⋆˚࿔ 𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃.
𝄢 it’s odd to stumble upon a pale, trembling man huddled on the wet rocks after a fierce storm. even more curious is the soft, silvery seal pelt he clutches close to his chest like a lifeline.
pairing: selkie! lee heeseung x fem reader.
content warnings: Selkie lore, non-human traits, emotional attachment, clinginess, and reliance on one person for safety/comfort, jealousy, territorial feelings, fixation on scent and presence, hand job, oral sex (m receiving), first time experience/virginity loss(?), this is oddly soft compared to any of my recent works so idk maybe i will regret posting this.
note: not proof read, ignore typos please ♡.
You have always been drawn to the quiet, uncomplicated rhythm of life in a cottage. There was something deeply grounding about it — something that felt like breathing easier — especially when that cottage sat right on the edge of Brineport Village.
Your home rests perched on a rocky headland: fifteen to twenty minutes’ drive from the village center, tucked between steep, wind-scoured cliffs and a sheltered private cove where the waves roll in soft and slow. The main road winds inland, connecting you to the nearest town in half an hour whenever you need to venture further, but out here, the only sounds are tide and wind.
Brineport itself is small but alive with character: a working harbor, family-run shops, diners that smell of salt and fried butter, a tiny library, and enough local businesses to keep things moving. Most of all, it is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else. It might feel suffocating to outsiders, but this tight-knit familiarity is what gives the village its heartbeat — and its endless supply of stories.
You wanted for nothing here. You held a steady job at the town’s main inn, working as Guest Relations and Experience Coordinator alongside your closest friends, Jiung and Ruka. When things slowed down, you often worked as a part-time tour guide — showing visitors the best coastal trails, the safest tide pools, and the quiet historical spots most tourists never found.
But Brineport holds more than just roads and buildings and tides. It holds legends. And the oldest, most persistent one of all is that of the selkie.
It is a tale as old as the sea itself: beings who are seals beneath the waves, but shed their thick pelts to walk as humans on land. Should they lose or have their skin taken from them, they become trapped in the human world — unable to return to the ocean that is their true home. And there is always that same warning woven into every version: selkies carry a strange, magnetic allure; ordinary people rarely meet one without falling hopelessly, obsessively in love. They are said to have skin pale and smooth as polished pearl, eyes deep and endless as the open water, bodies that run unnaturally cold, and faint, almost invisible slits along their ribs that look like gills when wet.
A part of you always wanted to believe it. There was something so tempting, so hypnotic about the sea here — every walk along the shore, every drive home as dusk fell, you felt it calling, humming low under the crash of the waves. You found yourself wondering if these creatures were lonely, or if they moved among you, invisible to the common eye. It was impossible to shake the curiosity.
Of course, the logical, sensible part of you always stepped in to dismiss it as nothing more than folklore — stories to bind the community together, to give mystery to the vast, unknowable ocean. Whenever the thought lingered too long, you would scoff and push it away, telling yourself it was childish fancy. There were no selkies. No seal-people. Nothing but water and wind and the tales men made up to explain what they didn’t understand.
Little did you know the sea had already decided that it would bring to your threshold.
Fuck. If you’d checked the forecast that morning, you would have grabbed an umbrella — hell, you would have worn a proper coat instead of your thin work blazer. But you hadn’t, and now you were paying for it: soaked to the bone, saltwater dripping from your hair down your collar, heels digging sharp and unforgiving into your feet after standing in them since two in the afternoon.
The storm raged harder the closer you got to the coast; thunder boomed low and rolling, lightning splitting the sky and vanishing as quickly as a whispered secret. It was then, as you turned toward the path leading up to your cottage, that you saw it — a shape huddled near the edge of the shore, half-obscured by foam and shifting shadows.
You froze. What the hell was that? Clearly it was a person, but there was something draped over them that did not look like clothing. You could have kept walking, pretended you saw nothing, but your conscience wouldn’t let you. And besides — cutting across the open ground in this weather meant you were more likely to slip and hurt yourself than if you stayed close to the water’s edge.
Carefully, you made your way down the rocky slope, heels sinking into wet sand and tangling in clumps of heavy seaweed — and there he was.
