Risky Behavior - L Lawliet X Fem!reader

Puella Magi Kumo Magica

Quick sketch ik

I know a lot of people like to hone in on Sylus' more dominant and teasing side, and while I do love those aspects of him what I really really love is the softer side of Sylus that he only shows to you. ♡

The Sylus that avidly listens to everything you say, drinking you in with with a dopey little grin on his face as you fill him in on everything and anything happening in your life. The Sylus that lets you decorate his chic and mature office with all the plushies you have won together from the claw machine, looking at them fondly as if they were great treasures you have scored. The Sylus that will gladly wear stupid matching kigurumi's with you in public and have fun doing it, reputation be damned. The Sylus who absentmindedly plays with your hair while you are sitting together on the couch watching a movie, sighing in contentment as his long fingers massage your scalp. The Sylus who has memorized all your favorite foods and works hard to come up with new recipes to delight you based of what he already knows you love. The Sylus who's hugs completely engulf you, squeezing and holding you like a lifeline, almost as if he's afraid to let go. The Sylus who stays glued to your side until you fall asleep each night, even though you know his day has hardly begun and he has more important things to be attending to-you always take precedence. The Sylus that wants nothing more than to see you happy and thriving, and will do whatever it takes to make that a reality.

He truly makes me weak. (╥﹏╥)

Smooth Moves

🌹Wally and Barnaby teach you how to dance🌹

(Takes place in Alive AU from my A Silly Thought and More post)

Posted later than intended rip

Some mood music for this writing. POV playlist

__________________________________________________________

It was late at night, most of your guests were inside fast asleep while you, Wally, and Barnaby finished up making space on the large porch. Barnaby was insistent that he and Wally teach you how to slow dance when you mentioned you've never danced before. Plus you two needed to figure out who was doing what tomorrow. Winner gets to choose after seeing who dips better.

"Alright, so if I win I get to pick what we do tomorrow. And if you win you get to pick what we do tomorrow. Deal?"

You held your hand out to shake on it, but Wally gently grabbed a hold of it and turned it over to plant a small kiss on the back of your palm. Heat rushed to your cheeks as the two of you parted ways to opposite sides of the porch. You wished you could just hide away in a corner right now until your cheeks looked normal or at least pretend that you were fine.

You slowly looked over to where Wally was, he was staring at you still, eyes half-lidded and a droopy smile on his face. That cheeky little bugger.

Barnaby walked up to the center of the porch and held out his paw towards Wally. "Hey buddy, I think we should show em' how it's done first, it's their first time right?" His voice was a cheery as usual, but something felt a bit off about it tonight, it had a deeper tone to it. "That it is, maybe we'll each get a turn with our host?" He peered over at you as he took a hold of the beagle's paw. "I sure hope so, I love dancing with new partners!"

Barnaby leaned to the side where a table was and quickly pressed the play button on the stereo you had given him the day before. He loved that thing to bits.

The music started out slow and steady as the two began to step and sway along with the beat. "Make sure to match up with your partners movements...like this." They both swayed to the far right, then the left, both of their feet being in sync perfectly with every single step. Clearly these two practiced frequently. The music went on for a while as the two circled, swayed, and danced around in patterns. It was so smooth that you almost felt hypnotized into a daze, only snapping out of it when Barnaby and Wally slowed down into a large dip. Wally, ever the dramatic suave, put one leg up as he was dipped down. "There, it's as simple as that!" Barnaby looked over at you and gestured for you to come over. You shook your head though, now too nervous to really put yourself in a spotlight like that.

"Ohh? Is someone nervous now?" Wally teased, hanging off of his friend's arm lazily. "It'll be fine, we can both teach you at the same time if you want!" Barnaby butted in, seeing how nervous you looked. Maybe his new friend needed some more encouragement.

"Alright...I'm not good at dancing though so I might step on someone's foot." You did not feel confident in yourself quite frankly.

"That's okay." The two pals separated as Barnaby went to go behind you and Wally right in front of you, boxing you in. "Besides, now you can have two partners!"

