with childlike wonder.

“Big deal. We have mirrors at home, you know,” Jimin replies with a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. But he can’t hide his curiosity as he follows Taehyung deeper into the water, pulled along by his friend’s infectious enthusiasm.

They glide past a sunken shipwreck, its wooden bones stretching toward them like the fingers of an ancient ghost. Diving down, they slip through broken windows, marveling at the corroded cannons and the shadowed halls, their hands skimming over fragments of a life lost long ago. In one darkened cabin, Taehyung spots gleaming jewels and slips them into his bag with reverence, like they’re not just trinkets but pieces of a forgotten story. They pass skeletal remains, likely crew members left here by the merciless pull of the sea, and Taehyung feels a pang in his chest, a whisper of sorrow for those whose journey ended here, swallowed by the depths. But he presses on, the mystery pulling him further, and Jimin trails behind, loyal and watchful.

Eventually, with their search exhausted, they swim back out, drifting toward the distant shoreline, reluctant to head home just yet. The water grows darker, the sun having long ago slipped below the horizon, casting the world in an indigo glow. The stars above are a faint shimmer, barely visible through the shifting waves, and Taehyung knows that night has fully settled over the land.

“Shouldn’t we head back? Aren’t you tired yet?” Jimin mutters, his tone laced with fatigue, though his eyes still follow Taehyung’s every move.

Taehyung turns to him with a grin as wide and bright as a rising moon, his boxy smile full of boundless energy. “Tired? Never,” he laughs, his voice a spark in the endless sea, as he dives toward a narrow, shallow path, leading them further on into the night.

“I’ve never been here before…,” Taehyung whispers as he glides along the narrow, winding path and finally breaches the surface. He blinks, momentarily stunned, as he takes in the world above: towering trees cloaked in emerald leaves, their branches reaching toward the darkening sky. Fireflies drift like tiny stars, casting a gentle glow over the small forest lake, as if the night itself were holding its breath. Everything about this place feels enchanted, suspended between dreams and reality, and he stares in wonder, feeling the stillness settle into his bones. Even the air tastes different here, crisp and earthy, laced with secrets of the forest.

Jimin surfaces behind him, equally mesmerized, his usual playful demeanor replaced by silent awe.

Taehyung opens his mouth to speak, to share his amazement, when a faint sound catches his attention—a low, quivering hum that drifts over the water like a ghostly echo. He tilts his head, straining to hear, and the sound grows clearer, shaping itself into soft, broken sniffling. Realization dawns, a pang of worry blooming in his chest. Someone is crying. The sadness in the sound pulls at him, mysterious and raw, urging him to go closer, to uncover the source of the sorrow.

But before he can move, Jimin’s hand clasps his shoulder firmly, a silent warning in his eyes. “It’s time to go back,” he says, his voice a low murmur that barely breaks the surface of the lake’s hushed silence.

“But… I think someone’s crying!” Taehyung protests, his voice urgent, almost pleading. A tug in his heart urges him forward; he’s certain it’s a human voice, fragile and alone in the shadows. What could a human be doing here, by a hidden lake in the depths of night?

Jimin doesn’t answer. Instead, his grip tightens, pulling Taehyung back toward the water, his gaze steady, unyielding. Though Jimin is shorter and smaller, he’s surprisingly strong when he’s determined, and Taehyung, reluctantly, lets himself be led away. They dive beneath the lake’s surface once more, leaving behind the strange, moonlit forest and the sound of that lonely, haunting cry echoing in Taehyung’s mind all the way home.

Even as the water wraps around him, soft and familiar, Taehyung can’t shake the image of that lake, of the fireflies and the trees like silent guardians. And most of all, he can’t shake the thought of the sad, unseen figure he left behind, and the mystery that still calls to him from above.

Resolute and drawn by a mystery he can’t shake, Taehyung returns to the hidden lake a few nights later, gliding through the darkened sea alone. The moon casts a silvery glow upon the water, guiding him back to the narrow path he discovered before, and he slips through the shadowy reeds, his curiosity mingling with an unspoken caution.

He lifts his head just above the surface, the cool night air prickling his skin as the faint sound of quiet, broken sobs fills his ears. The sound is unmistakable, stirring something deep within him—a sadness so raw it seems to seep into the very air around him. He swims closer, yet stays hidden in the veil of darkness, and then, he sees you.

You sit hunched over on a small island of grass, surrounded by the lake’s gentle embrace. The weeping willows arch overhead, their slender branches draping the earth like curtains drawn to guard this secret moment. Moonlight filters through the leaves, casting delicate patterns across your trembling form. From his hidden vantage, he watches as you bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with each quiet sob. The ache in your cries is almost palpable, as if you are mourning something or someone lost to you, and Taehyung can feel the weight of your sorrow, heavy and consuming.

He longs to comfort you, to reach out and tell you you’re not alone beneath the stars. But he hesitates, recalling the whispered warnings of the elders: merfolk must never reveal themselves to humans. And yet, he can’t pull himself away; something in your sadness binds him here, helpless yet watchful. He stays, his heart aching with each tear that falls from your eyes, his gaze soft and steady as he remains a silent guardian under the moon’s gaze.

The hours pass in this suspended quiet, the lake holding its breath alongside him. He wonders if you might need help, if you’ll fall asleep there, alone and exposed beneath the vast, indifferent sky. It feels wrong, somehow, for you to be here in this vulnerable state, with no one but the stars to witness your sorrow.

Finally, you stir, lifting your sleeve to wipe away your tears, and he sees your face—tired, puffy-eyed, but beautiful in its fragility. With a sigh, you gather your bag and rise to your feet, sniffing softly, unaware of the silent figure who watches from the water. As you walk away, Taehyung sinks lower, letting only his eyes peek above the surface, mesmerized as you vanish into the night, your soft footsteps fading into the shadows.

Even after you’re gone, he lingers, the memory of your sorrow imprinted on his heart like a delicate bruise. He doesn’t yet understand why, but he knows he’ll be back—drawn to this secret, to this mysterious, solitary figure who has turned his world upside down with a single, silent night of tears.

The following night, as darkness settles over the world, Taehyung finds himself returning to the lake. It’s as if an invisible thread pulls him there, some magnetic force in the quiet forest that he can’t resist. He has to know if you’re alright, if you’ll be there again. And you are—still alone, still crying softly into the night, a solitary figure wrapped in sorrow.

He lingers, hidden within the water’s embrace, watching you through a screen of willow branches that sway like ghostly fingers. He wonders what sorrow could be so deep, so relentless, that it brings you back here each night, spilling your heart into the midnight air. Part of him aches, wishing he could understand, that he could share even a fragment of your pain to ease your burden. The night around you is hauntingly beautiful with fireflies drifting like fragments of stardust, casting soft glows, and delicate stars wink down through the sheltering branches. It’s a scene of quiet magic, but he can see that you are lost within yourself, too consumed by sadness to notice the wonder all around you.

Each night he returns, telling himself it’s only to ensure your safety, to make sure you’re not alone in your sorrow. Even though he knows nothing of your life—your name, your story—he feels drawn to you with an intensity he can’t explain, as if he were meant to watch over you, to shield you from some unseen hurt. Though he doesn’t know what shadows he’s protecting you from, he knows he cannot leave you to face them alone.

Night after night, he watches, until he’s lost count of the hours spent in silent vigil. In the quiet depths, he waits and watches, close enough now to see the details of your face, the way the moonlight catches on the tear-streaks, casting an ethereal glow over your delicate features. Even as you cry, he marvels at the beauty within your pain, the vulnerability that makes you shine like a rare treasure hidden in the night.

But his heart grows heavier each time he sees you, crouched and clutching your hands, lost in what seems an endless grief. He can feel the depth of your pain, a sadness that’s woven itself into the fabric of your being, yet he doesn’t know how to help or why you keep coming back to this hidden, enchanted lake.

Though he knows the risks of venturing so close, of revealing himself to a human, he can’t keep himself from returning. And as he watches you once more, he feels the quiet stirrings of a promise within him, a silent vow that he will stay, night after night, until he finds a way to bring you peace—or at least until he’s certain that you’re not alone beneath the stars.

You lift your gaze to the sky, eyes reflecting the silver glow of the moon and the scattered dust of stars. A single tear slips down your cheek, catching the light, and Taehyung aches to reach out, to brush it away with the soft edge of his finger, to bring you comfort, if only for a moment.

But before he can act on the impulse, he feels a stirring in the water beside him. Gently, he swishes his tail, trying to nudge the small creature away. The silence of the night is broken when, suddenly, a sharp nip jolts him from his reverie. He turns to find an irate crab, its claw clamped tightly onto his tail. Biting back a curse, he shakes the little creature free, muttering under his breath as he pulls it loose. But in his flurry of movement, he hears the soft murmur of silence fall over the lake.

The crying has stopped.

All around him, an eerie quiet settles, heavy and expectant.

And then, drifting on the night air, a soft whisper trembles through the silence. “Hello? Who’s there?”

The sound of your voice—fragile, uncertain, sweet with a hint of fear—strikes him still. His heart beats a little faster, and he pauses, debating with himself, caught between a desire to reveal himself and a need to stay hidden. He can sense your apprehension, see the way your form tenses as you look around, seeking the source of the noise in the shadows.

Before he can stop himself, he finds he’s already swimming closer, his curiosity overcoming his caution. His face breaks through the surface right in front of you, moonlight gleaming on his skin and you wide, startled eyes locking with his. The world holds its breath for a beat, until you release a piercing scream that echoes through the forest.

He flinches, shocked, and a nervous laugh bubbles up despite himself. Not quite the reaction he’d hoped for—but at least you’re not crying anymore, right? In that moment, he’s unsure if he’s brought wonder or fear to you, but he knows one thing for certain: the boundary between your worlds has shattered, and there’s no going back.

A scream rips from your lungs, raw and sharp, your hand flying to your heart as if to keep it from leaping out of your chest. But the sound dies in your throat as your eyes lock onto his, wide and brimming with disbelief. He stands there before you, framed by the moonlight, arms raised in a gesture of surrender, his gaze steady and soft, hoping to convey a harmlessness that transcends words.

You squint, brows furrowing as if he’s a puzzle to be solved, a creature from dreams suddenly come to life. In a quiet, almost reverent whisper, you ask, “Are you…a mermaid?”

“A merman,” he corrects with a gentle quip and a smile that flickers like sunlight on water. He slowly lowers his arms as he sees you relax, a tentative curiosity overtaking your fear.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, though there’s still a trace of wariness in your stance. “You’re not here to…hypnotize me and drag me down to the bottom of the sea, are you?” you ask, arms crossing as you take a cautious step back.

He gasps, genuine alarm flashing across his face as he stumbles back a bit himself. “What? No!” he protests, voice pitching higher with surprise. “I’m a merman, not some Siren or Banshee!”

“What are you doing here, then?” you ask, voice edged with a fire he hadn’t expected, a fierceness that makes him certain you could hold your own if he meant any harm. But he doesn’t—and he aches to find the words that will ease the spark of worry in your eyes, to somehow convey that he’s here out of care, not threat.

“I…I’ve been watching you for a couple of weeks,” he begins, his words spilling out in a rambling rush, like a river suddenly freed of its banks. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he adds, and too late, he realizes the impression his words might leave.

Your brow arches, your expression shifting to something between suspicion and shock. He feels his heart drop, an unwelcome warmth rising in his cheeks. “I—I mean, not watching you like that!” he stammers, lifting his hands in a flustered attempt to take back what he’s just said. “I just…saw you out here, and I was worried. You looked so…lost. I only wanted to make sure you were safe.”

A silence stretches between you, broken only by the soft rustle of willow branches and the distant call of a nightbird. He watches your chest rise and fall, sees the guardedness in your gaze slowly soften, the wary lines of your shoulders easing just a little, though you still hold yourself at the ready.

“Alright…” you say slowly, still scrutinizing him with cautious eyes. “Let’s say I believe you. If you were so worried, why didn’t you ever try to…to comfort me?”

The question hangs between you, quiet and unexpected. He blinks, taken aback by the vulnerability in your words. When he speaks, his voice is softer, laced with the sincerity that has been tugging at him all this time. “I didn’t want to frighten you,” he admits, almost whispering. “I thought if I came too close…you’d be scared.”

For a moment, you both stand in that enchanted hush, the forest lake around you holding its breath. You see something in his face then—a tenderness, a yearning as deep as the water itself. And as you meet his gaze, a flicker of understanding passes between you, a fragile connection that neither of you can name, but both can feel.

“But you just did,” you say, the faintest chuckle slipping from your lips—not quite laughter, but something softer, tinged with a warmth he’d only dared to hope for. The sound pulls a smile from him, a quiet thrill sparking in his chest.

“True enough,” he murmurs with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to be sure you were safe. I’m…so sorry for any fear I caused.”

You take a deep, steadying breath, letting the tension slip away as you exhale. “It’s okay,” you reply, your voice gentle as a breeze over the water.

Slowly, you sink back onto the cool, dewy grass, crossing your legs and glancing up at him with wide, searching eyes. “So…merfolk really exist?” The words come out with a hint of disbelief, your gaze taking in his green, shimmering tail with a sense of wonder barely concealed.

“We do,” he replies simply, watching your eyes rove over him, lingering in equal parts curiosity and awe. But as your gaze lands on the glint of gold against his bare chest, your expression shifts—your eyes widening, bright and incredulous, until he nearly laughs at the sight.

“That’s mine!” you gasp, pointing at the golden locket resting between his pectorals, your voice ringing with surprise. His hand moves instinctively to the locket, his fingers brushing its cool, familiar surface as he looks back at you, eyes widening in realization.

“This locket?” he asks, almost reverently, his fingertips grazing the delicate chain as if it were fragile, precious. In that moment, something stirs in him—a connection, a story he doesn’t yet know, that seems to flicker to life between you both.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice softening, as if the very air around you has shifted into something gentler. The tension in your shoulders melts away, and a sense of ease settles over you like a warm embrace.

You rise slowly, your movements graceful as you step closer, and without thinking, you stretch your hand toward the locket. But instead of touching the cool metal, your fingers brush the warm skin of his chest, sending a shiver through both of you. The touch is gentle, fleeting, but it lingers in the space between you, a silent understanding passing in the moment. Your skin is warm, and the contact, soft as a whisper, sends a soft flutter in his chest.

“If you open the locket,” you say, your voice almost a hush, “it’s engraved with a poem. It reads: ‘I am the moon; Queen of Night, a riddle wrapped in borrowed light, a silver spool where dreams unwind, an ancient orb as old as time’.” You recite the words with a quiet reverence, and when you finally realize your hand still rests on his chest, you jerk it back as if burned by fire, your cheeks flushing with sudden heat. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice faltering in the slightest, a quiet apology hanging in the air.

Taehyung, his curiosity piqued, slowly opens the locket, his fingers tracing the delicate engraving you’d shared with him. As he reads the poem aloud in his mind, something stirs deep within him, an unspoken connection to the words. He looks at you with awe, as if the very essence of the poem were now tangled with the mystery of who you are. “A human... actually lost this?” he murmurs, a spark of wonder and disbelief in his eyes.

“How did you lose it?” he asks, his voice gentle but filled with the kind of curiosity that can only come from a heart that’s already begun to care. He carefully slips the locket from his neck and extends it toward you, offering it back with an open hand.

The moment your fingers close around the locket, you freeze, and for a fleeting second, the sadness he’d seen in you before resurfaces, washing over your face like a shadow. It pulls at something in him—something tender, something raw.

Your gaze drops to the grassy earth, and the air between you grows heavy with the silence of unanswered questions. You don’t speak, your lips pressed tight, but the weight of what’s left unsaid hangs in the air, thick and palpable. The sadness is back, clinging to you like a second skin, and Taehyung can’t help but wonder: what lies behind that silence? What is it that haunts you?

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Taehyung says softly, his voice a quiet balm to the growing tension between you. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to soften the weight of the moment. “I found it underwater. I didn’t think anyone would miss it.”

You offer a smile, fragile as the morning mist, barely lifting the corners of your lips. “It was a gift... from my grandmother,” you murmur, your voice dipping with the weight of time and loss. “She passed away many years ago. Thank you... for finding it.”

His heart tightens as he feels the atmosphere shift, like a delicate thread about to snap. The air feels heavier now, laden with unspoken sorrow, and he can’t help but sense the deep ache in your words, in the quiet sorrow that clings to you.