A man, curled small against the cold, looking dazed and utterly lost. Half-buried in foam and tangled strands of kelp, his skin pale as unblemished pearl, lips turned a bruised, icy blue. His hair was pale, almost silvery-white, sticking in damp, messy strands across his face and neck. Draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his legs was something thick and glossy, the color of storm-washed silver-grey — a pelt, smooth and cool to the eye, still glistening with seawater like it had just been pulled from the deep.
Your mind screamed one word before you could stop it: Selkie.
No. Impossible. Just a trick of the light, a strange coat, a lost traveler.
But you had never seen anyone as beautiful as him. Even shivering and half-frozen, there was something unearthly about his features — sharp and soft all at once, like he was carved from something older than stone. Keys still clutched in one hand, you lowered yourself to his level, ignoring the way your heels threatened to send you sprawling into the muck.
His eyes fluttered open immediately — deep, dark, and full of a quiet, aching sorrow, like they held the weight of every tide that had ever rolled in. He didn’t speak at first, but when you reached out to brush a strand of hair from his face, his skin was colder than the stone beneath your knees.
“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady — close enough to be heard, but still guarded, cautious.
He lifted his head, and for a second you saw it clearly: wide, dark, almost doe-like eyes, a nose pinkened from the biting wind, lips trembling as if he had not spoken a word in years. He looked so small and frightened despite his size, and your chest tightened with a strange, twisting pull. Whatever had happened to him, it was clear he had been through something terrible. You’d almost turned away, and now you couldn’t imagine leaving him here.
He tried to push himself upright, but his limbs shook too badly to hold his weight. He swayed, nearly crashing back into the wet rocks, and you threw your arms around his shoulders to steady him — not caring that he was naked beneath the pelt, or that your clothes were already ruined. As you held him, you saw tears begin to pool along his lower lash line, thick and clear, threatening to spill over.
“Are you alright?” you asked, your tone softening automatically. “Do you need help?”
The ache in your feet flared sharper, but you shifted your weight to bear it, too fixed on him to mind the discomfort.
His mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he couldn’t quite shape the words. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and when he finally spoke, his voice was honey-sweet but trembling, raw with distress.
“I shouldn’t have listened to them,” he choked out. “They tricked me. Left me here. Said removing my skin and getting stuck on land was just an old wives’ tale — nothing real. I don’t understand why they’d do this…” His voice cracked completely on the last word, tears spilling freely now and leaving shiny tracks down his cold cheeks.
You leaned in closer, ignoring the spray of rain hitting your face. “Who tricked you? Tell me what happened — I want to help.”
Your first guess was cruel friends playing a terrible, dangerous prank, leaving someone lost and exposed in a storm. Whatever they were, they weren’t friends. Looking at him now — his wobbling lower lip, the way his whole frame shook, the sheer hopelessness in his expression — you felt a sharp flare of anger rise in your chest. How could anyone leave another person like this?
He seemed too overwhelmed to form a proper answer, gaze darting between the churning waves and your face, as if he half-expected you to vanish into the mist. You took a quick assessment: he looked fragile, not threatening; wide-eyed and confused, not scheming. A part of you wondered if this was some elaborate act, a way to manipulate kindness, but your gut told you otherwise. Whatever he was, he was not dangerous.
“The storm isn’t letting up anytime soon,” you said gently but firmly. “You can’t stay out here. Come inside — get warm, dry off, and we can figure this out.”
He stared at you for a long, heavy moment, then nodded so vigorously it looked painful.
“Alright,” you said, looping one arm firmly around his waist to support his weight.
He stumbled forward, his legs unsteady and clumsy, like he was still learning how to carry himself on ground that didn’t shift beneath him. With every step he seemed to sway, as if gravity worked differently for him here, far from the water. You half-dragged, half-guided him up the path, the wind whipping around you both, until you finally reached your front door.
You unlocked it and pulled him inside, and he immediately ducked his head to fit his large frame through the doorway — shoulders hunched, hands clutching the edge of his pelt, eyes darting around your small living room like he had never seen four walls and a roof before. He looked so out of place, so nervous, it was almost heartbreaking.
You kicked off your heels with a quiet sigh of relief, tugged the damp hair tie from your hair, and peeled off your soaked work blazer and skirt until you were left in just your thin blouse and slip — far more comfortable, even if still slightly chilled.