You felt the soft blue paws grab onto both of your hands and guiding them, placing one on Wally's shoulder and one on his hip, Wally mimicked the position on you in the opposite direction. Barnaby spoke up "Now remember, try to match your partners movements and just let us guide you until you get used to it." You nodded and looked down at your feet making sure they were in the correct position, missing the knowing looks the two had with each other.

"I think our dear host will catch on quick, won't you?" Wally smiled sweetly, giving your hip a small squeeze as you looked back up, earning a small squeak. How adorable of you. They wondered what other noises you could make.

It started out just like before, Barnaby having restarted the song and returning to being behind you. You stumbled a bit for the first few steps but you caught on quickly, seeing the pattern more clearly. It also helped to have two giant soft paws behind your back in case you tripped or fell.

"Wow, see! You're catching on already!" The blue friend continued to encourage you. "Now this part might be a bit harder, you'll need to swing your hips with the movement of your feet. Let me show you." Barnaby gently cupped your side and helped move your hips along to the rhythm of the music as Wally kept your shoulders in place. You stumbled though, having a hard time trying to match your footwork with theirs.

"Here, like this..." Wally spoke up and his friend backed up a little bit for some space. He took hold of your hip once more, this time more gently. "Just copy what I do."

He put one foot to the side and you did the same, allowing Wally to control the movements of your hips with his, one step at a time, one sway here and there, a few twirls, and it was like you were an expert at this. You didn't even notice that Barnaby had gone to sit down, locking eyes with Wally to give him a big thumbs up. Or the small crowd of friends standing by the back door watching the two of you.

The music kept going. The longer the two of you danced, the more you started to feel yourself getting used to this. Suddenly, Wally guided you into a deep dip, exaggerating his position into what that of a lover would be as the music came to a slow stop. He leaned in closer squeezing your hand in his. "I believe I won, yes?"

warmth

𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗟 𝗟𝗮𝘄𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝗻’𝘀 (𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪)

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: what it’s like to be sexually intimate with L Lawliet

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: smut, cockwarming, quite soft & lazy sex

feel free to check out the SFW one here :)

• A definite switch although he leans more towards the top/dom side

• He isn’t really into dom/sub themes he prefers top/bottom but every now and then if he’s really in the mood then he’ll be kinky

• Overall he isn’t incredibly kinky, if you’re into something he’ll try it but he doesn’t have that many of his own kinks

Keep reading

In High Cotton || Rafayel (m)

Paring(s); LADS Rafayel x reader

Word count; 3,626

Themes; swearing, smut, plushie turning human (??), I write the word plushie a lot (I'm sorry), porn with a smidgen of plot, alternative universe

Warnings; Cunnilingus, fingering, slight choking, smidge of hair pulling, some degrading (if you squint), unprotected sex (wrap it up), some boob play, (do not expect a masterpiece of a smut— I didn't realize how rusty I was at writing them until I actually started 😞)

Notes; woah, 700ish notes on my most recent drabble! That's insane tbh. It almost feels like I should only write drabbles, and it wasn't even a smutty drabble either 🤔 I thought people were usually into smut?

Either way, I'm glad yall are liking it while I readjust myself to writing smut once again! I used to write smut SO much when I was younger and then I just stopped– but when I do write it again, it might have too much detail and I do apologize beforehand for that...speaking of, it's happening now btw! I'm going to try to write good smut for this. I got this idea for a short, one-shot hentai-ish Manga (it's called…”my plushie turned into a human” or something like that)

Also, lowkey, cotton doesn't even feel like a real word anymore 😭

|| Main Masterlist ||

In High Cotton;

//this Southern idiom means “to be doing well or living a comfortable life”; in comparison, to be ‘in low cotton’ would mean you're having a bad day//

“What are you, a child? Stop carrying around that stupid plushie! It feels like you care more about that damn thing than our relationship.”

Your head whips around to stare at your partner through a glare.

Oh really now?

