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strawurberries · 2 years ago

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Hello Berry! I just wanted to slide a request your way cause I'm not gonna lie the fanfic you wrote with vash where the reader has stretchmarks almost had me in tears cause I'm so self-conscious about mine and it just made me so happy to read it.

So, I was wondering if I could have a fanfic with that same premise with nai? 🥺

I want all the plant boys!

🍰Anon (if it's okay to be called that)

Stretch Marks (Knives Version)

Summary: Knives find himself enamored with a little human quirk he was previously in the dark about.

Authors Note: Hello!! I'm so glad my writing was able to help you! That's really all I've wanted from my writing, to have people read it and feel better about themselves and/or just enjoy it in any way! I hope you enjoy this one just as much as my Vash one! (Also, you're totally welcome to be the 🍰 Anon) And, once again, here's your tag @blackkiwi :) hope you all love it !

Warnings: Mild nudity, sexual themes, self-hate

His fascination with the human boggled everyone, even his great mind was submerged deep in confusion; so much, in fact, that at first he was completely convinced they were an independent like him. There was no possible way a human could garner his attention (and later on, his affection) so, therefore, the only logical solution to this little puzzle was that she was, in fact, not human. Every moment—well, every moment he wasn’t brooding over the melancholic mood he had decided to live within—was spent thinking about her. She’s strange, kind, and unbearably interesting. It took a month or so for him to finally come to the conclusion—and accept said conclusion—that she was human, nothing more nothing less. Of course that realization was detrimental in so many different ways it would take a hundred years to write about the emotional turmoil and confliction he felt; but, on days like this, he supposed his feelings weren’t all that bad.

“Are you going to drink it?” She sipped on her tea and pointed at the steaming cup (it was ceramic and a painfully awkward blue that clashed with the entirety of her kitchen, but she said she bought it because “it reminded me of you”. Despite his protests, and the want for a different, less ugly cup, she had assigned him to the blue cup; and only the blue cup).

He looked at the murky liquid, “no.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want it.”

“So you just came all this way to stare at me?”

He huffed and took the cup, looking around at the quaint little house he had somehow found himself in. “I was in town. That’s all.” He really shouldn’t be here, more pressing matters nipping at the base of his heels, clawing at his back like starved, abused dogs. The world was begging him to leave, to complete his mission and his faith, but for the first time in a long time, he ignored it.

He took a small sip.

She smiled, “Oh yeah, right. Just in town, decided to stop by. That’s the story you’re going with?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Nai.”

He didn’t know if he was annoyed she had the audacity to use a nickname, or excited at the prospect that she loved him enough to do so. “You’re the only one who’s ever said such a thing to me.”

“That’s because everyone else is too scared. You know, you’re a little bit intimidating.”

He couldn’t stop the indignant noise that left his throat, “a little?”

She set her cup down and pinched two fingers together, “just a tad.”

“A tad,” he deadpanned.

“Sorry,” she grinned, “a smidge.”

He took another sip of his drink and ignored her. Bastardly human, he cursed in his head. If it had been anyone else, especially a human, that dared to tease him like that, they’d be dead before they knew it; sliced and diced into neat little squares, perfect enough for a tea party snack. Not that he ever had tea parties, or ate people, but the mental image alone was enough to ward off the majority of pests.

She grabbed her cup and walked over to the sink, rinsing it off before putting it away. She yawned and raised her arms, “it’s only seven o’clock but I feel exhausted.”

Nai looked up at her, swirling the cup in his hands idly. The tea wasn’t the best, nor was it something particularly homey or nostalgic enough to make him drink more, but she had poured her time and heart into creating this so, he supposed, drinking it was the least he could do. He took another sip before his eyes settled on her again, most of her body covered by the cup from his perspective.

She groaned, “I have to go to the market today. I’m running low on. . . well, everything. Or, oh no. It’s too late for that I guess. Tomorrow would be a good enough day to go.”

He finished the drink and set the cup to the set (still mildly upset at how ugly it was—the colors really clashed with the rest of the house. If it was his choice, he would’ve gotten rid of the mug ages ago and replaced it with something that matched his taste, or, at the very least, matched the aesthetic of the house). “You do tend to procrastinate.”

“Oh shut up,” she rolled her shoulders back, her shirt riding up ever so slightly. “Give me your cup.” She beckoned him with a wave of her hand.

He wordlessly handed it to her.

She washed it, dried it with an old rag, and slid it in the cupboard next to her favorite mug. “Next time you get to do the dishes.”

He opened his mouth to respond, an insult whipping on the tip of his tongue, but he caught the sight of her bare skin. It looked softer than he had imagined, smooth and—he tilted his head, mind momentarily reeling at what he saw. Little markings, he blinked, like me. He didn’t know how or why, but his chest constricted and the only thing he could feel was the intense blazing emotion of curiosity and. . . something he couldn’t identify.