When you turned back to him, he was standing right where you’d left him, dripping saltwater onto your wooden floor, watching you with wide, curious, almost reverent eyes — like you were something rare and precious he had only ever heard stories about.
“What’s your name?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and steady. “And who are these people that left you here?”
He sniffled, wiping his cheek with the back of a cold, pale hand, and shook his head slowly. “They weren’t my friends. They never liked me — said I was too slow, too quiet, useless. They did this on purpose, I know it. Said it was just a joke, but now… now I can’t go back. Not until the full cycle turns. Not until this same time next year.”
Whatever that meant — being trapped for a whole year — you had no clear answer, but the conviction in his voice made your skin prickle with something darker than curiosity.
“Your name?” you repeated, softer this time.
He lowered his gaze, long fingers twisting nervously into the edge of his silvery pelt, and whispered, “Heeseung.”
You glance down at the heavy, silvery pelt still clutched tight against his chest, damp and glistening from the rain. It looks far too substantial to be just cloth or fur — thick, smooth, and shimmering like it holds trapped moonlight beneath its surface. You tilt your head, curiosity pulling at you even as you try to make sense of what he’s saying.
“Here,” you offer gently, holding out both hands. “Would you like me to take that? It must be heavy, and you’re still shivering. I can lay it somewhere safe to dry off properly.”
He lifts his gaze, and there’s something almost protective in the way his fingers curl tighter around the edge of the skin. “Take it?” he asks, voice soft but firm. “This isn’t just something to hold — it’s mine. It’s my skin.”
For a beat, you both just stare at one another, caught in two entirely different worlds of understanding. You think he’s speaking in metaphor or delirium; he thinks you’re speaking as if you don’t know the most basic truth of what he is.
“I understand it belongs to you,” you say, keeping your tone calm, not wanting to scare him. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to it. But while you’re inside, maybe we can spread it out somewhere it won’t get wetter? Just so it doesn’t weigh you down.”
He swallows hard, and you see the way his throat bobs, pale and smooth as polished stone. “You can’t just set it aside like an old coat,” he murmurs, tears welling again at the corners of his eyes. “It’s part of me. If it dries too fast, if it’s damaged… it won’t work when the time comes.”
Before you can ask what he means, he brings one hand to the edge of the pelt, tugging it slightly where it rests over his shoulder. It doesn’t shift or slip like fabric would — it moves with the same give and resistance as living flesh, warm beneath the cool surface.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. You’ve never seen anything like it. It feels less like an object and more like an extension of his own body. This is some kind of costume, you tell yourself, a very elaborate one, that’s all. But even as you think it, doubt begins to creep in. He is a selkie.
“May I touch it?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.
He blinks, then gives a small, hesitant nod — as if he doesn’t see why you’d ask, but also doesn’t mind.
You reach out slowly, fingers hovering for a moment before making contact.
The texture is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s sleek and cool to the touch, but not cold enough to feel dead; it holds a faint, deep warmth, like water that has been heated by the sun long after the surface has cooled. You run your palm over the smooth surface, feeling the fine, almost imperceptible grain, the way it yields just slightly under your pressure before springing back. It feels alive.
Heeseung watches you intently, his dark eyes following every movement of your hand. “You can press harder if you want,” he says softly, his tone calm, almost reassuring. “It won’t hurt. It’s just skin.”
You don’t ask why it would hurt, or why it feels so different from anything human. Your mind is already racing, a tiny, impossible thought taking root and growing fast. You curl your fingers around a section, testing it — and it doesn’t budge, doesn’t come loose, doesn’t feel like it’s stitched or fastened on. It sits against him as naturally as your own skin sits against your bones.
“See?” he hums, as if he can read the confusion written all over your face. “It doesn’t come off unless I choose to shed it.”
You don’t answer. Because as your fingers brush higher, toward the edge where the pelt meets his neck and shoulder, you catch something else — something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Along the curve of his ribs, just visible where the damp fabric of the pelt has fallen open, there are faint, delicate slits, thin and pale, almost invisible unless you look closely. They look like gills, and when he breathes, they flutter just slightly, as if remembering how to draw in water instead of air.