You settle back down onto the damp earth, and Taehyung sinks deeper into the water, the cool embrace of it helping to mask the vulnerability in his heart. He keeps his tail hidden, letting the water lap gently around his arms, his hands resting just at the edge of the shore, fingers brushing the cool grass as if grounding himself to the moment.

Then, your voice breaks the silence, soft but aching. “I lost it at sea…” The words fall from your lips like a whispered confession, each syllable heavy with grief, as though the sea itself had taken not just the locket, but a part of your soul.

Taehyung doesn’t speak right away. He only watches you, his eyes holding you with the quiet understanding of someone who knows that sometimes, silence is the only answer. In that silence, he feels the weight of your loss as if it’s now his to carry too.

“I was out on a yacht with my friends... one of them fell over, and she... she died,” you whisper, the words trembling in the air, and your breath catches, thick with the weight of grief. A sob escapes you, raw and unguarded, as the sorrow that has festered for so long finally surges, breaking free like a tide that’s impossible to hold back.

Taehyung’s heart lurches, and he leans in, his voice a soft, steady echo in the heavy silence. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says, his words wrapped in the deep sorrow he now shares with you, as if your pain has wound itself into his very soul. “You never found her?”

You shake your head, the motion slow, like each rejection of hope pulls you deeper into the abyss of loss. “We just assumed she drowned. But it was our fault... we didn’t even search for her... not long enough…” You pause, your gaze drifting out toward the water, your voice barely a whisper, yet so full of the weight of what’s unsaid. “That’s why I come out here…” The words falter as the tears begin anew. “I don’t know if I hope she’ll... magically appear, or if I just want to be closer to her—closer to the sea.”

The quiet understanding in Taehyung’s eyes deepens, and he nods, silently acknowledging the unspoken grief that binds you to the endless waves.

“But it’s funny,” you continue, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips as you rub your face, trying to quell the storm inside. “I’m afraid of the ocean now.”

His heart aches at the contradiction—how the sea, which once held the promise of freedom, now holds only the echoes of a life lost, a fear that cannot be soothed by the tides. He says nothing, but his gaze speaks volumes, as he shares the silence of your struggle—caught between love and fear, between longing and loss.

He blinks, trying to fathom it—how you, who braved this quiet patch of land in the middle of the lake, could be encircled by the waters that both call to you and haunt you. The vast, endless sea, once a place of freedom, has become something fraught with sorrow.

“I could help you fall in love with the ocean again,” he murmurs, the words slipping out as naturally as the currents beneath him. He doesn’t know why he’s offering, doesn’t fully understand this urge to soothe your fear and restore what’s been taken from you. But he feels it—a pull to guide you back to the sea that you once cherished, to help mend the bond between you and the water.

When he sees your eyes widen with apprehension, he raises his hands gently, adding, “Only if you want to.”

You ease a little, though the uncertainty remains, and in a barely audible whisper, you murmur, “I don’t know... I’m not sure I’m ready yet.”

He nods, understanding the weight of such a decision. “That’s okay,” he says softly. “Honestly, I just don’t want to see you cry anymore.” He offers a gentle smile, one that he hopes brings warmth and a touch of calm, like sunlight filtering through water.

You return the smile, albeit faintly, your expression softening. “Talking to you... it’s helped a lot,” you say, your voice filled with a quiet gratitude.

And in that shared moment, with only the stars and the whispering willows as witness, a fragile peace settles between you.

“But... I think I should get home now,” you murmur, pulling your phone from your bag. Its glow lights your face in the dimness. “It’s gotten really late.”

Taehyung nods, understanding, though a quiet pang tugs at his heart as he imagines this clearing falling silent again once you leave.

Then, to his surprise, you glance back at him, your gaze soft yet hopeful. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

The question catches him off guard; he stares at you, blinking, feeling for a moment like he’s been swept up by a wave. “If... you want me to?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if he’s dared to hope too much.

A hint of color blooms on your cheeks, and you smile, gaze dipping shyly. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like to know more about you... and the merfolk. Maybe you could tell me some stories?”

His own grin spreads wide, an earnest promise shining in his eyes. “Absolutely. I’ll be here tomorrow—I promise.”

You rise, stepping lightly over a shallow stretch of water, your feet skimming the surface with a graceful leap. At the other side, you pause and turn, offering a small, lingering wave. He raises his hand in return, smiling as he watches you slip into the night, your figure fading into the shadows beneath the moonlit trees.

For a while, he simply remains, feeling as if the air is alive with all that was left unspoken, the night sky his only witness. And even as you vanish into the distance, Taehyung remains rooted, heart swelling with the promise of a tomorrow colored by your presence.

Thoughts of the brown-haired merman with the shimmering green tail have drifted through your mind since yesterday, haunting you like a half-remembered dream. It suddenly dawns on you that you don’t even know his name, and yet the memory of him fills your chest with a quiet, unshakable pull. Now, with night draping the town in deep blue shadows, you find yourself alone on the bus heading toward the outskirts, the only passenger riding out to the edge of the world.

The hum of your playlist whispers through your earphones, blending with the rhythmic pulse of the bus engine as scenes of darkened fields and silhouetted trees slip by in the windows. Each mile draws you closer, heightening the anticipation tingling beneath your skin, until finally, the bus slows to a stop, releasing you into the night.

You step onto the gravel path and feel a strange comfort in the solitude. The night is vast, the air tinged with the earthy scent of pine and soil, and there are no streetlights to guide your way—only the faint glimmer of starlight scattered across the heavens above. Yet you know this path by heart; your feet follow its familiar curves as though led by an invisible thread. It’s just a kilometer and a half from here to the lake, but each step feels like a journey through realms unknown.

As you approach the grove, you see the willows, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, graceful arms weaving an entryway to something almost sacred. Your heart begins to race as you brush aside the delicate, trailing branches, slipping into the secret world they protect. The lake opens before you, quiet and timeless, bathed in silvery moonlight that dances over the water’s surface. Here, beneath the ancient watch of the willows, you enter a place where magic feels like it lives in every ripple and breath.

With a deep breath, you step closer to the lake’s edge, wondering if he’ll be there, waiting in the shadows between the water and the sky.

In the soft darkness, you quickly realize you’re alone; the lake is still, the merman nowhere in sight. With a small leap, you cross the shallow strip of water, landing on the tiny isle in the center of the lake. You settle yourself down, hugging your knees, feeling the hum of fireflies flickering around you, their gentle glow brushing the air with a living, golden warmth.

Just as your mind begins to drift, a sudden ripple stirs the water before you, and then—there he is, his head emerging from the lake in a tumble of dripping, tousled brown hair. You flinch, nearly letting out a scream, your pulse skipping a beat at the surprise. But the alarm dissolves in a heartbeat as you recognize the familiar face smiling up at you, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, giggling as he smooths back his wet hair, his green tail flicking playfully above the water’s surface. The moonlight catches the emerald scales, each flicker a tiny flash of silver and jade. He uses his hands to wipe water from his face, looking all the while like he’s trying—and failing—to stifle a laugh.

“You didn’t scare me!” you insist, though the quick flush of heat in your cheeks tells otherwise, and you can tell from his grin that he sees right through it. You tilt your chin a little higher, hoping to hide your embarrassment, but he only chuckles, the sound warm and light as it drifts across the water.

“Well, I’ll believe you this time,” he says, smiling at you with a kind of open joy, as if the night was made for moments just like this. You smile back, feeling the tension melt away, replaced by a soft thrill in the air between you.

“Anyway,” you say with a playful glint in your eye, “I forgot to ask your name yesterday.”

He chuckles, low and warm, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “I’m Taehyung,” he says, his voice rich as velvet.

“I’m Y/N,” you reply, offering a soft smile that he mirrors, a kind of light passing between you in the moonlit stillness.

“So… will you tell me stories about merfolk?” you ask, curiosity woven into every word.

“Of course,” he says, his gaze turning mischievous, “but first, I have something to show you.” With a grin, he lifts a soaked, weighty bag from beneath the water’s surface, droplets glistening like tiny jewels as they cascade off the bag. You blink, leaning forward in wonder, trying to guess at the strange, heavy contents.

He pats the bag with a pride that makes you smile. “This,” he says, with a dramatic flourish, “is some of my collection of things I’ve found from the depths. I think most of it is from your world—the things you humans let slip beneath the waves. I thought you might help me make sense of it all, tell me stories about these objects. And in return,” his eyes twinkle, “I’ll give you stories about the world of merfolk.”

You smile at the offer, enchanted by his plan. “Deal,” you say, nodding as you gesture to the bag. “Can I look inside?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he says with a soft smile, his eyes glimmering as he watches you rummage through the bag. Your fingers curl around a heavy, ornate candelabra, its blackened metal arms twisting elegantly like frozen vines. You lift it out, chuckling as his gaze widens with childlike wonder.

“What’s that thing called?” he asks, his curiosity unguarded, like a boy discovering treasures in a world he’s only dreamed of.

You laugh again, unable to help yourself, quickly hiding it behind the back of your hand as if to stifle the sound. “It’s a candleholder,” you explain, tracing one of its three arms. “You put candles in it to light up the dark.”

He nods, a thoughtful look crossing his face, though you suspect he has no idea what a candle even is. Gently, you set the candelabra down and reach into the bag once more, this time pulling out a pair of glasses. Their frames are thick and black, chipped slightly at the corners—worn with use but still sturdy.

He leans closer, fingers brushing yours as he takes the glasses and slides them onto his nose. They sit awkwardly on his face, far too large, but somehow, they suit him in that effortless way that makes you pause. He blinks, looking around, and then bursts into laughter, a sound as warm as sunlight on water.

“Wow,” he chuckles, adjusting the frames that threaten to slide off. “I can’t see a thing.”

The sight of him—eyes crinkled in amusement, wearing something so distinctly human—makes your heart catch for a moment. A creature of the ocean trying on the world of men, and somehow making it his own.

You giggle softly, reaching forward to slip the glasses off his face, your fingers brushing the warm curve of his cheek. “That’s because they’re prescription glasses,” you explain, setting them down gently. “They’re made to match someone else’s eyes. Sad, really, that someone lost not just these, but maybe even the ability to see clearly.”

He nods, the curiosity in his eyes flickering like candlelight as he watches you tuck the glasses carefully back into the bag. Reaching in again, your fingers close around something sturdy and familiar. When you pull it out, your breath catches—a Nokia 3310.

The sight of it pulls a laugh from your chest, bright and unrestrained, spilling into the night air. It’s the kind of laugh that folds you in half, clutching your stomach, until tears prick the corners of your eyes. Taehyung stares at you in bewilderment, his head tilting like a puzzled bird, as though you’d just grown fins.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, his voice tinged with genuine concern, as if your laughter might be some kind of human affliction.

“It’s a phone,” you finally manage to say between giggles, holding up the clunky, ancient relic. “Though it’s… very old.” You run your thumb across the faded tactile buttons, memories bubbling to the surface like a tide returning to shore. “I used to have one just like this. It was one of my first phones, back when my parents finally trusted me to have one.”

His eyes widen, and he leans closer, curiosity sparkling like the fireflies around you. “What do you use it for?” he asks, reaching out to study it, his webbed fingers brushing yours as he takes the small, unassuming device into his hands.

“For talking to people,” you reply, a hint of nostalgia softening your voice. “Texting, calling… staying connected. Although, this one isn’t exactly great for anything more than snake games and indestructibility,” you add with a grin. “It’s like the dinosaur of phones.”

He turns it over in his hands, fascinated, his tail flicking gently under the water. “Humans carry pieces of their voices in these tiny boxes,” he muses, half to himself, marveling at the strange, forgotten artifact. “How peculiar. And yet… how precious.”

His words linger in the air between you, weaving something timeless into the quiet magic of the moment.

“Oh,” he muses, lifting the phone to his ear as if it holds some kind of magic. “Hello?” he says, his voice laced with playful curiosity, pretending to talk to you through the tiny relic.

Unable to resist, you pull out your own phone and press it to your ear, mirroring him just for the fun of it. “Like that,” you say, laughing, your voice light and airy as it drifts across the water.

Taehyung smiles, wide and genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling with boyish joy. The way the moonlight catches the sparkle in his gaze makes your chest feel lighter, as if you’ve inhaled the cool night air too deeply.

He hands you the phone with a careful reverence, and you tuck it gently back into the bag, your fingers brushing against something new. With a slight tug, you pull it free—a lone shoe, scuffed and worn by time.

Taehyung’s brow furrows, his expression tilting toward amused confusion. “What’s that? Do you… put it on your hand?” he asks, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, like he’s already imagining some ridiculous scenario.

The thought makes you laugh, the sound bubbling up like the ripples in the water. You picture him proudly sporting sneakers on his hands, his green tail swishing beneath him. “No,” you say through giggles, “it’s a shoe. Humans wear them on their feet—for walking.”

He hums, a deep, velvety sound that reverberates through the air, and the richness of it stirs something strange and unbidden in the pit of your stomach. You ignore the feeling, shaking your head as you examine the shoe more closely.

“Sad that there’s only one,” you muse, holding the sneaker in your palm like it’s a piece of some unsolved puzzle.

“Why is that sad?” he asks, his voice genuinely curious.

“Because we need two,” you explain, “one for each foot. Without its pair, it’s... incomplete.”

Your words hang in the air for a moment, heavy with meaning you didn’t intend, and you quickly place the shoe back in the bag. Yet, as you glance at Taehyung, you wonder if he heard something more in what you said—if he noticed the quiet ache that flickered through your voice, the unspoken longing for things to feel whole again.

Your hand brushes against something cold and metallic at the bottom of the bag, and it rattles faintly as you pull it out. The moment you register what it is, a flush of heat rushes to your cheeks.

Taehyung tilts his head, his curiosity immediate and innocent. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

It’s not his fault, you remind yourself. He doesn’t know. How could he possibly understand that a simple pair of handcuffs could mean so many different things—some harmless, others... not so innocent?

Your grip tightens around the cuffs as they dangle from your fingers, the faint clink of metal against metal feeling louder than it is. His wide, unguarded eyes search your expression for answers, his confusion palpable. “What?” he presses again, his gaze flickering between you and the offending object.

“They’re handcuffs,” you finally stammer, the words tumbling out as you desperately try to steer your thoughts away from the implications. You clear your throat, willing your heart to stop its frantic drumming.

His brows knit together as he studies them, and then he looks back at you. “What do you use them for?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no telling how much he knows about... well, things like that. And there’s no way you’re about to be the one to enlighten him. The blush spreads deeper across your cheeks, hot and unrelenting.

“The police use them,” you blurt out, seizing the first explanation that comes to mind. “They use them to, uh, catch bad guys.”

He blinks, processing this, then asks with genuine curiosity, “What’s a police?”

“They’re people who keep the world in order,” you explain hastily, hoping your answer satisfies him as you lower the handcuffs back into the bag like they’ve burned you.

Taehyung hums softly, his deep voice laced with thought. “Order…” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “I suppose merfolk don’t really have anything like that. The ocean tends to sort itself out.”

His answer is innocent, but something about it pulls at you. The idea of a world where chaos is natural and balance finds its own way feels... strange, almost liberating. You glance at him, and his green tail flicks gently beneath the surface of the water, shimmering faintly like a piece of living art.

“Well, up here, we’re a bit messier,” you say, smiling faintly, though your cheeks are still warm.

He chuckles, the sound rich and comforting, and you realize, despite your embarrassment, that you don’t entirely mind explaining things to him. His curiosity is sincere, untouched by judgment, and somehow that makes all the awkwardness easier to bear.

You sigh, the weight of your patience thinning, eager to get through this final item so the stories of the sea can take center stage.

“There’s only one thing left,” Taehyung says with a sly smile, a glint of mischief flickering in his eyes like sunlight on water.

Thank god, you think, nearly rolling your eyes as you reach into the bag. But the moment your fingers wrap around the last object, you freeze. The shape is unmistakable, and a flush creeps up your neck as realization sets in. Yanking it out, you take one horrified look before letting out a sharp shriek and dropping it as if it’s burned you.

“What? What is it?” Taehyung asks, wide-eyed and concerned as he scoops up the item you just cast away like cursed treasure. His fingers turn it over curiously, the innocent tilt of his head at complete odds with the very not innocent object in his hands.

Your mind races as you stare at him, slack-jawed, while he inspects the bright pink rabbit vibrator with the studious attention of an archaeologist uncovering an ancient relic.