You care more about a stuffed piece of fabric in comparison to your almost five years of dating this person?? Yeah, right.

Your partner was just trying to deflect this situation away from the fact that you caught them cheating.

They were grasping at straws to throw the blame on you and your cherished plush was the only thing they could throw at you…pitiful.

You've had this little plushie since you were little and, honestly, you didn't even remember what show it was from– if it was on one. Your childhood friend gave it to you shortly before he moved away and you've since forgotten what he even looked like.

The only memory of him being the purple haired, humanoid plushie currently clasped between your hands as you fought the urge to throw it at your partner.

And, tired of your silence, your partner left your apartment shortly after.

Now, you were left alone with your plushie.

You slowly swipe your thumb back and forth over its pinkish-blue eyes as you ponder just why you cherished it so much. Why you cherished Raf so much.

Yeah, Raf. That's apparently the name of the plushie. That's what your mom claims you called it throughout the years, so you had no reason to change it.

But yeah. You were unsure why it never left your side.

You always kept it in your purse, in your shirt pocket– it almost felt like an emotional support doll, at this point.

Anyway, you stand up from the floor and go lock your door so your partner couldn't barge back inside the apartment, even if they wanted to. Then, you decide to go to bed. You were off work for the next few days, so you could finally get some well deserved rest.

You quickly get changed into your pajamas and curl up in the bed with Raf in your arms. Your hand resting against the red beret on its head, thumb gently brushing over the small black bead on top of the hat as you drift off to sleep.

You wake up feeling…warm? Too warm, in fact.

You know you fell asleep with the air conditioner on, so there's absolutely no reason for the room to feel as warm as it does.

You grumble under your breath, wanting to go back to sleep as quickly as possible, and keep your eyes shut as you try to kick out from under the covers. You soon realize you can't do this, because you feel an odd weight holding you down.

If your partner snuck back in, you swear to god—

But when you open your eyes, you're met with an unfamiliar sight.

It's…a stranger. In bed with you.

Their hair, however, was oddly familiar.

Purple hair…

Nah, no way. There's no way your plushie suddenly turned into a human, but that would definitely make you feel less anxious than assuming a stranger was in your home.

You take a deep breath and glance around for your plushie. If you can find it, then this man isn't your favourite stuffed animal and if you can't– well, it could've fallen into the floor. You won't sink into the delusion that this man was Raf, until that was your final option.

You couldn't find it with just your eyes, so you attempted to wiggle out of the man's grasp. However, this only causes him to hold you tighter, his arms squeezing around your waist as he pulls you further into his bare chest.

…bare chest?

You blink a few times. Your head is close enough to touch the man's chin.

Fuck it.

You put your hands on his chest and desperately try to pull away from him, full on struggling since you've decided to not care if you wake him up or not. He came into your house, why should you be accommodating toward him??

“Hmm?”

You hear his tired voice as he finally removes one arm from your waist to rub his eyes, and the moment he opens then, you have no choice but to accept that he was your plushie.

Seriously, like what normal human has pinkish-blue eyes?? No one. Unless he's wearing contacts, that is literally your comfort doll.

You know it sounds crazy, but how else would this random guy know what your plush looks like?? Especially enough to copy its looks perfectly.

“Oh. Good morning, Y/n.” He yawns, stretching his arms up and that's when you snap.

You quickly sit up and move away from him, holding a hand out in front of you. “What're you doing in my house? You're not…Raf, are you?”

“You recognize me!?” He almost blinds you with his innocently charming smile.

“You're…joking, right? I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to believe that?” You say, half asleep but clearly not buying this act. You run a hand through your hair, brows furrowed and you could feel a headache coming on.

“Oh…you don't believe me..” he frowns, sitting up against the pillows. “Hmm…what can I do to make you believe me?”

“Uh…say something that only someone who knows me would know?” You throw your hands up in the air, exasperatedly.

Come on, how the heck were you supposed to know?? Though, you'd probably believe him if he said something personal.