She has markings.

Like me?

Like me.

He stepped forward and grabbed the hem of her shirt, yanking it up to her chest. The fabric gave way easily enough, revealing what had interested him so. Swirls and lines decorated her belly, wrapping into each other like the galaxies he had seen oh so long ago. The only thing he could think of was how absolutely divine it looked. His view though, his beautifully artistic view, was interrupted with a shove and a loud gasp.

“Wha–what was that?!” she grabbed her shirt and pulled it down, the fabric taunt in her grip, “usually you ask before you go taking people’s shirts off!”

He was focused on her now covered stomach, mind short-circuiting. “Show me again.” The sight was burned into the forefront of his mind, heart giddy with the possibilities. Maybe she was a plant, an independent. Or even, partially so—he’d take that, he’d take anything as long as she wasn’t human. . . would he? Suddenly his excitement turned into a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The thought of rejecting her for being something different from him, it made him sick for a moment. He may be a God, something divinity has blessed, but he was undoubtedly seduced by mortal wiles. Though, and he shoved this thought to the back of his mind, I don’t really mind.

She shook her head, “no–wait, what am I even showing?”

“Those patterns,” he raised his head up, watching her intently, “I want to see them again.”

“Patterns?” she thought for a moment, before a strike of realization hit her face, “my stretch marks?” Her grip loosened every so slightly, before quickly regaining her previous strength.

“Whatever they are,” he raised his hand before pausing and bringing it back. I ask before I take her shirt off. “They’re like mine.” To drive his point home—and, really, looking back he doesn’t know why he gave her the courtesy of understanding his intentions, or his needs, but in the moment it felt right—he let his markings quickly show on the surface of his skin, a low bleeding blue edging out into the country house.

She blinked and whispered, a child-like awe on her face. “can–can I touch them?”

She had known he was a plant since the day they met. He, stealing a dependent from a town, and her watching him with mild confusion and amazement. But she hadn’t seen this side of him—the destruction, hate, and blood, yes. But the somber blue and quiet hums of his soul? No. He hadn’t shown anyone that in a long, long time.

“I suppose,” he looked down at her, “as long as I can touch yours.” The deal was fair enough, he tried to argue in his mind, shoving away the anxieties and sickness at the thought of being touched. It’s all in the pursuit of his curiosity.

She puffed out her cheeks, hesitation clear in her eyes, “fine, but you can’t say anything mean about them okay?”

“Why would I be mean?”

“You’re always mean.”

She reached out and touched his face gently, as if she was afraid he would disappear into the sand dunes that surrounded her home. She traced one line from the right side of his jaw to his nose, before trailing her fingers to his exposed neck. “You’re so pretty,” she mumbled. The skin under her became heated, flushed.

Whether it was a conscious decision or not, he leaned into her touch, the soft feeling of her fingers making his heart stutter. Several markings glowed brighter before he was able to shut them down, pushing his excitement—or, no, he wasn’t excited; he was disgusted that a human was touching him, that’s what it was (oh, what a terrible liar he is). Despite his momentary panic, he let her explore his face and neck, hoping the blue of his markings drowned out the red of his embarrassment. He didn’t have a real reason for why he was letting her do this to him, he should’ve stopped her a while ago, but it felt. . . nice. This was something he had’t experiences in years, a feeling so foreign he had nearly forgotten it.

She pulled back, not missing the way he subtly leaned forward to feel her for a moment longer. “Why do you even want to see my stretch marks?” she whispered, fingers itching to touch him again.

“Because they’re like mine,” he matched her tone, towering over her with no malice or hate, but silent admiration. The thought of her—her touch, her looks, her voice, by God, all of her, it entrapped him in a spell of nothing sort of Love. That's what it was, this feeling. Love. He could feel the anxiety in the back of his throat, the crumbling of his beliefs and ideologies, but those were problems for another day, right now? He was busy falling deeper into this sweet little hole he had dug.

“No they’re not,” she laughed slightly, sadly, “yours are way cooler.”

He tugged at the hem of her shirt, this time asking, “can I?”

She sighed and let her head fall into his chest, “a promise is a promise.”

He resisted the urge to tell her that she needn’t keep her word if it caused her pain, that he would rather she feel happy than obligated. He didn’t though, the well of his curiosity ever growing. “You’re human,” he mumbled, less than gently tugging the shirt off her, “and yet your markings are so similar. . . so beautiful?”

“They’re not markings, well, not in the way you’re thinking of.”