Why would anyone throw that into the ocean? you manage to think, your inner voice barely louder than the pounding of your heart. The question burns in your mind: How the hell am I supposed to explain this to him?

He looks up at you with a grin that could melt glaciers, utterly oblivious, and the sparkle in his eyes seems almost too amused. The corners of his lips curve just a touch more, and for a fleeting second, a traitorous thought worms its way into your head: Does he know what it is?

“Do you know what that is?” you ask, your brow arching sharply as you try to mask your embarrassment with skepticism.

He blinks, shaking his head with a childlike earnestness that you don’t entirely trust. “No.”

But there’s something in his expression, a faint glimmer of mischief that makes you wonder. Could he possibly know what’s currently resting in his slender fingers, a bright pink beacon of mortification? Surely not. How could he?

“So… what is it?” he asks again, his deep voice smooth and unbothered as if he’s holding a piece of driftwood instead of—that.

You stammer, words failing you as you try to claw together an explanation. “It’s... it’s a—a toy,” you finally spit out, the word awkward and foreign on your tongue.

“A toy?” he repeats, his curiosity piqued even further. He looks at it again, squinting at the smooth curves and the dual protrusions like he’s deciphering an ancient riddle. “For children?”

“No!” you yelp, your voice far too loud as heat blooms across your cheeks. You clasp your hands over your face, groaning. “Not for children. Definitely not for children.”

He raises a brow, clearly unsatisfied with your vague response. “Then what kind of toy—?”

You gulp, your cheeks blazing a crimson so fierce they rival the setting sun. The word catches in your throat, but you force it out in a mortified whisper: “It’s... a vibrator.”

Taehyung tilts his head, his expression innocent, as if the word carries no weight. “Oh, like a massager?” he asks, his long fingers fumbling with the object. The moment it buzzes to life, a low, mischievous hum filling the air, you nearly leap out of your skin.

The sound seems impossibly loud, vibrating not just in your ears but in the marrow of your bones. He holds it up, studying it with an inquisitive squint. “Where do you use it? Your neck?” he muses, moving to press it behind his back like it’s some magical cure for tension.

“No!” you shriek, lunging forward in sheer panic. The idea of where it’s been—god, where it’s definitely been—makes your skin crawl. Sure, it’s been submerged in saltwater for who knows how long, but still, the thought is mortifying.

He pauses, blinking at your outburst, the vibrator buzzing innocently in his hand. His gaze settles on you, expectant, waiting for an explanation you’re loath to give.

You clear your throat, the heat in your cheeks now spreading to the tips of your ears. “It’s for women,” you mutter, your voice barely audible, “for their... vagina. Now, please, turn it off and put it away.”

To your immense relief, he does as you ask, clicking it off with a soft whir. But instead of letting it go, he looks at you with wide, curious eyes. “Oh,” he says simply. A beat of silence stretches between you before he tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Have you used one before?”

Your stomach drops, and for a moment, you swear the earth could crack open beneath you and swallow you whole. Your fingers fidget nervously, and you refuse to meet his gaze. “I... have,” you mumble, your voice so quiet it’s almost swept away by the breeze.

“Was it good?” he asks, his tone so casual it borders on maddening.

Your heart pounds so hard it might shatter your ribcage. You feel the blush deepen, a fiery bloom spreading across your face as you croak, “Yeah.”

His curiosity, however, is relentless. “What do you know about sex anyway?” you huff, folding your arms and glaring at the lake to avoid his amused gaze.

He grins, that devilish sparkle dancing in his eyes. “Oh, I know plenty,” he says, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver up your spine. “My friend Seokjin told me all about how humans have sex.”

He waggles his eyebrows in a way that’s both infuriating and utterly ridiculous, and you feel your mortification morph into fury.

“Wait a minute,” you fume, narrowing your eyes at him. “You knew what the handcuffs and vibrator were from the start, didn’t you?!”

His grin grows wider, unapologetically mischievous. “Maybe,” he admits, his voice lilting like a playful melody. “But watching you explain them was way more fun.”

You glare at him, seething, but there’s no denying the way his laughter dances across the air, warm and infectious. Against your better judgment, the corners of your lips twitch upward, because even in your mortification, there’s something oddly endearing about his teasing.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he counters, his tail flicking in the water, sending ripples out to the edges of the lake.

And though you’re still burning with embarrassment, a small part of you can’t help but be grateful for the way he makes you laugh—even at your own expense.

Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, your face blazing like the setting sun, and he just throws his head back, laughter erupting from him in a way that feels alive. It’s full-bodied, unrestrained, his boxy smile lighting up his features as his hands clutch at his stomach, right where shimmering scales meld seamlessly into the emerald sweep of his tail.

You shake your head in disbelief, unable to fathom how he managed to fool you so effortlessly. But then, it’s impossible to hold onto your indignation when his laughter is so contagious, so you let it pour out of you too—a melody that dances through the night. The sound makes his laughter falter for just a moment, his eyes softening as he looks at you like he’s discovered something rare and wondrous.

If only you knew, Taehyung thinks, how your laughter could make even the coldest depths of the ocean feel warm.

The weeks that followed your first meeting have felt like a dream—magical. Night after night, you find yourself drawn to the lake, a place where the lines between your two worlds blur. Each time, Taehyung emerges with treasures gathered from the ocean floor, and you sit together, exchanging pieces of your lives—your world above the waves and his far below.

“And that’s how Jungkook and I pranked Yoongi,” he says, his laughter spilling into the quiet night as he recounts his mischievous escapades. “He was so pissed, he didn’t talk to us for a week.”

You laugh too, the image vivid in your mind—Taehyung and his friend causing an octopus to release its ink, staining this poor Yoongi guy’s skin entirely. The chaos, the yelling, the grumbling that followed—it all paints such a comical picture you can’t help but giggle.

“I mean,” he adds between gasps of laughter, wiping at the corners of his eyes, “Yoongi didn’t say much. He just grumbled a lot... after shouting every curse word he could think of.”

By now, he’s laughing so hard that tears threaten to spill, his cheeks flushed and his voice trembling with mirth.

“Oh, don’t cry,” you tease, grinning as you reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his cheek. The touch surprises both of you, and his laughter fades, replaced by a gentler smile as he leans ever so slightly into your hand. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, smooth and soft where it meets his scales.

“I’m not crying,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the depth of it resonating like a gentle current. His dark eyes hold yours, reflecting the scattered stars above. “But I’m glad to see you laughing more.”

The words hang in the air between you, delicate and sincere, like the faint glow of the fireflies flitting around the lake. His smile doesn’t waver, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now, something tender and unspoken, that makes your heart race.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the soft rustling of the willow branches swaying in the breeze and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. In his gaze, you see more than curiosity or mischief—you see wonder, connection, and something that feels achingly close to magic.

“Is there more I could do to cheer you up?” he asks, his smile boyish, eager, and filled with a kind of tenderness that seems to spill effortlessly from him. You’ve noticed how much he wants to see you happy—how his every word and action feels like a quiet offering meant to lift the weight you carry.

You hesitate, your mind swirling with possibilities, but one thought rises above the rest. It’s ridiculous, improbable, and utterly reckless, but it’s been there, simmering in the back of your mind since the night you first met him. He stirs something in you—something unspoken, electric, and undeniably human. Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, bold and wild, carried by the wind like a confession.

“Sex would totally cheer me up.”

For a moment, everything stops. His eyes widen, an ocean of surprise rippling in them, before a smirk curves his lips—a little hesitant, a little mischievous. Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “I’ve never had sex with a human before.”

The quiet sincerity of his response steals your breath. You were half-joking, throwing the words out as a way to tease him, to distract yourself from the fluttering chaos he always seems to spark in your chest. But his honesty hits you like a wave, and now you’re drowning in the thought—was he taking you seriously?

Was he considering it?

Your heart beats like a drum, your cheeks burning as you search his expression for some clue, some sign that this is all just a playful exchange. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, the way his gaze holds yours, curious and unflinching, that makes your pulse race even faster.

In a voice barely above a whisper, you ask, “Do you… want to have sex with me?” Your words hang in the air, delicate and trembling, but before he can respond, you falter, retreating into the impossibility of it all. “I mean—how would that even work? Can you even have sex with a human?”

His laughter comes then, rich and warm, breaking the tension like sunlight spilling over water. “I’d just have to turn human,” he says with an exaggerated wiggle of his brows, the teasing glint back in his eyes. “And don’t worry—Seokjin’s already told me everything I need to know.”

You blink, your mind struggling to process the words, the sheer audacity of them. Turn human? Was that even possible? And what on earth had Seokjin told him?

“Wait—are you serious?” you manage to say, your voice caught between disbelief and something else, something dangerously close to hope.

He leans in slightly, his face alight with a playful kind of mystery. “Why don’t you find out?” he murmurs, his voice a velvet thread that winds its way into your chest, tightening the knot of emotions there.

For a moment, you’re lost—in his eyes, in the tantalizing possibility of the unknown, in the way he makes the world feel both infinite and impossibly small. And beneath it all, you can’t help but wonder: could he really mean it? Or was he just as caught up in this strange, electric pull between you as you were?

“You really want to have sex with me? And you’ve never told me you could turn human?” you exclaim, your hand instinctively landing on his chest with a light slap. His skin is warm under your touch, the smooth planes of muscle glistening faintly in the moonlight.

He chuckles, a low, velvety sound that sends ripples through the night air. “Yeah, I want to,” he says without hesitation, his gaze steady and unwavering. “And if it’ll cheer you up, that’s all the more reason.”

Before you can fully process his words, he begins to rise from the water, his powerful arms pulling him closer to you. Each movement is deliberate, almost hypnotic, his biceps flexing effortlessly as he drags his weight onto the land. When he finally settles next to you, you’re keenly aware of the space—intimate and charged—between you.

Unable to resist, your fingers reach out to graze his tail. The scales are cool and slick beneath your touch, shimmering faintly with an otherworldly sheen, and you marvel at how something so strange can feel so natural to you now.

“By the way,” you murmur, suddenly self-conscious, “I was joking when I said it would cheer me up.” The words come out softer than you intend, as a realization settles over you like the whisper of a tide. What if this actually happens? What if he’s doing this only to make you happy? A knot twists in your stomach—you don’t want this just for you. You want him to want this, too.

But before you can say another word, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that steals your breath and floods your senses. He moves with a bold tenderness, his tail slipping between your legs, his fin brushing against your feet with a feathery caress.

And then, the air around you shifts.

A sudden burst of light swirls between you, glittering like a thousand stars spilling from the heavens. The world tilts as the sparks dance and cascade, wrapping you both in a cocoon of shimmering magic. It’s like something out of an anime—a transformation unfolding in real time, and you’re at the center of it all.

When the light fades, you blink, your breath hitching as you realize what’s happened.

He’s no longer a merman.

He’s human now, entirely, gloriously human, and he’s in your arms—warm skin pressed against yours, lean legs sprawled over yours, and oh god, utterly naked.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your voice breaking into a startled shriek as your eyes dart over his form. He’s… breathtaking. Sculpted shoulders, a chest that looks like it was carved from marble, thighs thick and strong, and—

You gulp, your gaze snapping up to his face as heat floods your cheeks. “You’re completely naked,” you manage to stammer, though your eyes betray you, flickering downward for just a fraction of a second. His cock is thick and wide, making your pussy clench around nothing with need.

A mischievous grin spreads across his face, completely unbothered by his nudity. “You seem surprised,” he teases, his voice warm and teasing, yet carrying an edge of something deeper, something magnetic.

“Surprised?!” you exclaim, your hands flying up to cover your face, though it does nothing to erase the mental image seared into your brain. “You didn’t warn me there’d be sparkles—or that you’d be… be…”

“Naked?” he supplies, his grin widening as he shifts, sitting up fully now, his confidence evident in every movement.

“Yes, naked!” you blurt, peeking through your fingers before quickly looking away, though the heat pooling in your stomach betrays you.

He chuckles again, a sound so rich and unguarded it makes your heart flutter. “Well, you did say you wanted me human,” he says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Didn’t think you’d mind the details.”

And as you sit there, utterly flustered and yet inexplicably drawn to him, you realize that everything about him—his laughter, his boldness, his very existence—is impossible and wonderful and so entirely him.

You can’t explain it, but he feels impossibly firm against your fully clothed body, his presence electric, igniting something deep inside you.

“Are you sure you want this?” you ask, your voice trembling with anticipation as he moves closer, his heat radiating like a flame that threatens to consume you.

He nods, his gaze unwavering, filled with earnest longing. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

His words are a confession, each syllable laced with reverence, and the look in his eyes—adoring, worshipful—makes your heart stutter. It feels like magic, a spell binding you to him.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word a contradiction—both weighty and featherlight, heavy with unspoken desire yet liberating in its surrender. “Me too.”

And that’s all it takes. You move, pulling him into you, your lips colliding like the meeting of two storms. His kiss is both a promise and a claim, as though you’re the air he needs to live, and he the fire you’ve long craved.

Slowly, with a patience that speaks of devotion, he begins to undress you. Each garment falls away as if he’s unveiling a masterpiece, his hands reverent, his movements deliberate. When you’re bare before him, his gaze darkens, his eyes almost black with desire.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, the word half-hissed, as though the sight of you has stolen the air from his lungs.

His hand follows the curve of your body, his touch like a whisper of silk. He starts at your face, tracing your jawline with tender precision, down your neck to your collarbones, his fingers pausing there as though savoring their discovery.

When his hand reaches your breasts, he marvels, his eyes lit with something almost holy. He cups you gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple with deliberate care before giving the softest pinch. The sensation sends a jolt through you, and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes your lips.

Your breathing quickens, matching the rhythm of your racing heart, and for a moment, the world narrows to his touch, his gaze, the unspoken symphony of longing between you.

“Beautiful and soft,” he murmurs, his voice a low caress that seems to reverberate through your very soul. His hands move with reverence, each touch deliberate as he plays with the sensitive bud, his thumbs circling slowly, then firmly, coaxing pleasure to bloom within you like wildflowers in moonlight. Your back arches, surrendering to the heavens, the stars and moon bearing witness to your abandon.

A moan escapes you, unbidden, as a delicious heat prickles along your skin, pooling low in your core. Your body clenches with a desperate, aching need, the anticipation winding tighter, a tether you’re helpless to sever.

Leaning in, he captures one of your peaks with his tongue, the wet warmth making you gasp. He laps and sucks, teasing the sensitive bud, alternating between delicate flicks and firm pulls that make you shiver. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer, your breathing fractured, chest heaving beneath his attentions.

The pleasure courses through you, each wave leaving you more undone. His hand glides downward, slow and purposeful, until his fingers find the slick heat between your thighs. When he touches your clit—softly, tenderly—you cry out, the sensation a spark igniting the kindling of your desire. He rubs in slow, steady circles, his movements measured, drawing your body taut like a bowstring.

You open yourself to him, your legs parting further, an invitation, a plea for more. He obliges, his touch deepening, pressing just enough to send your mind spiraling. Your lips part as his name falls again, broken yet fervent:

“Taeh—”

He releases your nipple with a wet pop, the sound somehow sinful and divine all at once. His mouth captures yours in a kiss that is both fierce and tender, his fingers never faltering as they continue their dance, coaxing you toward the edge of bliss.

“Oh, damn—I’m coming,” you gasp, the words barely coherent as the orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembles, arching and writhing beneath him as he keeps his fingers pressed to your clit, guiding you through the storm.

The world dissolves, nothing remaining but the feel of him—the press of his hand, the warmth of his lips, and the intoxicating scent of crushed grass and wildflowers mingling with your release. You shatter, and he holds you there, steady and unyielding, until every last tremor has subsided, leaving you breathless, boneless, and utterly his.

You pant, lost in the haze of bliss, when his lips find yours again, deep and searching. He pulls back, his breath hot against your skin, and whispers, “Lay down.”

Everything seems to blur and quicken as you lower yourself to the cool, soft grass, your body now bare beneath the endless expanse of the night sky. You gaze up at him—his silhouette framed by a sea of stars, the moon casting a halo around him. He looks almost otherworldly, his form glowing with an ethereal radiance that makes your heart race. He is a creature of light and shadow, of dreams made flesh.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes your pulse quicken. His finger traces the delicate line of your most intimate place, circling your entrance slowly, gauging your arousal. You nod, biting your lip, a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

“Yes,” you whisper, and the word feels like an offering, a surrender.

“Okay,” he breathes, his own desire evident in the strained sound of his voice. He grabs his cock, guiding it toward your trembling pussy, his eyes dark with longing.