“Raf” brings his hand up to rest under his chin as he contemplates what to say. After a few moments of silence, you stand up from the bed.

“Alright, if you're not going to say anything, then–”

“When you were seven, you threw up and ran into your mom's room crying because you thought you were dying…uh, oh also, when you were ten, you were trying to ride a bike and busted your knee open when you fell– you have a scar from it. At eleven, you accidentally punched a kid in the face and got into your first fight– that you lost, by the way. And at sixteen, you were going to lose your virginity, but your ex said you had to get Raf off the bed and you said, and I quote, ‘the doll stays’.”

“Raf” looks at you after he finishes talking with an almost proud looking smile on his face and you tilt your head to the side.

You…

…what?

You had no other choice, but to believe him now.

The scar on your knee would've been the easiest to guess, but the others? But you don't want to seem too gullible…

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Tell me more before I make my decision.”

Surely he wouldn't say anything embarrassing, right?

“You've faked every orgasm with your current partner. You can only cum if—”

“Okay, okay!” You quickly place your hand over his mouth. Your face turns scarlet as you squeeze your eyes shut. “That's enough. I'll believe you for now.”

You feel something wet against your palm and jerk your hand back. “What the hell– did you just lick my hand??” You drag your hand against your pants to wipe it off, before shaking your head. “Look, go get dressed. I'm sure my ex has some clothes you can wear.”

You put an emphasis on ex, since you decided you weren't going to stay with that cheater the moment they left your apartment last night.

Then, you leave the room.

Honestly….Raf was a pretty decent roommate. Sure, he didn’t work, but you'd come back to a home-cooked meal after work every day. He'd do the laundry, the dishes, and he even painted on the side.

You weren't sure if he'd ever turn back into a plush, but you preferred him this way. With him as a human, you could talk about your day with someone, eat with someone…there's only one problem.

Personal space and…personal time.

You haven't been able to get off in almost a month– that's how long Raf has been human by now– and it has started to get to you. You usually aren't a very sexual person, but sometimes you just need to rub one out every now and again…and you can't with him constantly snuggled in the bed next to you.

Tonight was another night where you wouldn't be able to do what you wanted.

You let out a small sigh as you get settled in bed. The TV played a random show in the background as it illuminated the otherwise dark room. Raf laid next to you, one arm curled under the pillow so he could still watch the TV. He was shirtless too, so that made your conundrum even better.

“What's wrong?” He asks, not looking away from the TV and you quickly shake your head.

“It's nothing. Nothing at all.”

Raf shifts over to his side to look at your face, raising one of his eyebrows ever so slightly. “You haven't…Well, I mean, you usually do it once a week and it's been a month now–”

“Raf–” you sigh, covering his head with a pillow. “Shut up.”

He pulls the pillow down, so only his eyes are visible. “Do you still not see me as a man?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.” You try to pull the pillow back over his face and he catches you by the wrist.

“I could make you feel way better than your ex did…” he trails off as he guides your hand to the front of his pajama pants.

You could visibly see a bump from over the covers and you choke on your spit as you felt something warm under your palm.

Something big.

“Raf…” you trail off, but you can't find the will to tell him to let it go.

His words made you curious…you wanted to know if sex could actually feel good or if he was just talking a big game.

What could he really know about sex, anyways?

He's only been human for a month now, so there's no way he could actually be good at it, right?

As you're lost in thoughts, your hand subconsciously squeezes his election and Raf tilts his head back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to hold back a groan.

“Earth to Y/n.” He hums, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Yes or no, cutie? I want explicit consent.”

You were battling with your thoughts, but you ultimately nodded your head.

“Use your words now. Your pretty lips aren't just there for show, are they?” The man taps his finger against your bottom lip and you let out an impatient sigh, “Yes, now can you please–”

Your words were silenced by Raf's lips crashing down against yours.

One of his hands ghosts down your body, fingers resting under the waistband of your pajama shorts, just a few inches from where you really wanted his touch. His other hand slides up your shirt, cupping a breast.