The low light of the setting sun barely reached the windows, slowly plunging them into darkness. Without thinking he grabbed her hips and hoisted her up, momentarily enjoying the sounds of surprise she made as he put her down on the counter. His hands resumed his search, trailing the pads of his fingers across her belly in a loving motion that he had never known he was capable of. “What are they then?”

“Stretch marks.”

He huffed, “explain.”

“They’re like little scars that appear when our skin stretches too fast. I think it can happen when our skin shrinks too? I don’t really know the specifics. I just know they’re annoying and ugly.”

He paused, bringings his hands up to grip her chin, “what?’

She blinked at him owlishly, “what. . .?”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

“Wha–” she let out a laugh, “when did I say that?!”

He ignored the happiness that stabbed his heart when she laughed. “I said our markings are the same, if you say yours are ugly, you are calling mine that as well.”

She thought for a moment, “I guess that makes sense, but you’re forgetting one thing.” She raised a finger and tilted her head, a little grin on her face—the expression did nothing to hide her fear and anxiety.

“What may that be?” he said with a hint of amusement, fingers still holding her jaw.

“You are handsome, I am not. So the markings look different between us. I’m not calling you ugly, don’t worry. You’re actually quite attractive.”

He frowned and leaned forward, forcing her to place her hands behind her on the counter in order not to fall. “You’re right. You’re not handsome.”

She rolled her eyes, “so romantic.”

“You’re stunning,” he savored the squeak of embarrassment that left her mouth, a knowing smirk on his face. I want to hear more, he thought as he trailed down to her stomach, kissing each mark on her belly, “beautiful,” he muttered. “Your loveliness cannot be described.” He reached the band of her pants, hooking a finger around it before he remembered his manners. “Can I?” He looked up at her, grin still present and eyes twinkling with something she couldn’t describe.

“Y–yeah,” she whispered.

He didn’t go any further, tilting his head with a waiting expression.

“What?” she tried to hold his eye contact but it became too intense, and she looked away, chest starting to rise and fall rapidly. What have I gotten myself into?

“Look at me,” he commanded, pleased when she obeyed without a second to spare. He should talk to her like that more often, maybe indulge in her flesh if she listened so deliciously like that. “I heeded your words, didn’t I? You said I have to ask before I do things like this, yes?”

She nodded.

“Say you’re proud then.”

“I’m proud,” she stumbled out, all hints of her teasing nature drowned out by her bewilderment (and pure, unrestrained excitement).

He pulled back, trapping her in between his arms, “that’s boring,” he muttered, “come up with some creative praise. I’ve been so nice to you, haven’t I? Isn’t it only fair?” He whispered in her ear, laughing at the shiver that racked her body. With a hum he trailed back down her body, saving his softer affections for her stomach, her marks.

He reached her pants again in no time, looking at her expectedly.

“You’re beautiful,” she blurted out.

“Not good enough.”

“Divine,” she uttered.

“Think, Darling, or else I’m going to stop right here.” He played with the edge of her pants, thumbing the material as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. God, how he loved to play with her.

“Y-you’re,” she tossed her head back and groaned, mind flying as she tried to think of a compliment. After a moment she wrapped her legs around him, making him give her a questioning hum, and grabbed his face. “You’re my God,” she whispered, “mine alone. You’re wonderful and strong, a holy being that I am blessed to have around me.”

He could’ve sworn he died at that moment—and if he had, he would’ve gone happily.

She buried her face in his neck, practically whining with embarrassment. “I can’t believe you made me say that.”

He wrapped an arm around her, pressing her into the counter, collecting himself before he spoke, “that was good. I knew you’d learn eventually.” With a deep, burning red, he hid his face in her stomach, going back to tracing her stretch marks. Faint blue markings glided up his neck, curling around the flesh of his face—he didn’t bother to stop it this time. With a single motion he helped her rid herself of her pants, letting out a deep sigh when he saw the rest of her markings.

“You didn’t say you had more.”

“Well,” she finally gained her confidence back, letting out a huff, “you never asked.”

He, with the same awe and amazement as earlier, observed her thighs as if he was a starved man, denied of any mortal pleasures (though, he supposed he had never done anything like this before). “I want to see all of them,” he tugged at her underwear, “they’re too beautiful to hide.” If it was up to him, he'd have her naked in his presence all the time, solely for observing how heavenly she looked.

She grabbed his hand and snapped it away, “you didn’t ask that time.”

He tilted his head and smiled wickedly, “I guess I didn’t hmm? Where are my manners? Here, can I see all of you? Bare and unobstructed?”

She gripped his hands and turned her head away, “you’re a bastard.”

“That’s not a compliment,” he whispered.

“You’re my bastard.”

He laughed, a sound she cherished deeply, “that doesn’t count.”

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