He enters you in one slow, deliberate thrust, filling you completely. The stretch is delicious, his thickness causing you to gasp, your body trembling with the sensation. It’s a sweet burn, a delicate ache that soon blooms into pleasure so intense you can hardly contain it.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, his voice rough with pleasure, as he buries himself fully inside you. His breath hitches in your ear, and you smile up at him, your fingers lightly brushing his face. “You can move,” you murmur, your voice laced with both permission and longing.

And move he does. He snaps his hips into you, a rhythm fast and unforgiving, each thrust driving deeper, harder, until it feels like the world is collapsing around you. You arch into him, your back lifting off the ground, the fire of his touch igniting every inch of your body. His gaze is fixed on you, unblinking, as though he’s memorizing each beautiful movement you make. You feel like you’re the only thing that matters in this moment, like you belong to him, body and soul.

Above you, fireflies weave a dance of light, their tiny bodies glowing like stars that have fallen to earth, illuminating the scene with an otherworldly magic. Everything feels heightened, suspended in a perfect, timeless moment.

His thrusts become faster, more urgent, and he grunts, the sound of it raw and desperate. “Does it feel good?” he asks, his voice hoarse, as if the question alone is a prayer.

You can only nod, your words lost in the haze of desire, the world around you fading until it’s just him, just this—his body moving against yours, his love, his devotion, filling every corner of your being. The stars burn brighter, the moon shines sharper, and the night is alive with the pulse of your passion.

“Yeah, fuck, keep going,” you gasp, your voice strained with pleasure as one hand drifts between your legs, your fingers pressing against your clit, adding to the fire building within you.

“If you hadn’t told me this was your first time, I never would have believed it,” you moan, a light laugh escaping your lips at the irony, the sound breathless and full of delight.

“I’m a quick study,” he replies, his voice thick with desire, the words almost lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, which grow faster and harder, filling you with a sweet, burning ache.

“I can tell,” you chuckle, the sound laced with arousal as your body tightens around him, waves of pleasure building relentlessly. You feel your pussy pulse, clenching around him, your mind spiraling deeper into lust. You know it's coming—the release.

And then it hits, a wave of ecstasy so powerful it consumes you, making you tremble beneath him. Your body contracts around him, pulling him deeper, and you can’t help but watch the way his face contorts in bliss, as he too is undone by the intensity of it. His own release is mirrored in the expression he wears, raw and breathtaking.

His breath catches, a strained groan slipping past his lips as he pants your name. “Shit... I think I’m coming too.”

With a few more desperate thrusts, he pushes into you, then pauses, his body tense, his warmth flooding you as his release spills deep inside. He falters, his chest heaving as he gathers his breath, his hands resting on your body, feeling the heat of the moment linger between you.

“Holy shit, that was amazing,” he murmurs, his voice ragged, as he gently pulls away, a mixture of your essences slipping from you. You lie there, still breathless, feeling the aftershocks of your climax.

“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, your voice light, your mind floating in a haze of pleasure. The world around you feels like a distant echo, the only reality is the sensation of your skin against his and the shared stillness between you.

He falls beside you, pulling you close, his arm draped over you as the two of you gaze up at the sky. The moon casts a gentle glow over you both, and the stars seem to shimmer with a quiet promise, as if the universe itself is watching over this moment—a perfect, fleeting connection.

Together, you breathe in the night air, wrapped in the softness of each other, lost in the beauty of the silence and the stars above.

“Okay,” you whisper, the tremor in your voice barely audible over the soft rustle of the night. “I’m only doing this because you’re a great swimmer.” You pause, searching his eyes for reassurance, then add with a nervous smile, “And in return, I’ll take you into town and show you the human world, yeah?”

Taehyung nods, his boxy grin softening into something earnest, something that feels like a promise. His hand is warm in yours, grounding you as your feet hover over the edge of the water. The lake stretches before you, dark and endless, the moonlight spilling across its surface in molten silver. It looks almost too serene, as if the stillness is holding its breath just for you.

His words from before echo in your mind: “Let me help you. Let me bring you back to the sea you loved so much.” And though fear thrums in your chest, louder than the cicadas singing in the trees, you want this—you need this.

Steeling yourself, you take a step forward. The water laps at your toes, cold and sharp, sending a cascade of goosebumps along your arms. You grip Taehyung’s hand tighter, his skin smooth and cool beneath your fingers, and he squeezes back, a silent gesture of encouragement.

The moon seems to follow your every movement, its light dancing on the rippling water as you wade further in. Your breath quickens as the chill seeps into your skin, prickling and biting, but you push through. Each step feels monumental, each shift of your weight a battle between fear and the yearning to reclaim what you’ve lost.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, his voice like a lullaby in the quiet night. His tail flicks softly beneath the surface, the faint ripple of green scales catching the moon’s glow.

The lake deepens around you until the water clings to your shoulders, wrapping you in its cool embrace. And then, almost unexpectedly, the fear begins to ebb away. The weight of it dissolves into the lake as you exhale, replaced by a gentle calm that fills the spaces where terror once lived.

You look up at Taehyung and meet his eyes, wide and filled with wonder. He’s smiling again, that signature grin of his lighting up the night in a way the moon could never replicate. You can’t help but smile back.

“Do you want to go further out?” he asks, his voice impossibly soft. The question hangs between you, fragile yet full of promise. “Into the ocean?”

You bite your lip, your heart pounding—not from fear this time, but from the exhilaration of possibility. Slowly, you nod.

Without a word, he tugs you gently, his hand guiding yours, his tail slicing through the water with an effortless grace. Your legs begin to move, kicking hesitantly at first, but then with growing confidence. He keeps you close, his touch steady and protective, and together, you leave the lake behind.

The lake falls away into the vastness of the open water, the air thick with salt and magic. The stars scatter above you, a million glimmering diamonds against the velvet sky. The water, now alive with bioluminescent trails from Taehyung’s tail, shimmers with an ethereal glow.

You’re weightless here, suspended between the heavens and the depths, and it feels like stepping into a storybook. The world is no longer fractured or frightening—it’s whole, alive, and breathtaking.

And beside you, Taehyung glides effortlessly, his presence a soothing balm to your once-shattered heart. In this moment, with the ocean opening up before you and the stars watching over, you know one thing for certain: you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“You’re doing really good,” Taehyung says, his voice warm and soothing. “Try kicking more with your legs.”

You follow his advice, your legs cutting through the water with newfound confidence, and before long, you’re pulling him along behind you, laughing as the cool waves ripple against your skin. You knew from the start he couldn’t truly teach you how to swim—his tail was no match for human legs—but Taehyung doesn’t need to. His presence is grounding, steadying, a quiet assurance that you’re safe.

You realize now what he meant by helping you: not instruction, but support. The kind of unwavering belief that holds you together, even when you feel like falling apart.

As you let go of his hand and strike out on your own, a rush of elation courses through you. You’re not just swimming—you’re reclaiming a part of yourself you thought was lost. The ocean, once a source of dread, now feels like an old friend. The fear that gripped you for so long begins to dissolve as you glide through the water, your laughter mingling with the soft lapping of the waves.

Memories rise, bittersweet and unbidden, of why you were scared to return to this vast expanse. The sea had taken something from you, something precious—the storm that swept in like an uninvited guest, the yacht pitching, and the moment your friend was lost over the railing. For so long, you blamed the ocean for that night, as if its depths had swallowed your joy. But now, floating under the gentle gaze of the moon, you see it differently.

The sea is not cruel, you think. It’s wild and untamed, yes, but not malicious. The storm wasn’t its doing—it was just a fleeting chaos in a vast, timeless rhythm. And in this moment, it feels too grand, too beautiful to carry hatred for.

“Look at you!” Taehyung giggles behind you, his voice buoyant and bright. “You’re a natural!”

You beam, the cool water cradling your body as you bask in your rediscovered love for swimming. “I’ve always loved this,” you admit, your voice soft with wonder.

He swims alongside you, his tail carving shimmering paths through the water like brushstrokes on a dark canvas. The stars overhead seem to dance in approval, their reflections glittering on the surface around you. This—this moment—is everything. Swimming beneath the moon, the world hushed save for the symphony of waves and distant cicadas, feels like stepping into a dream you’d never dared to live.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly, your voice carrying all the weight of your gratitude. You swim closer, throwing your arms around him in a hug that’s both wet and warm, your lips brushing his cheek in a soft kiss. “Thank you so much, Tae.”

He smiles, his boxy grin full of affection, and he pulls you close in return. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead that feels as soothing as the water surrounding you.

And then you’re off again, splashing and twirling, laughter spilling from your lips like a melody carried by the wind. Taehyung follows, his laughter joining yours, the two of you creating ripples in the starlit expanse. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel free—weightless, unburdened, as if the sea has forgiven you, just as you’ve forgiven it.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, the sun casting dappled light through the willow trees as you make your way to the lake. The air hums with the sound of cicadas, and the gentle rustle of leaves parts like a curtain as you step through, revealing him waiting on the shore. Taehyung’s gaze snaps to you, and for a moment, he forgets the world around him.

You’re dressed simply—skin-tight jeans that cling to your curves and a silky blouse that catches the light, its neckline teasing just enough to leave him utterly captivated. The way the sunlight dances off your skin makes his chest tighten, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“I brought you clothes,” you say with a bright smile, lifting the bag in your hand. The way your voice lilts makes him feel as if you’ve given him a gift far more precious than mere fabric.

He slides up to the shore with effortless grace, his tail shimmering as it transitions from water to grass. For a few moments, he lies there, waiting for the transformation. And then it happens. Sparkles swirl around him, catching the afternoon sun like scattered diamonds, and when the magic fades, he’s there—human, bare, vulnerable, and utterly breathtaking.

You feel your cheeks heat but quickly hand him the bag to spare yourself further fluster. He takes the clothes with a sheepish grin, his fingers brushing yours as he does.

The trousers hang loose on his lean frame, and the dark shirt pools around his shoulders, but there’s something charming about the way he wears them, as though he’s stepped from another world into yours. The sneakers are slightly too big, but he doesn’t seem to care. With each article of clothing, he seems more human, yet no less ethereal.

As you both set off, walking hand in hand toward the bus stop, the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s a companionable quiet that speaks of trust, of connection. His thumb brushes yours absentmindedly, and though neither of you says a word, the unspoken is enough.

When the bus arrives, its brakes hissing like a sleepy beast, Taehyung’s eyes widen with curiosity. He steps on cautiously, his hand tightening around yours as if the bus might lurch away without him. Once seated, he leans into the window, his breath fogging the glass as he watches the world rush past.

The hum of the engine vibrates through the seats, and the tires drum a rhythm against the dirt road. His wide eyes follow the transformation outside—fields giving way to neat suburban houses, their gardens dotted with children’s toys and bicycles. As the bus turns toward the city, his wonder grows.

Apartment buildings rise like mountains on the horizon, their windows glittering in the sunlight. Storefronts flash by, their signs alive with color and light. People crowd the sidewalks, their lives a blur of motion and chatter.

He glances at you, his lips parting as if to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, a soft, awestruck curve of his lips that warms your chest. You squeeze his hand gently, grounding him in this moment, reminding him that he’s not alone in this strange, thrilling world.

For Taehyung, the city is a symphony of sights and sounds, but nothing captivates him more than the simple fact that you’re here, guiding him through it all. And for you, watching him discover this part of your world feels like seeing it anew—through his eyes, it’s not ordinary; it’s magic.

You start your evening simply, leading him to a quaint little restaurant tucked away on a quiet street. The atmosphere is warm and intimate, a soft hum of conversation filling the air as the golden glow of hanging lights dances off the walls. Taehyung sits across from you, marveling at the human ritual of shared meals. He takes his first bite, his eyes widening at the burst of flavor, and you can’t help but smile at his boyish delight.

But it’s not just the food he’s savoring—it’s you. The way your eyes glimmer with an unspoken invitation, calling to him like the moon calls the tides. He feels it then, that pull he’s been ignoring, the one that started the moment he first saw you by the lake.

When the meal is over, you step out into the cool night air, walking side by side under the glow of streetlights. Laughter spills from nearby pubs, and Taehyung watches as groups of drunk revelers weave their way through the streets, their joy unrestrained and contagious. He chuckles when his gaze falls on couples pressed into shadowy corners, stealing kisses like they’re the only two people in the world.

“You humans are so bold,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement.

You laugh softly, tugging his arm.

You pass by the flashing neon signs of different clubs, their thumping music spilling into the streets like siren songs. Taehyung tilts his head, his curiosity piqued, and asks if you should step into one. You shake your head, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “Not yet. Trust me, you’ll love where we’re going.”

When you finally arrive, the club you’ve chosen feels different from the others. It’s darker, sultrier, with low lighting that shimmers like moonlight on water. The music is a steady, hypnotic rhythm that seems to pulse in time with your heartbeat. You guide him to the bar, ordering drinks for the both of you. Taehyung sips hesitantly at first, but the sweet taste lights up his face, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Good?” you ask, and he nods, licking his lips.

The tension melts from your body as the alcohol warms your veins, and soon, the music pulls you both to the dance floor. The crowd is a sea of movement, bodies swaying and turning in time with the beat. You guide Taehyung, his hands finding your hips as you press yourself closer to him.

You move together, your body a tide and his a willing wave. The space between you disappears, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world falls away—just the two of you, lost in the rhythm, the charged air between you humming with something electric.

He feels it too, a spark that ignites into a slow-burning fire. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath hitching as his thoughts spiral into places they shouldn’t in the middle of a crowded club. You sense it, the shift in his energy, and it sends a thrill down your spine.

Leaning close, your lips brush his ear, your voice a whisper that cuts through the music. “Let’s go back to my place.”

His gaze meets yours, smoldering and intent, and without a word, he lets you lead him through the crowd, out into the cool night once more. The street feels quieter now, the distant sound of music fading as the two of you walk side by side, the tension between you a palpable thread pulling tighter with every step.

And for Taehyung, the city lights and human rituals fade into the background, because tonight, the only thing he wants to discover is you.

He lets you guide him through the labyrinth of streets, his footsteps light as if tethered to the ground only by your hand in his. When you reach your apartment, the city lights framing you in a warm glow, you turn with sudden intensity, capturing his lips in a kiss so fierce it steals the breath from his lungs. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like a storm breaking against the shoreline, and he is helpless to do anything but let himself be swept away.

Inside, the air crackles with something electric as you push him onto the bed, a playful glint in your eyes as you reveal the purpose of the handcuffs he had once puzzled over. The hours blur into each other, a symphony of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and the exploration of one another until the world outside feels like a distant dream. When it’s well past midnight and the city sleeps, you slip your hand into his and insist on walking him home, your care wrapping around him like a warm tide.

As you wait at the bus stop, the quiet hum of the night settling over you both, your fingers entwine with his in a silent gesture of connection. He glances at you, your profile softened by the faint glow of streetlights, and feels his heart swell with gratitude. You are extraordinary, he thinks, and he’s unsure what he’s done to deserve this moment, this person.

The bus arrives, a gentle roar breaking the stillness, and carries you both back to the edge of the city. As the wheels roll closer to the lake, the stars above seem to multiply, glinting like scattered diamonds on velvet. When you disembark, the familiar scent of earth and water greets you, and he feels an ache deep inside, not wanting this night to end.

The willow trees part for you like curtains drawn back on a stage, revealing the magical lake shimmering under the fireflies’ dance. Their golden lights swirl in the darkness, casting soft halos around the two of you. Your hands remain clasped, neither of you willing to break the fragile spell.

He notices you biting your lip, nervous, as though searching for the right words. When you look up at him, your eyes glimmer with something unspoken, and your voice comes, hushed and thick with emotion. “Today’s been really amazing,” you confess, the sincerity in your tone wrapping around him like a warm embrace. “I love spending time with you. And everything you’ve done to help me…” Your voice catches, and you squeeze his hands, grounding yourself in him. “I’m so grateful.”

Your words hang in the air like a soft melody, resonating deep within him. He holds your gaze, his chest tightening, knowing he feels the same but unsure how to say it without stumbling over the weight of what he feels. The night wraps around you both like a shared secret, and in this moment, the lake, the stars, and the world beyond seem to exist only for you two.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, his voice warm and steady, laced with genuine appreciation. “I’ve cherished every moment with you and all you’ve shared of the human world.” His gaze lingers on yours, the weight of his sincerity weaving a soft glow between you.