You feel the bed dip underneath you as Raf swings a leg over your body, fully pinning you to the bed as he continues his assault against your lips.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, but you playfully refuse to let him in. In retaliation, Raf’s fingers pinch around your nipple and harshly tug at it. A gasp escapes you and he takes this opportunity to slip his tongue past your open lips.

The only time your lips part is when Raf leans back to tug his shirt off and takes off yours as well.

Now shirtless in front of the man, you can't help but feel a little self conscious.

Though Raf quickly dissuades your self doubt by dipping his head down to latch onto your nipple. His hand finally moved further into your pants. His index finger resting on your clit and you arch your hips up, trying to force him to move.

Your thigh stings in pain as you feel Raf's palm collide with your skin.

“Patience.” He murmurs against your chest.

His fingers draw lazy circles against your clit and, while it is pleasurable, you want more.

You dip your hand past his waistband and grab onto his dick. Your hand could barely wrap fully around it and you could only imagine how it would feel. It felt like it would hurt…a little. But what's a little pain?

Your hand lazily strokes Raf's dick, thumb dragging over his tip to collect a few drops of precum and that's when the man finally snaps.

His fingers move lower. His middle finger slowly glides inside of you and he gives you a few thrusts with his singular finger, before adding a second one. With both fingers sheathed inside, he makes a ‘come-hither’ motion with every thrust of his digits.

“R-Raf– wa—ah— wait..” Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulder while your other hand pauses its movements. You try to hide your face in your shoulder, but Raf seizes your chin with a hand.

“Don't look away now, princess. I wanna see your face. Wanna see just how good I'm making you feel.” He tsks and pulls away for a moment.

He strips you of your bottoms, tossing them to the side as his big hands grip your thighs. His palm slaps the newly exposed skin before he taps your hands.

“Hold your legs up for me and don't drop them.”

You want to question his words, but don't. Instead, you wrap your arms under your knees and pull them as close to your chest as you can. It was, honestly, a really embarrassing position, but you couldn't help but get even more wet.

Your juices were tacky against your thighs and even dripping down onto the sheets below you.

“Raf…” you whine, wondering what's taking him so long since you expected him to fuck you already. But instead of his cock, you feel something else.

You feel something warm and wet against your clit, and a strangled noise comes up from your throat as Raf flicks his tongue against your pussy. His fingers going back to your entrance to slip inside as he wraps his lips around your clit.

Your head tilts back as moans spill from your lips. Raf's skilled fingers working at your center while he tongue draws figure-eights on your clit.

“R-Raf, inside. ‘Wanna cum with you inside, please?” You finally manage to say, your nails digging into your legs.

Your heart stutters in your chest as Raf makes eye contact as he eats you out. Only pausing to respond to you, his fingers still moving.

“You gotta be more specific, princess. I am inside you right now.” He teases.

As you open your mouth to answer, he curls his fingers and they just barely brush your g-spot.

“I want your di– ah, Raf, right there!” Your hips jerk with every thrust of his fingers and you can feel yourself growing closer to your first orgasm, but Raf has other plans.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for your climax, suddenly you feel empty.

When you open your eyes, you notice that Raf is licking his fingers clean.

A lazy smirk tugs at the man's lips and his hand disappears into his pants, freeing his dick from its confines.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to his angry, red tip. The glistening precum. The way his hand drug against the length of it.

“Hey, my eyes are up here!”” Raf snaps his fingers with a pout. “Geez, you really know how to make a man feel like a pack of meat.” He taps the tip of his dick against your clit and your hips jump.

“Ah, what's the magic word, cutie?” His hand pushes down on your hips, effectively pinning them to the bed as he smears his precum across your clit.

“I…” You grit your teeth, squeezing your thighs before you finally let them go and hold your arms out. “Please fuck me.”

Raf's arms wrap around you as he finally pushes his tip inside and his voice of reason finally snaps. He was originally going to take it slow, to give you time to adjust, but the feeling of your tight, warm walls around his cock makes him unable to think straight.