You pull your hand back like you’ve been burned, stepping away just enough to put a small distance between you, your eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“How…” you start, your voice barely a whisper. “How is it made to look so real? To feel like that?”
His face twists into a look of genuine confusion, brows drawing together. “Made? It isn’t made. It’s me. I’m a selkie. All of my kind have this skin, and the marks along our sides. Every one of us who swims the deep waters carries it.”
You shake your head, but your heart is already beginning to believe what your eyes and hands are telling you. “No… I mean — how does it feel so much like living flesh?” The sensation still lingers on your fingertips, warm and smooth and undeniably alive. You try to reason it away, but the more you think, the more the impossible starts to feel like the only truth.
A strange, heavy certainty settles in your chest.
“They are real,” he says gently, as if he can hear the thoughts turning over in your head.
You let that truth hang in the air for a long moment, until finally, you say the only thing that makes sense now, even if it sounds absurd out loud.
“You’re a selkie. And the others — the ones who tricked you — they left you here, knowing you couldn’t go back.”
His cheeks flush a soft, delicate pink, and he nods slowly, looking smaller and more lost than before. “They don’t like me much,” he admits, voice cracking a little. “I’m still learning the ways of the tides, still slow to understand the old rules. They said it was just a joke, that removing the skin and being stranded was nothing but an old tale… but they knew. They knew the law says even if I have it, the sea will not open for me again until the same season returns. One full year. Until then, I walk the land, and I cannot go home.”
His eyes glisten again, glossy and deep as the ocean itself, and you feel your own chest ache. You look at him — pale, beautiful, out of place in your warm, dry cottage, trembling and abandoned — and you believe him. Maybe it makes you foolish, or maybe it makes you someone who can finally see what the sea has always whispered.
You step forward again, closing the distance you’d created, and cup his face in both hands. His skin is cool but soft, like stone warmed by sunlight, and beneath your palms you feel the steady, strong beat of his heart.
You cannot break the trust he’s just placed in you. You won’t. This was not how you imagined your evening ending, coming home from work soaked and tired — but your gut, that quiet instinct you’ve always relied on, tells you this is exactly where you’re meant to be. Or perhaps it isn’t just instinct; perhaps it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the only anchor in a world that feels too big and too strange.
It’s just you here, after all — no one else to answer to, no one to explain anything to. You’d spent so many months telling yourself you’d make changes, that you’d build something more than just work and empty evenings. I’ll do it tomorrow, you’d say. Next week. Next year. And yet here is something new, something entirely unexpected, standing right in your living room.
“When will they come looking for you?” you ask softly. “And until then… would you like to stay here? With me?”
He twists his fingers together nervously, but his head lifts, and in those dark, watery eyes you see something like hope sparking back to life. He nods — slow, eager, like he’s afraid you’ll take the offer back.
“Alright,” you murmur, brushing a stray strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Then you can stay. For as long as you need.”
You don’t have clothes that will fit his broad frame, not yet. You don’t have a spare bed, and your pantry is only stocked for one. But you have a warm fire, dry blankets, and more than enough space for him to rest. And if it’s just for one year — until the tides turn again — then you’ll make it work.
After all, you could hardly send him back out into that storm, not when you already know what he is. Not when you’ve already felt the weight of his skin in your hands, and the weight of his fate in your home.
You blink your eyes open, dragging your heavy, sleep-fogged gaze toward the figure lingering in your doorway.
Since the moment you brought him inside, Heeseung has followed you like a shadow. All through the night, his dark, curious eyes traced every corner of your home; his nose would twitch faintly as he breathed in the new, unfamiliar scents of wood, salted air, and your own quiet life. When you stepped into the kitchen to grab something warm to eat, he was right there — standing so close his chest almost brushed your back, hands hovering near your waist like he wanted to hold on but didn’t dare. When you turned on the lamp in the living room, he hovered just behind your shoulder, leaning in slightly to watch your fingers work the switch. Even when you slipped into your bedroom to change out of your damp work clothes, you could feel his presence waiting just outside the frame, lifting his head the instant you reappeared in softer, looser loungewear.
He spoke far less now than he had in those first frantic minutes on the shore, but when he did, his questions were quiet and endless.
“Why does this box make such a bright light?” he’d asked earlier, fingers brushing the edge of your lamp. “And why does the floor feel so hard even when it’s covered?”