“Will I see you again?” The words escape your lips like a breath of wind, fragile and light, as though you fear his answer might shatter you. But the gentle smile that touches his face erases your doubt.

“Always,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing soothing circles into your hand, grounding you in his presence. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss so tender it feels like a promise written in starlight. When he pulls away, his eyes linger on yours, sparkling like the lake behind him. “This will always be our secret little spot,” he whispers, his voice carrying the weight of eternity, before sealing his vow with another kiss.

The cool night air brushes against your skin as he begins to disrobe, handing the clothes back to you with a playful smirk. You fold them carefully, tucking them into the bag, which you place against the base of a willow tree. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though savoring these final moments of shared stillness. Then, with a fluid leap, he disappears into the water, and the transformation begins.

Your breath catches as his form shimmers under the moonlight, the emerald-green of his tail emerging from the surface like a dream come to life. The water glints where it cascades from his body, the lake embracing him like it’s welcoming its own. He turns to you, the playful glint in his eyes softened by something deeper, something unspoken.

You crouch at the edge of the lake, leaning forward to press one last kiss to his lips, the coolness of the water mingling with his warmth. When he pulls away, a radiant smile graces his face, and you feel your chest flutter, as though your heart has been kissed by the night itself.

As he swims away, his tail slicing gracefully through the water, you watch with awe, unable to look away from the way the moonlight dances across the ripples he leaves behind. A quiet smile settles on your lips, and as the willow branches sway gently overhead, you feel it—the deep and unshakable knowledge that this is not an ending but the start of something wondrous, something infinite.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle → Series taglist: @allie-in-the-moon @bangtannie7 @suker4angst → Author’s endnote: hiii! What did you think? I’m working on the last 3 mermaid stories as well, though I feel unsure about the plot, but, I’ll try to make them good for you. I hope you liked this one, and thank you so much for reading ✨

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starmocha · 3 months ago

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Growing up Vietnamese means that child me was forced to be ok that our origin myth is literally a dragon marrying a woman/fairy/goddess and then divorcing and splitting custody of their 100 kids (lol what)

What I'm trying to say is I've been brain rotting about dragon!Sylus for the past week and it's getting bad and I will only be ok once I write a dragon AU that has a lot of

Overprotective Sylus

Berserk Sylus that can only be calmed by MC

MATES FOR LIFE MORE SOULMATES SHIT

"I belong to you and you to me."

"I would let the world burn for you."

Egg laying 🙂

More dad Sylus because it makes me sob and yearn so badly pls send help

Even more grossly in love with you Sylus because I plan on contributing to this genre until I die 🫡

Really just lowkey need more Sylus worshipping MC like the goddess that she is type of content

"My queen" is going to make a comeback fr fr

I also lowkey want to write MC as a literal goddess and Sylus is just a lowly human who worships at her altar the altar is my hips but this something for another day maybe

"You've sealed your fate the moment you have harmed her."

Literally I just want berserk Sylus decimating the world for one woman is that too much to ask 🥺

Powerful man who rules over others and is feared and revered 🤝 the one woman who rules his heart and can bring him down to his knees

did I mention more soft Sylus It heals my soul in a godly way 🥹

idk if this seed will sprout into anything since I only have the ✨️vibe✨️ for it and not an actual plot lol 🫠 ok bye back to the other 38299272793 wips that I am a slave to

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #x — fanfics ⋆ wips #hi i just woke up after sleeping away half a day #so this is my very lucid thought and decision #i should also mention i've been wanting to rewatch miss the dragon #it has the potential to encompass everything i want #if the writers didn't make certain decisions #but i still adore that c drama idc that it has polarizing opinions #what am i yapping about

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suzukiblu · 6 months ago

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Canon divergence where immediately after making Superboy someone at Cadmus realizes how damn lucrative "we can make a designer baby out of same-sex or infertile or not even the same SPECIES couples and also make it any age said couples want" actually IS as a business model and anyway then they never need another government grant again and clones' rights get Flash levels of fast-tracked because literally every other rich person in the world has at least one or ten of said designer babies within the next five years. What, Lex Luthor did it, why can't THEY??

( Lex, somewhere: . . . this is not remotely the legacy I intended to leave but if I lean into this I will make ten trillion dollars, be worldwide-famous and adored/revered for the rest of human history, AND influence the evolution of the species more than any other single human being to ever have existed so guess this is my legacy now. also no one can arrest me for illegally cloning a Kryptonian metaweapon if I pretend this was totally on purpose, worst I'll get is sued for child support. /literally already writing the first check )

Teen idol Superboy is suddenly instead a poster boy for this new wave of test tube miracle babies and can't go anywhere without getting swarmed by people with questions about how this works, is there a catalog or something? A website?? And the Agenda has to decide between mass-producing clone soldiers or clone KIDS, because let's be real, the math on the profits/longevity/decreased likelihood of getting their labs regularly destroyed by pissed-off superheroes there is hard to argue with. If this means a grumpy lil' kindergartener version of Match exists in this theoretical AU and that Superboy IS getting clockwork-regular child support checks from Lex Luthor, then so be it. So be it, I say!!

Is that anything, fandom? Can we do something with that?? 🤔

#superboy #kon el #conner kent #lex luthor #project cadmus #meta ecetera

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lovesickeros · 1 year ago

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☆ even the gods bleed

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, injury, light angst {☆} word count 2.3k

What was justice?

Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.

She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.

How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?

She does not know.

Perhaps she may never know.

What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.

It is a mockery of it.

She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.

The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.

Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.

For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.

Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.

She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.

She understands, now.

She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.

Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.

Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.

But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..

..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.

Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.

Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.

The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.

Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.

What does she have left to lose?

She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.

Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.

Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.

Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.

Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.

..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.

Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.

Probably.

Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.

Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.

Then again, neither was treason.

Well, first time for everything, right?

It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.

..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.

She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.

But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.

..How was she going to prove it?

An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.

And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!

After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.

The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.

She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.

"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.

She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.

"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.

"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"

She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.

"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"

Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.

To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.

Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.

She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.

The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.

"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."

She does not hesitate to agree.

"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"

He doesn't deign to respond.

It only makes her fume more.

Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.

"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.

She suddenly felt out of place.

..What was she supposed to be doing?

As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..

"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."

Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.

Neuvillette, for his part..

Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.

He cannot hear the rain, anymore.

..It must have stopped.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #imposter au #focalors #furina #neuvillete #a family can be a dragon an archon and his 300 other children who reverse adopted him #u date him its a package deal sorry #u now have like 300 children g-dspeed #also tagged spoilers on neuvi's part bc its kinda a spoiler??? sort of #also this can be read as platonic or romantic on neuvi's part #can u tell i like focalors btw :)#also gonna be swapping between focalors/furina bc SOMEONE sent me a theory and it sent me spiraling im gonna be ill #u know who u r and ur days r numbered #can be read as romantic between reader & neuvi but only bc i know focalors rubs it in his face she found the actual creator first #anyway can u tell focalors is my fav pt2 i wont shut up abt her its terminal atp #focalors..................#anyway *doesnt post fr months. randomly drops a 2k word fic. leaves and doesnt elaborate*#starts out v serious ends v silly #wrote this in one sitting im gonna go pass out now gn

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noble-crimson · 4 months ago

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Say hello to…

✨ Kinger, the Mushroom Wizard ✨

Age: 48 (human years)

~1,200 (fae years)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Yes

Kinger is the leader and patriarch of Briarfell. He broke away from established fae civilization and law, striving to create a haven for all folklore creatures alike.

Despite being old and rather senile at times, there are very few in the village who do not revere Kinger in the highest regard. He is often a beacon of advice and guidance, and he loves all of his fellow villagers equally.

He does keep an air of mystery about him though, often coming and going from Briarfell unannounced. He rarely speaks of his past, and the looming threats of outside clans and fae keep him on constant watch.

A ray of hope arrives in the form of his newest apprentice, Pomni, whose own mysterious past may be the key to finally putting Kinger’s biggest secret to rest.

A few of you wanted to know more about my version of Kinger, so here ya go! Do with this info what you will, and do remember to tag me in any writings or art you make of the Folklore AU 😉✨

#the amazing digital circus #tadc folklore au #tadc kinger #tadc kinger wizard #tadc fanart #tadc fanfiction #tadc art #artists on tumblr #tadc pomni #crim converses

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libraryraccoon · 11 months ago

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The Aeon Of Creation : Surprise ?

P1 (here) -> P2 (coming soon)

TW : English isn't my first language, bad english. Spoil Penacony quests.

Gender : Male/GN

Pronouns used : He/They

Info : I was sad when I haven't found any hsr sahsr au, so I decided to write one.

There was an Aeon that everyone know in the universe.

The first Aeon that have been appeared, The Aeon Of Creation.

It’s said that The Aeon Of Creation was the first being that had appear, that it’s them that have create the universe, the worlds, and that have created the others Aeons. That it’s them that say who can be an Aeon.

But no one has seen them for a while now. Even the others Aeons were worried, even Nanook.

It’s only decades later that a trailblazer saw them.

<----->

His name was Caelus, he was in a dream at Penacony when he meet them.

They seems so familiar, but also they seems like a stranger.

“Excuse me.” Said the grey hair, looking at the h/c hair. “Have we met before ?”

They had h/l h/c hair, e/c, s/c, and they were wearing a white shirt with a sleeveless sweater on top, a trench coat, black pants and shoes.

They had a men body, and they look like a men in every way. But, more Caelus was watching them, more they don’t seems to be human, and more they remember him someone- but he don’t know who.

It was.. strange.

“Maybe yes, maybe no.. Who know ?” ask the person-thing. “I'm sorry, I have a bad memory."

They were lying, Caelus didn’t know how, but he just know it.

He hate when people lie to him.

“I’m Y/N and my pronouns are he/him. Just a person traveling in the universe. Nice to meet you.” He introduced himself lifting his hat a little in a sort of reverence- since when did he have a hat ?!

Caelus ask no question -he was used to things like that.

“I’m Caelus, a nameless.” He said, Compared to usual, he didn't make a joke or show off like he usually did. He didn’t really think about it at that moment.

<----->

Caelus was often with Y/N.

They was what we can called ‘best friend’.

Every time Caelus was in Penacony, he would go straight to Y/N.

Y/N gave off a sort of comforting and familiar aura. One that he found difficult to part with. Maybe the reason he clung so tightly to his friend was to avoid a repeat of Firefly, to protect him. Caelus didn't know, and he didn't search for an answer, focusing on the present.

“Caelus ! Do attention ! I swear one day you will die soon if you continue like that !” His friend swore as Caelus passed on the road to join him, not paying attention to the passing cars, almost being run over by one.

Caelus only give a nervous laugh at that.

<----->

Being the Aeon of Creation for them was boring.

They knew everything, having nothing to learn. That annoyed them. They wanted to learn, to discover things.

But with their creations worshiping them, some much, MUCH, more than others, it was impossible. So they took a human form and visited the planets, the worlds, that they had created from another point of view.

<----->

Humans were very attached to all this gender and sex stuff, so they took on a masculine appearance and he/him pronouns. Like that, they really look like the other humans ! Well, except for their blood. They had a blood that was like the universe, no, that was like their blood was the universe ! Just like their tears. And it's never touching the ground, disappearing in the air. They had to be careful for not being hurt or crying in front of people (but why and how they know their tears colors ?)

They was travelling alone until they meet him.

He was a boy with short grey hair and yellow eyes. His name was Akivili.

They traveled the universe together, in the Express.

Akivili was their first friend, their first best friend,

Their first love.

They were really closed, and the Aeon realized too late that they were falling for him.

The day they wanted to confess, Akivili disappeared.

The Aeon of Creation have done all for finding him, but always in a human form, they didn’t want people to realize who they was.

And, one day, in a dream they meet someone that look like Akivili.

His name was Caelus, a nameless, just like Akivili.

The Aeon of Creation thought that maybe, just maybe, he was Akivili, a reincarnation, or a descendant of him. They were sure the two were related.

Especially that he have the name Akivili wanted to give to his son.

The day before the Creator turn Akivili into an Aeon.

“Hey, if one day you have a kid, what name will you give them ?” ask Akivili.

“Huh- I don’t know ?” said the Aeon confused. They thought about how everyone always gives two names to this question, one feminine and one masculine. “Aether if it’s a boy and Stelle if it’s a girl.”

“Great names. You’re always creatives for names.” Said the mortal.

“And you ?”

“Caelus if it’s a boy and Lumine if it’s a girl.” Akivili answer easily.

Akivili always had something for picking great name.

It’s him who gave them the name Y/N after all.

So, for knowing who really Caelus was, they decided to stay with him.

Of what they had understood, he lost a dear friend, so Y/N helped him at the same time with all his grief thing.

And that worked ! Well, in a way ?

Caelus was feeling better now that Y/N was here, but he was what mortals called ‘clingy’.

The Aeon found that funny – Akivili was always clingy with them when he was tired. So that make them think of the past.

They was happy to compare Caelus to Akivili, making some theories about it, and not to some creep that prayed them..

Maybe The Aeon Of Creations have what mortals called a trauma caused by a few of their believers.

<----->

The Aeon Of Creation is traumatized of all this Sagau imposter AU/j I thought making the creator having a universe color blood and tears will be funny because, you know, they created it- The Creator thinking Caelus is Akivili is an idea that would hurt when it will be more developed.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x male reader #gn reader #male reader #hsr sahsr au #honkai star rail sahsr au #honkai star rail x gn reader #honkai star rail x male reader #akivili x aeon of creation #Raccoon is writing #sahsrau

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pretzel-box · 3 months ago

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Hi Chea!! hope your doing well hun <3

Could I possibly req a human Sebastian x human reader scenario where they're on a first date of stargazing or going to an aquarium?? I think it would be a really cute idea <333 (Im a sucker for human seb stuff lmfao)

Remember to take breaks and stay hydrated <3

-💫

Tags: Human AU, Established Relationship, Fluffy and Wholesome Aquarium Date

Words: 1k

You had never imagined that your first date with Sebastian would be anything grand or extravagant. For all his charm and playful teasing, he had a softer side, one that revealed itself in quieter, more intimate moments. So when he suggested an aquarium date, it felt like the perfect reflection of that softer part of him, the part he only let you see.

The aquarium was bathed in soft, bluish light that mimicked the depths of the ocean. The moment you both stepped inside, the world outside seemed to fade away. The sound of water lapping gently against glass and the occasional bubbling noises from the tanks filled the space, creating a serene ambiance. Sebastian, dressed in his usual dark attire but looking unusually more relaxed than usual, gently took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a quiet smile.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he didn’t want to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

You nodded, feeling a giddy excitement at the thought of spending the day with him here. The two of you began walking through the dimly lit corridors of the aquarium, illuminated by the glow of the tanks. Everywhere you looked, you could see exotic marine life swimming gracefully through the water — schools of vibrant fish, jellyfish drifting like ethereal dancers, and the occasional sharp-toothed predator lurking in the background.

"Look at this one," Sebastian murmured, gently steering you toward a large tank filled with stingrays that glided like silent ghosts over the sandy bottom. His hand tightened around yours as he leaned in slightly, his face close to yours. "They’re incredible, aren’t they?"

You smiled, watching his profile as he stared into the tank, his eyes reflecting the blue of the water. "They really are."

It wasn’t just the beauty of the aquarium that captured your attention — it was the way Sebastian seemed to come alive in this environment. His usual teasing demeanor had softened, replaced by a quiet reverence for the creatures around him. He looked so at peace, standing beside you, and it was hard not to feel a little in awe of him.

As the two of you wandered further into the aquarium, you found yourself drawn to a large tunnel, the kind where the water surrounded you completely, creating the illusion that you were walking underwater. Sebastian led you inside, the walls of the tunnel curving overhead as sharks and manta rays swam lazily above you. The lighting was low, the only illumination coming from the tanks, casting a dim, dreamlike glow.

Without thinking, you leaned your head on Sebastian's shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t tease or pull away like you half-expected. Instead, he let out a contented sigh and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer.

"You know," he began, his voice soft in the quiet space, "I’ve always liked aquariums. There’s something peaceful about watching the way everything moves… like they’re in their own world, separate from ours."

You looked up at him, surprised by his words. It was rare for Sebastian to open up about something personal. "I can see that," you said gently. "It’s calming."

He glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I’m glad I’m sharing it with you."

Warmth bloomed in your chest at his words, your heart skipping a beat. It was one thing to know that Sebastian cared for you, but hearing him express it so quietly, so intimately, made the moment feel even more special.