Your legs wrap around his waist as he thrusts into you with reckless abandon. Though there is a bit of skill to his thrusts, there's also a smidgen of inexperience mixed within it.

“You're so tight, cutie. Do you like my cock that much?” He hums, his lips dragging against the skin of your neck. He firmly presses his lips down, parting them slightly to suck a painful bruise on your neck.

His hips continue to snap forward. His cock languidly pumps in and out of your pussy. The obscene noise of skin slapping against skin, the sound of your bodies coming together, fills the otherwise silent room.

His thumb dips down to make quick circles against your lip as his cock brushes against your g-spot and he claims your lips once more.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging up his skin to leave deep red marks in their wake. Your moans are swallowed by Raf's lips. His tongue collides with yours and you briefly fight for dominance. You ultimately lose, though you didn't put up much of a fight.

The man pulls out and you're about to complain, but suddenly you're flipped onto your knees. Raf presses his palm into the small of your back and your face slams into your pillows.

His cock re-enters as he thrusts, his palm cracks down across your ass. You can't hide the moan that slips from your parted lips and Raf raises a brow.

“Oohh, someone's a bit of a pain slut?”

With this new knowledge, Raf pulls you up by your hair. Your back against his chest and his other hand glides over your body. His two fingers make quick circular motions against your clit and he releases your hair, instead wrapping his hand around your throat.

“R–Raf, please. ‘M so close.” Another noise slips from your lips as his cock just barely kisses your g-spot and you can feel his breath against your ear. “You gonna cum for me?” He presses a small kiss on your shoulder, his hand squeezing around your neck as he quickens his thrusts.

“Uh-huh…” you nod your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you try to hold back your moans. You could feel your juices soaking your thighs, could hear the evidence of your arousal with every thrust.

With one last precise thrust that brushes your g-spot, you cum.

You tilt your head back with a choked cry, your hips jerking as your walls spasm around his cock.

“Princess…” Raf groans, his hands tightly gripping your hips as he surges forward. Your body falls forward and your hands go out to steady yourself as he continues to harshly thrust. “Inside or out?”

You take a moment to think before you turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes. “Out, please.”

Raf flips you over onto your back once more and after a few more pumps, he pulls out. His hand quickly strokes his cock before his head tilts back and he moans. His tip shoots out strings of cum, painting your stomach and chest with white ropes.

“Fuck…” he takes a few breathes before you meet each other's eyes.

Then, you both laugh giddily and he dips his head down to gently kiss you.

“I'll go grab a washcloth to clean you up.” He smiles against your lips before he gets off the bed to head into the bathroom.

You sit up and stretch out your sore limbs while you look around for your phone to check the time. “Huh…I could've sworn it was on the bed..” You click your tongue and sigh, sliding off the bed to check if it fell into the floor.

Your hand pats around under your bed and you let out a small squeak of surprise as your hand brushes against something soft. You jerk your hand back, but notice your phone was on the floor. You press a hand against your chest to try and still your fast beating heart. Then, you turn on your phone's flashlight to look under your bed.

“Wait…” you squint, noticing something that looks oddly familiar and once you fish it out, your eyes widen.

It…was Raf.

Slightly dusty since it had been under your bed for a few months, but…this was most certainly Raf, your beloved plushie.

Your head slowly turns in the direction of your bathroom with wide eyes. If your plush Raf was in your hands then…who was in your bathroom?

The door swings open and Raf– no, the stranger walks out from your bathroom with a washcloth in hand.

“I think I'm going to need to do the laundry soon. This is the last clean on– oh, you found it.” The purple-haired man leans against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I– who…” you look from your cherished plushie to him. “You're not even…”

Then, he chuckles.

“You ever noticed the little black ball on his beret?” He taps a finger against his temple. “I gave you that when we were little…been watching you ever since.” He has a smile on his lips as if this was a normal thing to admit.

“You're—”

“Highly intelligent? Devilishly handsome?”

“—insane.”