You’d laughed softly, pulling him closer to sit beside you on the sofa. “Because we build things differently here. Everything is made to stay still, not move like water does.”
He’d tilted his head, eyes wide and thoughtful. “It feels like being trapped,” he’d murmured, then quickly added, “but not… not when I’m near you. Only when I’m alone.”
That was when you first noticed it — how he always needed some kind of contact. If you sat, he’d sit so your knees touched. If you stood, he’d rest his palm lightly against your arm or the small of your back, as if your warmth was the only thing keeping his own body from turning cold again. He was starved for touch, unused to the quiet closeness of land life, and he clung to every bit of it you gave him like it was something precious.
Eventually, you’d arranged the couch with extra blankets and thick, soft pillows, making it as inviting as you could. Usually you kept the lamps low after dark, but tonight you left a warm glow burning in the corner — enough light to chase away the shadows, enough to make him feel less lost.
Now he stands in your bedroom doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking restless and unsure.
Your limbs feel heavy, your brain still half-submerged in sleep, as you murmur, “What’s wrong, love?” It had only been about thirty minutes since you’d left him to rest, and you’d collapsed into your own bed the moment your head hit the pillow, utterly drained after a long day.
“I’m sorry…” His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, his silhouette meek against the faint light spilling from the hallway. “I… I’ve never slept anywhere but the open shore or the deep waters. I don’t know how to rest alone in four walls. It feels too quiet, too empty. I keep reaching out and there’s nothing but air. It's kind of…terrifying.”
If letting him into your home felt reckless enough, letting him climb into your bed felt like crossing a line you could never step back from. But you shifted lazily over the mattress, patting the empty space beside you without a second thought. Who cared, really? You knew what it felt like to lie awake in a quiet house, alone. And it indeed felt terrifying sometimes. “Do you want to sleep here?” you mumbled, words thick with drowsiness. “It’s warmer here. And you won’t have to reach far.”
“May I?” He takes a few hesitant steps forward, like he’s afraid he’ll break something just by moving.
You pull the blankets back over your shoulders and hum in answer, already half-asleep again.
The mattress dips deeply under his weight when he settles in. He shifts and turns, adjusting himself again and again — unused to the soft give of fabric and springs, his body still remembering the shift of waves and the firmness of rock. He keeps his skin folded carefully on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in a dry towel you’d given him, before finally lying still. It only takes a minute before he’s inching closer, his cool palm finding your waist, his chest pressing gently against your back like he’s trying to merge his warmth with yours.
“Is this alright?” he whispers, his breath fanning lightly over your neck.
“More than alright,” you murmur, and feel him relax completely, his long limbs curling loosely around you as if he means to keep you anchored right there.
To have another body’s warmth beside you, to share the same space and breath — it had been so long since you’d felt it. Everything in your life felt turned upside down, yet somehow, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you miss it?” you ask, your voice soft into the dark. It’s a foolish question; of course he does.
His long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blinks, unsure where to rest his gaze, before he nods slowly. His pale hair falls forward, brushing his cheekbones as he turns his head to look at you. “I do. Everything here is so different. So still, so… solid. But…” He pauses, fingers tightening just a little where they rest on your skin. “The sea is big and empty. There is no one to hold you there. Not like this.”
You trace the outline of his face with your eyes — the smooth curve of his jaw, the way moonlight paints his skin in silver and shadow, the loose shirt you’d lent him hanging wide over his shoulders, too short at the wrists. His eyes no longer hold that sharp, frightened edge; now they roam over you just as they’d roamed over every room in your home, drinking you in like something he wants to memorize. It must be so disorienting, to be cast so far from everything you know. If it were you, you’d probably be far more lost than he is.
You’re glad you found him. People fear what they don’t understand, and they treat it cruelly — you’ve seen it enough times. No one in the village would believe him; they’d call him mad, or strange, or worse. Even you are still trying to wrap your mind around the truth, but your heart has already accepted it.
“Maybe I can show you what this part of the world is like,” you murmur, letting your eyes slip shut, pulled under by fatigue. “Before the tide turns and you have to go back.”
He doesn’t reply with words, but you feel his lips brush lightly against the back of your shoulder, a quiet, grateful little press that says more than any answer could.