You continued through the tunnel, your pace slow and unhurried, neither of you in any rush to leave the peaceful serenity of the aquarium. At one point, you came to a stop in front of a particularly beautiful tank filled with colorful coral and bright, darting fish. Sebastian let out a small chuckle as one of the fish swam directly toward the glass, as if to inspect you both.

"Do you think they know we’re here?" he mused, his arm still resting around your waist.

You laughed softly. "Maybe. Or maybe they’re just curious."

His gaze flicked toward you, his expression warm and playful. "Just like me, then."

You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. Sebastian had a way of making everything feel lighter, even in moments like these, where the quiet between you was thick with unspoken feelings.

Eventually, the two of you found yourselves at the final exhibit — a massive tank filled with various sea creatures, from sleek sharks to elegant turtles. The water shimmered in the dim light, casting rippling reflections on the floor and walls. It felt like stepping into another world entirely.

Sebastian paused, turning to face you fully. There was something different in his expression now, something more serious, more vulnerable. He reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before his hand lingered against your cheek.

"I wanted today to be special," he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. "You deserve that."

Your breath hitched at the tenderness in his voice, the sincerity in his gaze. He had always been a bit of an enigma — playful one moment, distant the next — but in this moment, there was no pretense, no walls. It was just the two of you, standing together in the soft glow of the aquarium.

"It is special," you whispered, leaning into his touch. "Because I’m here with you."

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound the gentle hum of the water around you. Then, slowly, Sebastian leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. It wasn’t rushed or demanding — it was gentle, full of warmth and emotion, like he was pouring all his unspoken feelings into that single, quiet moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, as if he was savoring the closeness between you.

"I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy," he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in his words was unmistakable.

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection for him. "Me neither."

The rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you, standing together beneath the shimmering water. As the fish swam lazily by and the soft light bathed you both, you knew that this was a moment you’d treasure forever — a perfect, quiet memory of your first date with Sebastian.

#sebastian solace #roblox pressure #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #pressure #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader

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suguwu · 6 months ago

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WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange.

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around.

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.”

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.”

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you.

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems.

Your stomach aches at the sight.

“You’re—” you breathe.

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms.

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight.

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.”

You stay quiet.

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek. Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.”

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath.

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you.

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt.

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says.

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt.

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.”

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light.

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering.

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says.

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.”

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly.

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine.

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow.

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt.

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow.

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.”

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt.

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap.

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky.

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current.

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river.

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore.

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early.

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts.

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.”

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it.

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes.

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog.

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you.

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is.

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway.

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused.

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue.

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing.

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail.

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand.

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless.

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch.

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows.

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming.

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by a cliff disguised by drifting snow.

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever.

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward.

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall.

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed.

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor.

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know.

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you.

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it.

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon.

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form.

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this.

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far.

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips.

She ignores you.

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run.

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement.

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you.

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream.

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire.

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse.

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy.

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones.

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do.

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss.

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread.

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark.

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed.

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”)

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it.

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope.

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating.

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip.

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up.

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

#bee writes tristamp #knives x reader #millions knives x reader #tristamp x reader #trigun x reader #fic: wrap your teeth around the world

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wonusite · 1 year ago

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Sweet Dreams

❝ You dream about a beautiful man nearly every time you fall asleep. After getting to know him and everything about him, you see him outside of your dreams—in a museum painting. ❞

PAIRING: joshua hong x female reader

GENRE: vampire au, reincarnation au, angst, smut

WORD COUNT: 10.1k

WARNINGS: vampire!joshua, human!reader, lucid dreaming, reincarnation, so much yearning, mentions of death, joshua is a brooding mess, protective!minghao, unprotected sex, blood play, biting, creampies

A/N: this has been long overdue, and i hope you guys like it! loosely based off this ask. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Fate.

A simple word that holds more power and venerability than any ruler of the middle kingdom. It’s a mystifying concept that follows no rules and simply is; something that can actively be changed but not avoided. Joshua learns this late in his long life—a derailment of his own making. The lesson comes to him in the form of a fiery witch running from her death.

As a creature that’s lived in solitude since he became immortal, it’s not in his nature to be helpful. It’s why he has no interest in saving the witch from the demons that are hunting her. This, however, doesn’t stop the insolent little witch from forcing herself into his sanctuary. He fights her on it, baring his fangs while saying the most despicable and bone chilling threats to her. The young witch isn’t fazed and makes it clear that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

In the end, he concedes. Not because she’s powerful enough to make him obey her, but because she reminds Joshua of himself when he was desperately clinging to his own survival. Perhaps that’s the reason he becomes inexplicably drawn to her. Josh almost feels like she’s bewitched him, and the most unusual part of it all is that he doesn’t care even if that is the case.

He seeks her out after he helps her despite knowing that it can’t possibly end well. Their kinds don’t mix, and it’s doubtful that two abominations can share something as sacred and beautiful as love. Fate has never allowed it before, but Joshua is foolish enough to try to defy destiny.

Courting the witch isn’t easy. Then again, anything that involves her never is. The witch is a firm believer in being reverent to the same fates that gave her the powers she wields while Joshua couldn’t care less about the fates that turned him into a monstrosity. This creates a disconnect between them because the witch is firm that she could never love such an irreverent creature.

This hardly deters him. Joshua is relentless in his chase, and after the longest decade of his life he’s finally able to win the witch’s thorn-covered heart.

And so, even just for the briefest moments, they’re allowed to create their own destiny with each other.

Loving someone, loving her, is the most addicting feeling he’s ever felt. The love he feels for the witch surpasses even that of his first love who he was convinced he’d never forget. Being with her is the happiest Joshua has ever felt, and he naively thinks it’ll last forever.

This all comes to an abrupt end when the witch finds out that it’s his fault the demons eradicated her coven. Yes, it was before Josh had met and fell in love with her, but that doesn’t change anything. It was still him who had put her on the brink of death and gotten her family and friends killed. Twisted as it is, he doesn’t regret his actions nor would he change them if he had an opportunity to do so.

And so, the love of his life becomes his most dangerous enemy.

It hurts. More so because she discards him and his love like they never meant anything in the first place.

The witch is cutthroat in her hatred. It’s not long before the children of the moon find his sanctuary and nearly send him to meet his maker. Her hexes nearly incapacitate him, but even all her acts of revenge aren’t enough to satiate the vengeance she seeks.

Slowly, the love they grew to feel for each other becomes wilted and corroded beyond repair.

Years pass, yet the feud never dies. Joshua is almost impressed by her determination to destroy him the same way he almost destroyed her.

Hatred has replaced love by now, and it’s almost impossible for him to believe he ever loved the witch in the first place. A decade passes, then two and three until eventually an entire century goes by with the two of them feeling this burning loathing. Their detrimental feelings and behavior push both Joshua and the witch to make a vow never to love again.

But fate has other plans for them.

As time goes on, they find themselves backed into a corner—together this time. Death has returned for them in the form of faes. Neither one of them is willing to relent and give up their land to the insignificant creatures who claimed to have it first. And so, they help each other one last time.

Fighting against inferior creatures together has always been like dancing for them, and it’s easy to fall back into a love language they created. By the end of their battle, they come out victorious. The two are grateful to each other even if neither of them say it outright.

Joshua feels a familiar ache in his chest the longer he stares at the witch who was once his. Feelings he thought were long gone rush back to the surface as if they’d never left in the first place. Perhaps they never really had. He’s never been one to go against his own desires, and so he reaches out for her, craving her skin against his if even for the last time.

Their embrace is sweet, but the kiss that follows is full of passion, longing, and ardent love that seems to have been buried deep within them the entire time. It’s almost like a dream to have her like this again, and now Joshua doesn’t plan on letting her go.

But once again, fate doesn’t leave him with a choice.

Humans grow more wary of the creatures they share the world with. Many go into hiding, but Joshua makes the mistake of thinking he can blend in with his prey. A hunter of his kind has found him, and as a vampire with no coven, he’s left vulnerable. It’s even worse when the hunter and his clan discover his lover and what she is.

It was a peaceful night when they’re attacked. Escaping death doesn’t seem possible, but as always the witch assured him that she has a solution. His love makes him a promise as she casts a spell that will hide his presence. A promise that she’ll find him and reunite with him in every lifetime. He’s confused by her words, but has no time to question her as the spell takes over and dulls his senses until he’s unconscious.

If he’d known his love was going to sacrifice herself for him, he would’ve taken a million wooden stakes to the heart rather than continue existing in a world without her.

Centuries later, he’s never been able to forget her or what her presence had done to his life. Joshua is left alone in a world that now seems intolerable without his witch in it. Cruel irony reminds him that the solitude he once basked in feels suffocating now. All he’s left with is a gaping hole that constantly reminds him of how he lost his one true love.

Joshua eventually joins a coven, but they offer little comfort. At this point in his immortality, he only sticks around them out of habit. It’s not that he isn’t fond of them—he is, most of the time—but it’s not the same as having his lover by his side.

After going through the eternal test of time, Joshua still yearns for her; craves her as much as the blood that he feeds on. It’s the reason he’s spent the last two centuries looking for the one person who filled his heart with so much love.

And he’ll stop at nothing until he finds her.

The first time it happened, you thought it was nothing more than a dream.

Which it was, but it felt different—it was different. Never in your life had you dreamt such a beautiful dream that felt so real and almost indistinguishable from reality. The most memorable part was the euphoric feeling it evoked from you.

Well, that’s not exactly right. There was one single element that had left you unable to forget the lucid dream. One that you believed was responsible for your subconscious forcing you into those dreams every time you fell asleep.

Unhealthy as it is, you chase the lucid dreams. Every night, you look forward to your sleep with the hope of once again being wrapped up in one of those lovely dreams. Any free time you’re left with is used to sleep just so you can escape to the ethereal dreamland your mind has created.

The dreams have ensnared you and make you crave and long for them as if you’re under some sort of spell. It’s become a bit of an obsession because even when you’re with other people it’s all you can think about. And yet you’re unable to let go of your obsession in spite of how unhealthy and irrational it is.

The scene in front of you is familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve seen the old castle that looks like it’s straight out of the medieval times. You step forward, feet moving on their own as you walk past the large doors. Servants run along with their head down, and you’re not sure why it makes you feel satisfied that they seem to be terrified of you.

“Y/N.”

You turn at the sound of a mellifluous voice. Once again, it’s the beautiful man who’d been visiting you in your dreams.

“Shua.” You call affectionately, running to him as he opens his arms for you.

As always, he catches you easily. You wrap your arms around his neck, softly giggling into his hair as he spins you around. “Where have you brought me this time?”

“This is where I live.” He tells you as you pull back to look at his face. “Do you like it?”

You look around again. The feeling of familiarity doesn’t go away as you inspect your surroundings. Joshua gently puts you down, but doesn’t release you from his embrace. His stare is gentle and observant, curious on how you’re going to react to what he’s showing you.

“This is really where you live?” You wonder in awe. “Are you a king or something?”

His pretty laugh makes you look back at him. Your heart leaps up into your throat when you see the fond look he’s giving you. It’s been months of being on the receiving end of his affectionate stare, but you’re not sure you’ll stop feeling bashful when you catch it.

“I am not. Does that disappoint you?”

You shake your head. “No, but it does make me wonder how old you actually are. Older than Dracula?”

All Josh can do is laugh and laugh. You’re not sure what he finds so funny, but as usual you do not get the chance to ask. The familiar pressure on your bones gets more intense with every passing moment. It’s how you know you’re on the verge of being pulled out of your blissful dream. You can’t even open your mouth to say goodbye because you’re abruptly yanked out of your subconscious before you can.

It’s always hard to keep going on with your day normally after you dream about Josh. You can never really function afterwards, not how you usually would.

“—even listening to me?”

You snap back into reality, realizing that Jeonghan has been talking to you this entire time. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes and gives you an accusatory look that confuses you. His eyebrows are raised as he leans forward. “I was saying that Soonyoung thinks you’re fucking someone.”

“What?” You splutter, suddenly feeling extremely flustered.

“I told him there’s no way that’s true because lately you’ve been holed up in your room sleeping every chance you get!”

You manage to not choke on your spit and give your friend an indignant glare. “Both you and Soonyoung need to worry about your own sex lives.”

The gleam in his eye changes, and you realize too late that you’ve made a mistake. “Wait. Are you actually fucking someone?”

“You know I’m not!” You hiss, starting to feel embarrassed.

Clearly, Jeonghan doesn’t believe you. He stares at you before something seems to click in his head. Your nervous stare and angry pout are telltale signs of deceit. His jaw drops a bit as he lets out an affronted squeak.

“No way. That’s why you’ve been in such a good mood lately!” He says with a conniving laugh. “And here I thought that night cream I recommended is the reason you’ve been glowing lately.”

Maybe the most embarrassing part about this is not that he’s trying to discuss your sex life (or lack thereof) at the local cafe and not wine night, but the fact that this alleged glow has nothing to do with a man—not a real one, anyway. But Jeonghan doesn’t need to know that.

“You would’ve heard me if that was true.”

Jeonghan’s ears slowly turn red as he pouts in disappointment. He really hoped you’d managed to break your three month long dry spell, and he also wanted to be right. It’s almost suspicious that he isn’t because he usually is. You’ve been a little too smiley lately like you have some hidden lover.

“If you say so.” He mutters bitterly.

This would be the point where you’d usually panic since Yoon Jeonghan can never be one to let anything go if he feels like he’s right. You feel at ease though because there’s no way he could ever find out about Josh.

“By the way… you’re definitely going to be gone this weekend, right?” Jeonghan suddenly asks in a tone you recognize all too well.

You try not to gag as you nod. “Yes. I already bought the tickets and Hao is in the city setting up his apartment so I have a place to stay while I’m up there.”

Jeonghan smirks victoriously. He nods, not even trying to hide how pleased he is as he pulls out his phone. Suddenly, he’s very grateful that you and Minghao have such an interest in history. When he’s done sending a message you would definitely call sleazy, he just laughs at your disgusted expression.

“Don’t give me that look. Not all of us have to practice celibacy like you.”

“Whatever.” You scoff with a roll of your eyes. “Just keep it in your room this time. I better not find any stains on the couch when I get back.”

He only laughs at you with a promise that you can’t think of as sincere.

“Are you playing with your food again?”

The voice sounds distant as Joshua is gently pulled out of the trance he’s used to being in now. He slow blinks, remnants of the beautiful vision still clear in his mind. Junhui’s words don’t bother him like they usually would’ve. Not when he finally feels alive for the first time in centuries. Still, he can’t control the annoyance he feels that his brother thinks this subject is something that can be joked and talked about lightly.

“You and Soonyoung are the only heathens who play with food.” Joshua’s tone is clipped, bordering on that murderous one that pops up any time someone mentions his latest obsession.

Junhui only laughs, head cocking to the side in interest. “I’m curious. Did you really find the grand love of your life, or is it just some girl who happens to look like her?”

“His obsession wouldn’t be so profound if it was a girl who merely looks like her.” Comes a voice from the top of the grand stairs.

They look up to see the oldest and the youngest of the coven coming down the stairs. Soonyoung doesn’t bother to hide his amused smirk while Minghao wears the same impassive expression he had when Joshua met him. His lack of reaction is the reason why he’s often the voice of reason in the coven, but his callous way of speaking never offers any comfort.

“Our brother is looking for the soul of his beloved—a soul that cannot be replicated nor imitated. Even if he’s to find her doppelgänger, he will not love her completely or sincerely.” Minghao says he takes a seat near the burning fireplace.

Soonyoung sits on the other end of the couch before he raises an eyebrow at Josh. He lets out a mocking snicker. “It’s giving stalker.”

As the most recently turned, their youngest has developed a proclivity for imitating the current slang. Joshua understands it (to an extent), but finds it folly. Then again, he doesn’t think its ridiculous when that person uses it.

But of course, that’s different.

Josh doesn’t bother to sneer at him for his snide remark. As a creature who hasn’t found a mate in the entire century he’s been alive, Soonyoung couldn’t possibly understand the ardent need to be close to the person chosen to be your mate.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Junhui points out, sounding almost bored now. “Have you found her? Your one true love?”

When Joshua smiles, it’s so pretty that even Minghao can’t help but stare. “I have.”

“Are you going to turn her?”