“No, silly girl. My name is Rafayel. Don't worry, I'll fuck you a few more times so you can remember it.”

I tried my best and that's all that matters tbh 😭 I think it seems so bad because it's in second person and I'm used to writing smut in first. But I'm hoping I'll get better at it with practice!

Either way, I'm sure this isn't the worst smut you've read so I hope you enjoyed it!

Also, sorry there isn't a drabble this week! I might write one soon since I've got two days off 🤔 I'm not sure yet tbh

My fandoms and my fandom neighbors!

TODAY, August 12, 2024, The Animation Guild begins negotiations with the AMPTP to win a new contract for animation. This is a huge fight with severe stakes for the future of the Animation Industry in the US, and the guild needs your support!

TAG is fighting, Right Now, to stop exploitative practices that are weaponized against animation professionals across the globe, and working hard to ensure this industry has a future here in the states.

If you are a fan of animation, whether it's major or independent studios, eastern or western, tv or movies, we need you to get LOUD in support of The Animation Guild. The crews who work so hard to bring these works to life are struggling to pay their bills, if they can find work at all, while studio CEOs are getting multi-million dollar raises to cancel projects and gut streaming libraries.

We can win this fight, but we need public outcry and support. If you work in animation, if you've ever dreamed of working in animation, or if you just love animation, please stand with TAG and support the union effort to keep animation a viable career and a valuable medium!

Check out the Website Here: #StandWithAnimation

AnimationWorkersIgnited Twt / LinkTree

AnimationGuild Twt

landlocked

siren! rafayel x female reader

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

wc ▻ 11k, longform oneshot, buckle up

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

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

Waves crash against the rocks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The choice to do something is yours and only yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow came. It went, too.

And he—

He’s still gone—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s happening. It’s over.

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

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

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

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

‘You. You shouldn’t be out here.’

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

It feels like an open flame.

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

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

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

(But… you don’t wanna die.)

You dig to the surface with a sputter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊹⊹⊹

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

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

“Not now, fishie.”

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

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

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

Something is breaking the monotony.

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

When the waves kiss the morning foam,

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

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

A gentle splash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blood,

Blood,

Blood covers the sea.

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

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

…Before she swims away, anyway.

⊹⊹⊹

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

It was real.

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

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

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

You… shouldn’t be alive.

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

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

The burn is surreal. Nothing makes sense.

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

But you’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was real, and something

Is singing to you—

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

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

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

Salt burns your throat.

You wake with it sore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go back, back to the sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onward is the ocean.

⊹⊹⊹

Water gushes against the rocks at the seaside.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s horrifying. It’s… beautiful.

…And it’s singing to you—

“I know you’re there,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

It melds seamlessly into the blue.

Nothing, and then-

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

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

“You’re real, I- I knew it—!”

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

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

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

The quiet epiphany plays with your nerves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reminder of your lost fiancé steels you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊹⊹⊹

Trust is a big word, it is.

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

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

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

He never holds out his hand.

If anything, Rafayel seems wholly uninterested in that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel loves the sea. It’s his home.

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

That gives you pause, but just for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. That.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…You wanna share?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-?”

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

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

Not that you believe it did, just—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel-? W-What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait- Rafayel-?”

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

“But—“

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

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

“Rafayel, are you okay?”

“Of course, cutie. Why, aren’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel—“

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

⊹⊹⊹

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

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

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

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

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

…H-Home.

Sailors scream around you.

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

The sound of it chills you to the bone.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it’s all blue.

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

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

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

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

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

The tips of your boots touch the sandy floor.

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

Something is holding you down and it’s singing—

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

A long, glittering tail scrapes across your leg.

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

A gasp.

You come to wakefulness with a frightened noise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s been keeping something from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Silly girl,”

A loud splash. A resistance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll not be returning, will you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊹⊹⊹

Everything is dream-like.

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

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

Something in your core throbs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Mate. Yes, his mate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur Pendragon - The Seven Deadly Sins: Four Knights of the Apocalypse - Episode 8

Brothers