Soonyoung’s question hangs in the air, and as much as Josh wants to hiss at him to mind his own business, he sees how Junhui and Minghao are also looking at him. Turning someone isn’t as simple as it used to be—if it could ever be considered simple. Now there were too many factors and too many risks involved.

“I have to find her physically before I can think of anything else.” Josh sighs deeply.

“Brother.” Minghao says in his serious tone. “Think of your next moves carefully. You’ve found her reincarnation, but she doesn’t remember you, and there’s no guarantee that she ever will.”

For once, the younger ones don’t say anything teasing or goading. They look at him just as solemnly as Minghao is. It’s a harsh truth that Joshua had acknowledged long ago but not fully accepted.

His love doesn’t remember him. This is a fact.

But even if she never does, he doesn’t plan on letting her go. Not again.

“You’re unhappy.”

The observation is astute, and even though it’s been months, you can’t get used to how easily Josh can see through you. It shouldn’t have the affect on you that it does, but there’s just something about having someone know you so well that makes your heart jerk with emotion. Part of you feels insane for feeling this way because this man is just a figment of your imagination created by your subconscious.

Josh smiles placatingly when he sees your pout. He’s sure that you’re not aware that you do it, which makes it all the more cute in his eyes.

“Work hasn’t been great lately.” You say honestly, only hesitating a moment before telling him the rest. “Also... Jeonghan set me up on this blind date. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, but I haven’t been on a date in forever.”

You’re not sure why it feels like you’re saying something absolutely heart wrenching. If you had to describe it, it’s almost like you’re admitting to cheating or something similar which is fucking insane since Josh isn’t your boyfriend—or real, for that matter.

There’s a shift in his kind eyes. A cold rage settles in the depths of his dark irises that makes you feel like you’re staring an evil creature in the face. Before you can ponder it, the expression is is gone so fast that you almost think you imagined it.

“You don’t have to go.” He finally says, and you wonder if he actually sounds like he’s pleading or if it’s just something your subconscious is hoping for.

A teasing smile stretches your lips. “Yeah? Should I just stay here with you, instead?”

Joshua wishes he could say yes. Stay with me and never leave my side again. The words are on the tip of his tongue, and even though he’s dying to say them, he knows he shouldn’t. In this lifetime and your previous one, he had to be patient when courting you. Clearly some things never changed.

“Don’t look so excited.” You joke when you see him hesitate.

His laugh is pretty and soft. You’re not sure why the sound comforts you in a way that almost feels familiar. As if that’s the one sound that could take away any horrible feeling you’ve ever experienced. The longer you listen to the dulcet sound, the more it makes your heart ache for a reason you can’t understand. It’s a type of yearning that feels deeper than the normalcy of seeing him every day.

“I wish you weren’t a dream.”

Joshua’s laughter dies down and the smile slips off his face at hearing your words. You almost regret saying them, but it’s too late to take them back. Not that you would since they’re the absolute truth. He knows you better than most of your friends do, and it’s hard not to feel this intense affection for him. The crazy part of it all is that you can literally feel how much he adores you too.

“Maybe you’re my dream.” Josh’s smile is full of longing and sadness.

Before you can respond, you’re abruptly pulled out of the dream by the blaring sound of a car horn. You startle awake, bleary vision belatedly registering that you’re now in the city. Minghao looks at you with wide eyes, a startled laugh slipping past his lips. “Are you okay?”

You nod wearily, taking a moment to shake of the intense emotions your dream had left you with. It’s clear that Minghao doesn’t fully believe you, but he doesn’t press the subject and keeps driving toward museum.

Being at the museum doesn’t help you as much as you hope. The artifacts and paintings are intriguing, but your irritating mind only keeps associating everything with Josh. He’s always talked like someone from another time so looking at ancient items and old paintings naturally makes you keep picturing his face.

“For someone who kept begging me to clear my schedule so we could come here, you don’t look very excited.”

You give Minghao a guilty look because you know how busy he is. “Sorry. I’m just kind of distracted.”

“And why is that?”

It’s not that you don’t trust Minghao. You do, but you can’t tell him that you’re infatuated with a man who shows up in your dreams.

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your friend raises an eyebrow at you. As usual Minghao sees right through your half-truth. “You’ve been having nightmares?”

“Not exactly.” You say. The resolve to keep your secret quickly dissolved when Minghao gives you a look that somehow always compels you to do what he wants. “I can’t sleep because I keep dreaming of a guy.”

“A guy?” Minghao raises his eyebrows in a way that reminds you of Jeonghan.

“It’s not like that.” You say, skin heating up in embarrassment. “I don’t even think he’s real. He just keeps appearing in my dreams, and I feel crazy every time I think about him.”

Minghao doesn’t laugh or tell you you’re crazy. Instead he looks at you with a sharpened gaze that looks like it holds a certain amount of concern and something else you can’t discern. If his heart was capable of beating, his heart rate would’ve spiked at the information you told him.

You’re vague in your description (which was impressive because his gift is powerful enough to get people to admit to murder), but it’s enough to have his mind reeling. Is it possible that you’d fallen into the clutches of an incubus? Minghao isn’t overly fond of humans, but you’re different. He can’t let you become the prey of such a lascivious creature.

“I have some tea that’s good for sleeping." He says as normally as he can as you two walk along the museum. “When we get back to my place, I’ll give you some.”

You nod silently, not entirely sure if his teas will help with your lucid dreaming. Even if they did, it’s not like you want to stop seeing this imaginary man that makes you feel more loved than you ever had. But there’s a part of you that knows you can’t keep sleeping with the hopes of seeing Josh again.

The inner turmoil you’re feeling is interrupted when Minghao pulls you to the section he’d been dying to see from the beginning. His laughter immediately makes you come back down to earth. It’s not like your friend never laughs, but this one is full and louder than you’ve ever heard it. You’re not sure why he finds the painting of a duke so funny. Just as you’re about to question him, you see the painting and feel the world around you come to a stop.

It feels like your heart stopped beating and dropped down to your stomach. Your usually quiet mind is reeling, trying to fathom what you’re seeing. There’s no way.

The painting is of a man, but not just any man.

It’s Josh.

Your Josh.

You keep blinking as if another face will appear in the very old painting. If you felt crazy before, the feeling worsens the longer you stare at the oils that form the face you’ve come to memorize and love. The description of the painting says the man born in 1714 was a famous duke notorious for starting a rebellion against the crown.

“So this is the only painting of the Hong Jisoo?” Your friend cackles, but you’re not sure what’s so funny.

It’s good that he’s so distracted by whatever it is he finds so funny because you’re about two seconds away from breaking down. How is it possible that some duke from centuries ago was appearing in your dreams? Is it possible that you’d somehow seen his image before and projected it into your dreams? You don’t remember even reading about him, and it only makes you feel more crazy.

Back at Minghao’s luxury apartment, you can’t stop thinking about that stupid painting of Hong Jisoo. How is it possible for you to dream about a person that was alive centuries ago? It doesn’t make sense, and the more you think about it, the more freaked out you feel.

“Here.” Hao says as he hands you a warm mug of tea. “Drink it to see if it helps. I’ll give you some to take home if you like it.”

You thank him, really hoping this puts an end to your unhealthy dreams.

“It’s not working!” Josh growls angrily. “There’s something blocking me from seeing her. I’m sure of it.”

Soonyoung and Junhui roll their eyes. Josh has been complaining about not being able to transcend into his true love’s subconscious for the last three hours, and it’s starting to drive them insane. It’s not that they’re not sympathetic, but it was quite literally the only thing the older vampire could talk about. Not to mention the fact that after months of visiting his mate every day, he did nothing to figure out where she was—a total waste in their opinion.

Before Josh can keep repeating the same frustrated things he’s been griping about all morning, they hear the door open and the familiar sound of boots clacking against the marble floor.

“Minghao!” Soonyoung cries when the oldest of the coven walks into the living room. “Finally, you’re back! Jisoo hasn’t stopped whining about his mate since you left! You need to put a stop to him!”

Minghao sets down his suitcases with an exhausted sigh. “What’s going on?”

“He claims there’s a barrier preventing him from entering his mate’s subconscious.” Junhui explains, sending a skeptical look Joshua’s way. “Which is impossible because a mere human isn’t capable of blocking his gift.”

While that is true, there are certain things humans have done for centuries to ward off creatures of the night. However, it is strange that there’s a sudden block to his mate’s subconscious after being left vulnerable for so many months.

“Perhaps your mate has realized that you’re a nefarious creature and not just a figment of her imagination.” Minghao muses as he goes to sit at his usual place by the fire. “If that’s the case, she may have sought out a witch to block her psyche from unsavory visitors.”

The dark look Josh sends his way is amusing to the rest. Maybe it’s cruel to disregard the anguish his brother clearly feels, but being empathetic has never been one of Minghao’s character traits. Even so, some of the humanity he once had still lingers within him.

“However, if you truly wish to find her I can contact Jihoon—”

“No.” Josh snaps immediately. The growl in his voice is menacing as his eyes darken. “I’ll find her on my own.”

The silence that follows is tense until Soonyoung breaks it by insisting on seeing pictures from Minghao’s trip. As always, he obliges to the youngest’s request, tossing his phone over without taking his eyes off Josh.

“If that were possible you would have already found her.”

It’s a frustrating truth. He hadn’t been able to figure out anything that would help him find you because he didn’t want to scare you off. Now he regrets playing the part of a gentleman because it feels like he’s lost you all over again.

“Is this the human you’re always talking about?”

Usually, Josh doesn’t take any interest in humans aside from his meals, but the way Minghao’s sharp gaze switches to an almost fond one intrigues him enough to look at the screen Soonyoung is holding out toward them.

It’s like his heartbeat comes back to life when he sees a video of a beautiful girl staring at one of his old swords.

“Yes. That’s—”

“Y/N.”

Minghao looks at Josh in surprise. He’s incredulous, but it’s soon replaced by horror when he realizes why his brother is looking at the phone with a predatory gaze.

“You…” Minghao’s icy tone makes the younger ones still. They recognize the murderous intent behind that tone instantly. “You’re the one who’s been invading her dreams.”

Josh snarls at his oldest friend. “You’re the one responsible for the barrier.”

It’s like watching two animals raising their hackles at one another. Except both of them are capable of destroying each other and everything around them without caring.

Junhui is quick to step in, holding a firm hand to Minghao’s chest. “She’s his mate.”

It’s meant to make him see reason, but all it does is anger Minghao.

“A mate that he betrayed time and time again!” His words make them all flinch. “You’re the reason those hunters found her and burned her alive!”

Never has a silence so thick and tense surrounded them before. It’s a low blow to bring up Josh’s greatest pain in such a way, but Minghao is beyond seeing reason at this point.

“Both of you need to calm down.” Soonyoung says as he stands in the middle.

“Do you have feelings for her?” Josh demands, not understanding why the person who had helped him search for his mate’s reincarnation for centuries was suddenly acting this way.

“She’s a pure soul.” Minghao says, sounding a little defeated. “One that doesn’t deserve to become a monster like us.”

It’s tense and silent again, but this time the air feels different. All four of them knew how painful and awful it was to turn. Back then, they had been the unlucky ones to survive an attack when they were meant to be someone’s food. Minghao wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all you.

“Let her decide.” Soonyoung breaks the silence, being reasonable for the first time in a long time. He looks to Josh, gaze as serious as ever. “If you really love her, tell her the truth and let her decide what to do.”

Minghao has always been an enigma. He’s private to the point where you sometimes feel like you don’t know him at all. It’s why you’re so surprised when he invites you over to his main house which is basically synonymous with prohibited. He never invites anyone there, not even Jeonghan who’s known him longer than you have.

Your friend’s home is expectedly opulent and beautiful, but there’s also this ominous air surrounding it. Minghao remains silent as he leads you to the entrance. His somber attitude isn’t exactly uncharacteristic. He’s naturally quiet and serious, but right now he almost seems angry. You can tell his mind is far away, light years away even.

Before you can think to question him, he leads you to the living room and sits you down on one of the couches. His cold hands don’t move from your shoulders even after you’re seated. You look up at him in curiosity because he seems to be contemplating something.

“Don’t be angry with me.” His tone is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and you have to wonder what he’s done for him to plead with you like this. (Xu Minghao does not beg.)

Hands fall from your shoulders as Minghao side steps out of the way. Everything goes in slow motion from then on. He’s stepped out of the way to reveal a man who you recognize very well. Your heart jumps and starts to beat erratically as you take in his ethereal features.

What’s happening feels like a more intense version of what happened at the museum. Minghao’s friend(?) looks exactly like Josh. He even looks at you like Josh does.

“Y/N.”

The organ in your chest throbs at the sound because it’s so soft and pretty, just like it is in your dreams. He sounds so similar to Josh that you feel insane for wanting to run into this man’s arms like you always do with Josh in your dreams.

Your mind is a beat behind, and it’s only after this stranger called your name that you realize Minghao had apologized to you before he appeared. When you look over to your friend, he’s observing you carefully in a way you can’t understand.

“What’s going on? What is this?” You ask, feeling like you’ve been set up.

There’s a thick silence, and just when you contemplate on getting up to leave, the unknown guy falls to his knees in front of you.

“Please forgive me.”

Your eyes practically pop out of your head at the unsolicited apology. “I– What?”

The silence is uncomfortable, and you can only look back to Minghao for an explanation.

“You’ve seen Jisoo before—in your dreams.” Minghao says slowly as if it pains him to tell you.

Jisoo?

“When you told me that a man kept reappearing in your dreams, I thought you were being preyed on by an incubus.” Minghao chuckles bitterly. “But I was a fool not to see that the truth was much worse.”

“Incubus?” You whisper incredulously. “You mean those demons that fuck people while they’re asleep?”

Neither men react to your crude words. They’re looking at you solemnly as if Minghao didn’t just say something completely insane. None of it makes sense nor does it provide you with the explanation you demanded.

“You can’t be serious! Incubuses—“

“Incubi.” Minghao corrects you. He regrets it as soon as he sees the dark look on your face.

“—don’t exist.” You finish through gritted teeth.

“They’re not the only demons running rampant on this earth.” Minghao says as he shares a look with the man who is still kneeling in front of you. “Just look at the monster in front of you and you’ll know what I’m saying is true.”

This Jisoo guy looks nothing like a monster. Not even as he’s giving your friend the most withering glare you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t give me that look. I brought her here so she can know the truth.”

At this point, you don’t know if they’re friends or enemies with the way they’re glowering at each other. And you still don’t know what truth they’re talking about, either.

“Jisoo has been trying to find you for centuries.” Minghao finally says, eyes softening just the tiniest bit when he looks back at you.

You don’t say anything because it all sounds like some crazy lie. Minghao isn’t the type to pull pranks, but there’s no other logical explanation for what’s happening. And yet, it also isn’t possible that he could know what the man from your dreams looked like and somehow find someone who looks exactly like him for his prank.

“We’re vampires.” Jisoo says, voice soft and comforting. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

“Prove it.”

Your words come out before you can stop them. It’s not what you meant to say (not right away, anyway), but you don’t try to backtrack. On the off chance that they’re not pulling some elaborate prank, you need to know that you’re not crazy for kind of believing what they’re saying.

Minghao and Jisoo are looking at you with wide eyes, but the challenging look on your face doesn’t waver. They both know you enough to realize you aren’t going to believe them until they prove that they’re not lying.

Jisoo grins, but it seems bitter in a way. “Okay. Just… don’t be scared.”

You raise an eyebrow when his smile stretches further. It’s not until you see four of his teeth elongating into literal fangs that you feel your pulse start to race. His eyes have darkened into an inhuman shade of black that reminds you of a demon. Now you understood what Minghao meant when he called Jisoo a monster.

But that also means…

In a panic, you look to your friend. Much to your horror, he too is bearing those monstrous characteristics now. Dark eyes and fangs that make them look like the monsters they claim to be. It feels like you’re in one of your lucid dreams, and in the back of your mind you hope that’s what this is.

“Did you bring me here to kill me?” You’re surprised that your voice comes out as calm as it does, and even though you’re terrified, you can’t react how you know you should be.

“We would never hurt you.” Jisoo says, features slowly reverting back to normal. “No matter what, I won’t let anyone or anything bring you harm.”

It’s crazy that he’s promising you this with what feels like genuine sincerity, and it’s even crazier that it makes your chest warm with affection. You press your lips together, trying to make sense of how any of this is actually possible.

“You’re the reincarnation of Jisoo’s true love.” Minghao breaks the heavy silence. “He’s been searching for your soul since your untimely death.”

“That’s why you came into my dreams.” You whisper, not sure how to feel about this alleged truth.

“Yes.” Jisoo says, voice soft as ever. “I called myself Josh since it’s a modern name. You can still call me that if you wish.”

You stay silent, trying to deal with the onslaught of emotions you’re feeling without revealing any on your face. It’s hard, but you manage as you look back at your friend. “And you knew about this the entire time?”

“I didn’t know he’d been invading your dreams.” Minghao says honestly. “If I had—”

Minghao cuts his sentence short, and you can tell he’s trying his best to keep his emotions in check. It’s clear that he doesn’t like the idea of you being the reincarnation of Josh’s true love. You don’t understand why he brought you to meet him if that’s the case.

“Minghao.” Josh’s tone takes a threatening tone that you never thought him capable of emitting.

“Tell her.” Minghao says, clearly unfazed by Joshua’s sudden malicious attitude. “She has a right to know the truth before you think you can spend the rest of eternity with her.”

It’s silent for a moment before you see Josh’s shoulders slump. He looks slightly defeated and nervous. Seeing him in distress makes you uncomfortable, and you have to wonder if these are your actual feelings or something beyond your control.

“I first met you five years after I was first turned.” He starts, eyes begging for understanding. “You were running from a clan of demons who murdered your coven.”

The air is tense. You can feel your heart start to throb with hurt that you can’t place. A familiar burning sensation starts to poke at the back of your eyes, but you can’t understand why. “You saved me?”

Minghao clears his throat, eyes threatening.

“Unwillingly.” He admits, head hanging a little lower. “I was content in my solitude, and helping a witch didn’t sound appealing to me.”

“He also didn’t want to help a witch that belonged to the coven he helped exterminate.”

Minghao’s blunt statement makes your blood run cold. There’s a strange feeling that manifests itself in your chest. It’s an odd mixture of resentment, anger, and heartbreak. The feelings are familiar yet foreign. You feel the tears fall from your eyes before you can even think to hold them back. It’s all new information, but something in your bones recognizes the hurt and devastation.

“You killed my family.” The words aren’t yours, but in a strange way it feels like they are. “You almost killed me.”

“It was before I fell in love with you.” Josh sounds defeated. “Back then I was only concerned with my own survival, and I was a fool to let it get in the way of my love for you.”

Again, the air becomes tense. It makes Minghao almost regret doing this, but you ultimately have to know the truth. All of it.

“Tell her how you got her killed.”

More tears keep spilling from your eyes, and you can’t fathom the fact that they don’t feel like yours. A gentle hand wipes them away. Through blurry vision you can see Josh looking pained as he gently cradles your face in his large hand.

“I refused to go into hiding after the humans started to become more wary of our existence. Because of that, you and I were attacked by a group of hunters.” Josh feels a pain he hasn’t in centuries just talking about this to you of all people. “You protected me with your magic. I don’t know why you saved a wicked creature like me instead of yourself, but I really wish you hadn’t.”

The tears have stopped now, but Josh’s thumb is still gently caressing your face. His touch is cold yet comforting. You let out a shaky sigh, not sure what to do with all the information you’ve been given.

“This is why Minghao feels that I don’t deserve you, and maybe he’s right. But I’ve always been a selfish creature which is why I can’t give you up. Not in this lifetime or any other.”

Josh says it tenderly, but somehow you feel like you’ve become his prey.

Sometimes you wonder if letting Josh get so close to you is a mistake. Minghao seems to think it is even if he doesn’t tell you outright. Still, at least he’s supportive of your decision (as much as he can be, anyway). In spite of the fact that you now know the man of your dreams is a dangerous predator, you don’t feel unsafe when you’re with him. There’s also the fact that you can literally see the love he has for you every time you look at him.

Giving into him is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. It feels natural and right, especially since he’s so sweet to you. You feel yourself fall harder every time you’re with him. He knows you better than anyone and treats you like you’re his everything.

Your relationship feels completely surreal and fast paced, but in an odd way it also feels like it’s not fast enough. The feeling has something to do with your past life you’re sure. After all, Josh had been waiting centuries for you to reincarnate.

He must’ve been so lonely.

You suck in a quiet breath as the thought comes to you, one that feels like it came from deep in your subconscious and is not entirely yours. Josh’s eyes snap open at the sound. He’s looking straight at you from where he has his head in your lap.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

Unlike Minghao, Josh doesn’t have the power of coercion, but you’re still unable to lie to him. (Unwilling is a better term, but, details.)

“Did you really not have another lover after I died?” Your question isn’t accusatory, and part of you hopes he says yes. “Like you never even hooked up with someone else in three centuries?”

Josh’s airy laughter makes your chest warm. He brings your intertwined hands to his lips, placing a tender kiss on the back of yours. “If you do not believe me, I shall bring Minghao and have him use his gift on me.”

He’s teasing you, but you also know he’s dead serious. It shouldn’t thrill you so much that he’s willing to do just about anything for you—even subject himself to Minghao who still harbors a bit of a grudge towards him.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, I just…” You let out a quiet sigh. “You must’ve been really lonely.”

The way you look heartbroken and guilty isn’t satisfying, but it is alleviating somehow. You truly haven’t changed. The beautiful, kind soul he fell in love with remains intact, and he can’t be more grateful for that.

“At first I was. Then I met Minghao and joined his coven. They made it more bearable.”

You bring the hand that’s not attached to Josh’s to his head and run a gentle hand through his hair. “It must’ve been hard.”

Josh only offers you a hum. He can’t deny that it was, but he also doesn’t want to keep making you feel bad with all the details. That would have to be for another time.

“How many dreams did you invade before you finally found me?” You suddenly ask, wondering just how many psyches he had to go through over the course of 300 years.

“None.” His smile is a little bitter. “I’m not a incubus, so I can only enter your subconscious.”

The confused look on your face makes him let out a quiet laugh. It’s so innocent that it’s hilarious. Especially because you don’t remember that the restriction to his gift was your doing.

“Every time I tried to use my gift, I couldn’t. That’s how I knew you hadn’t been reincarnated yet. As soon as you were born I was able to tell, but I still couldn’t get into your psyche until you were ready to let me in—this is all curtesy of you, of course.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He laughs. “Because I can’t dream, you bestowed this gift on me so I would be able to experience a dreamlike state again. Since you didn’t want the bloodthirsty heathen that I was back then to invade the minds of unsuspecting humans, you put all these limitations on my gift.”

His laugh is cute as he reminisces. It makes you smile too until you think of something.

The other day, Josh had mentioned he used to feed off of you in his past life because it tasted different and apparently it was like a kink for both of you. It freaked you out at first, but lately you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Honestly, the more the image plagued your mind, the harder it was not to feel turned on by it. You wonder if it would hurt and if you would like the hurt.

“Do you want to feed on me?”

If Josh’s heart was capable of beating, he has no doubt it would’ve been harshly pounding against his rib cage. He slowly gets up, feeling his cock throb and his throat itch.

“Darling—”

“You’ve never done it, and I was wondering if it was something you want to do.”

Of course he wanted to do it. Your scent is mouthwatering, and he just knows you taste divine. Up until now he hadn’t brought it up because he didn’t want you to think that’s all he wanted. All you two have done this past month is share some kisses, and that was perfectly fine. If that’s all you were willing to give him he’s gladly take it so long as you let him be part of your life.

Josh swallows thickly as he contemplates his answer. While it sort of sounds like you’re offering, he can’t assume anything. Plus he doesn’t want to seem like the monster Minghao told you he is.

When you see him hesitate, you make a decision that really isn’t all that hard for you. With an enticing smile, you tilt your head the slightest bit and offer your neck to him. “Bite me.”

In a split second, Josh pulls you on his lap so you’re straddling him. You gasp quietly when he sits you directly on his hardening cock. His eyes are dark like on the day he revealed himself to you. In the back of your mind, you know this is a dangerous game you’re playing, but you don’t feel one shred of regret or fear.

“I’ll be gentle.” He promises, voice breathy and needy.

Josh trails gentle kisses up and down your neck with patience that you find impressive. His fangs tease the tender skin as he opens his mouth slightly, and it’s almost like you can feel it throb in anticipation. With one last sweet kiss, Joshua sinks his teeth into your skin until you can feel a stabbing pain.

You gasp out a moan at the feeling. The pain lasts a second before you feel it rapidly fade. It’s replaced by images that invade the forefront of your mind. Memories that you don’t remember rush forward as if they were aching to be freed from the depths of your mind. There’s so many, and in spite of the fact that they pass through your mind quickly, you see every one of them.

When you come back down to reality, Josh is still drinking from you. He groans into your skin, reluctantly pulling away and licking the puncture wound he’s left behind. Josh continues to press kisses along your skin and whispered praises that you can’t help but melt into him.

“Jisoo.” You breathe out softly.

Joshua freezes when he hears what you’ve called him. He pulls back, eyes wide as he takes in the way you’re looking at him. Your gaze has always been full of affection, but now it’s full of ardent love that reminds him of the way you looked at him all those centuries ago.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Y/N…” Josh sounds breathless as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I’m sorry it took me this long to remember.” You murmur as your bring a hand up to caress his cool cheek. “But I guess it’s only fair since you left me first.”

“It’s my biggest regret.” Josh says honestly, grip tightening on you.

You hum, trailing your thumb over his lips. He opens his mouth the slightest bit so you can touch his fangs just like you used to do once upon a time. Goosebumps cover your skin at the familiarity of it all. The feelings in your chest deepen impossibly as you replay all the memories that slowly keep coming to mind. You thought it would be impossible to love Josh any more than you already did, but once again you were proven wrong.

You let out a shocked squeak when he pulls you closer to him. His face is shoved into the side of your neck that he didn’t bite, breathing in your addicting scent. “I was so afraid that you wouldn’t remember.”

“If you wouldn’t have been such a gentleman and bitten me sooner it wouldn’t have taken me so long.” You laugh, hugging him tighter.

The two of you stay like that until you shift and realize you’re still sitting on his hard cock. In a flash, the hot memory of Josh ravishing you back then goes straight to your cunt. You lick your lips and decide that you both have been waiting long enough to be with each other again.

“I’m impressed you kept your chastity just for me.” You purr into his ear, gently grinding down on his cock. “Such a loyal lover until the end.”

Josh doesn’t hesitate to take you to bed, cock aching to be inside you once again. He’s gentle when he finally gets you naked, eyes full of desire and love. “So fucking pretty.”

A breathy moan escapes you when his cold hands start to caress your body. His lips trails your neck, gently teasing you with his sharp teeth. Your skin heats up at the attention, and you feel like your floating by the time Josh gets his dick out to finally give you what you’ve been wanting.

“I missed you so much.” He groans as his throbbing cock slowly eases past your wet folds.

You moan along with him, hands finding his to lace your fingers together. “Missed you too, my love.”

Josh’s cock twitches inside you when he hears the pet name come out of your pretty little mouth. His leaking tip brushes against your cervix as your legs wrap around his hips. His pace is slow at first, trying to savor the feeling of your hot, tight cunt wrapped around him. He buries his face into your neck, licking and biting at the skin as his thrusts start to get tougher and deeper.

Your moaning is loud, and you’re amazed that he still knows which angels to hit after so much time. It’s like you’re seeing stars when Josh gently bites at your skin. He does it teasingly until you’re begging him to bite you again.

“Stop teasing.” You whine wantonly, hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

His chuckle is low and has your pussy clamping down on his cock, drenching it in your arousal. You can’t remember the last time you were so turned on. It hasn’t been long, but it already feels like you’re about to come.

“Seeing you fall apart like this is my favorite thing.” You can feel his sinister smirk against your neck. “It’s been too long since I last saw it.”

Josh lets go of one of your hands to bring a thumb to your clit. He starts to rub slow circles on the sensitive nub as his thrusts grow more ravenous. You cry out in pleasure when his thick cock hits your sweet spot roughly. Your back arches in pleasure as you feel your juices start to coat his heavy balls.

“Never letting you go again.” Joshua growls lowly, more to himself than you. “All mine.”

With his possessive declaration, he sinks his fangs into your neck for a second time. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you violently come all over his big cock.

“Fuck!” You cry out, hips moving against his arms he continues to fuck you through your high.

He’s licking at your open would now, sharp thrusts angled just right to have you on the cusp of another orgasm. Joshua pulls back, pink lips painted scarlet with your blood. He looks ravenous, and you think you might actually come again from how hot he looks.

“That’s it, darling.” Josh sounds insatiable. “Cream all over me.”

It’s not long before the sight of you completely fucked out triggers his own orgasm. Thick ropes of cum shoot inside your pulsing walls, painting them white with his seed. His moans are as pretty as you remember, and they mix in with your perfectly as he fucks his cum deeper inside you.

“Fuck me again.” You pant out, still longing for the second orgasm he was coaxing out of you.

Josh’s smirks as he flips you over on your front. “Still as insatiable as ever, darling.”

You look back at him with a laugh. “Like you’re any better. So hurry and fill me up again.”

You’ll never get sick of the feeling of his cold skin on yours as he grips your ass. Josh’s large hands rub and squeeze before you feel his throbbing cock tease your messy cunt. You let out a needy whine, tilting your hips up more to offer yourself to him.

“Such a needy little thing.” Joshua murmurs in that mean but sweet tone only he was capable of having.

“Only for you, my love.” You mewl, pussy throbbing at the thought of him splitting you open again.

As is his style, Josh slowly pushes his fat cock into your hot cunt, making you feel every inch of him. Then, in a split second he shoves the rest in like he can’t wait to be inside you any longer. The jolt of pleasure and slight sting of the stretch was enough to tip you over the edge for a second time.

You muffle your cry of pleasure in the sheets, fingers clinging to the soft cotton as your pussy clenches down on Josh’s cock, making him feel even bigger inside you. He groans from behind you, loving how your juices coat his cock as if you’re claiming it as yours.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Can you do that for me one more time?”

It’s more of a rhetorical question because in the next second his fingers are digging into your hips as he pulls his cock all the way out before shoving it back into your needy pussy with a sharp thrust. You can feel your body tremble as your pussy grips his cock like a vise.

“So fucking tight.” He groans, voice dripping with lust.

“Fuck me!” You moan, pushing back on his cock with insatiable need.

At your desperate demand, Josh sera a brutal pace. He fuck you hard and rough, leaking tip hitting your sweet spot over and over again until all he can hear is lewd squelching and skin slapping. His hips slam against your ass, obsessed with the way your sweet crema coats his cock. You cry out his name as his heavy balls slap against your throbbing clit.

Josh is pounding you into the mattress, cock splitting you open deliciously. You’re so addicted to the feeling that you can’t help but spur him on. “Don’t stop!”

You cry out in ecstasy when he does exactly as you ask. He pounds his cock against the spot inside you that has you seeing stars. Your fingers grips the sheets as you bounce your ass back to meet his thrusts desperately.

“You’re close again, right, baby?” Josh’s voice is teasing. He doesn’t need to ask, though. He knows you are because he knows your body.

You’re moaning and shaking with overwhelming pleasure. All you can do is nod as you bring your hand down between your bodies to rub your aching clit. With all the stimulation from your fingers and his cock, you fall over the edge once again. Your body tenses as you moan out Josh’s name with ecstasy. The excess of your orgasm drips down Josh’s cock, staining it and marking it as yours.

With one last thrust, he shoots his hot cum inside you, moaning your name like a mantra. He sloppily fuck it back into you before pulling you flush against his chest. You two collapse back on the bed with Josh holding you closely as if he thinks you might disappear.

Slowly, you turn around with his cock still inside you. Joshua’s eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. “How are you feeling?”

“Amazing.” You breathe out blissfully. “And not just because you’ve stuffed me full.”

His cock twitches inside of you, and you can’t help but let out an endeared laugh. Your chest is warm as he hugs you closer to him, lips gently skimming over your puncture wound.

“Jisoo.”

He hums against your neck, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

“I was so afraid when I first died.” You confess, feeling him tense. You’re quick to pull him closer and caress his cheek. “Afraid that I’d be reborn and you wouldn’t be there when I was.”

Josh swallows thickly and comes to cup the hand that’s still brushing over his cheek. “I’ll never leave you alone again.”

“I know. Once you turn me, we’ll have the rest of eternity together.”

It all feels too good to be true, but you know that this is reality and not just another one of your sweet dreams.

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