That night, you sleep warmer than you have in years. Sometimes you stir half-awake, feeling the light weight of his hand resting low on your hip, or the puff of his breath brushing against the back of your neck. When his fingers drift over the bare strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, you feel your chest flutter, warm and soft, but you don’t say a word. You don’t have the heart to push him away. He feels safe, pressed close against your back.
Days roll into weeks, and still no one comes for him. Strangely, selfishly, you find yourself relieved.
He hasn’t changed much in how he moves — still trailing you from room to room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away — but the fear in his eyes has faded, replaced by something softer, more settled. When you rise early to get ready for work, he follows you to the door, voice quiet and worried: “What if they come while you’re gone? What if I miss them?” But you know what he really means — he doesn’t want to be left alone, doesn’t want to lose the only anchor he’s found here.
Before you leave, he always makes sure to touch you somewhere: a hand on your wrist, fingers brushing your cheek, even pressing his forehead briefly to yours like he’s transferring some of his own calm to you. “Come back soon,” he’ll say, and it sounds less like a request and more like something he needs to survive.
Coming home now feels different. Instead of stepping into a quiet, empty house that echoes only your own footsteps, you open the door to find him waiting, lifting his head with a slow, quiet smile. He’ll cross the room in two long strides, arms wrapping around you immediately, holding you tight enough to make your breath catch, his face buried in your neck as if he’s checking that you’re real and whole. The space no longer feels hollow; it feels lived-in. It has started to carry his scent — fresh brine, cool water, and something deep and earthy beneath it — and you find yourself breathing it in like it’s the only air you need.
You try not to let yourself think it, but you do: I hope they never come. It feels wrong to wish for someone to stay trapped, but it would be a lie to pretend you want anything else. If his pod had intended to retrieve him, surely they would have done so by now.
“Which one do you think?” you ask, holding up two dresses in front of your mirror. “I’m leaning toward the silver one — it feels more fitting for the turn of the year.”
Heeseung sits on the edge of your bed, picking absently at the fabric of the soft sweatpants you’d bought him. His shoulders slump, and his expression turns downcast. “Why do you have to go out?” he asks, voice low and confused. “Can’t you stay here? With me? We could sit by the window, watch the waves, and you could tell me more stories. I like listening to you.”
You hold each dress against your body one after the other, half-focused on how they look, half on his words. “I just want to meet up with some friends for a little while,” you explain, glancing over your shoulder. “I won’t be gone long. I’d take you along, but… I don’t think you’d enjoy crowds and noise just yet. Too many new things all at once.”
You settle on the silver one, tossing the other aside and gathering your things to change. When you turn back, his face has fallen completely — brows drawn tight, lower lip caught between his teeth, looking utterly dejected.
“Hey, it’s alright,” you say, stepping closer to brush your fingers through his hair. “I’ll only stay until midnight, and then I’ll come straight back. We can ring in the new year together here, just us.”
He stares up at you for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly, pale curls falling into his eyes. “It’s not that…” he begins, but then falls silent, as if deciding not to say what he really feels. “I just… I don’t like being away from you. Everything feels wrong when you’re not touching me.”
You scratch gently behind his ear, the way you’ve learned he likes it — his eyes flutter shut immediately, and he leans into your touch, cool skin warming under your palm. “That sounds good,” you murmur. “I promise I won’t be long. I’ll even bring you back something sweet to eat, okay?”
He blinks up at you, curious. “Promise?”
You hold out your pinky finger, smiling faintly. “Here — this is how we seal it. You hook yours around mine, and it means it can’t be broken.”
He does as you say, his long, slender finger wrapping around yours, and then he brings your joined hands up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll hold you to it,” he says quietly.
You press your thumbs together, sealing the vow. “There. Now it’s real. I’ll be home before you know it.”
He nods, but the smile he gives you doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Truth be told, you don’t even feel like going out. You’d much rather stay curled up here, warm and quiet, than put on a dress and heels and make small talk. But your friends have been asking for weeks, saying you’ve locked yourself away for too long — and you know they only mean well.
You step into the bathroom to change, and when you come out, you feel his gaze lock onto you instantly. The dress clings soft and light, the neckline dipping just enough, the hem falling mid-thigh. You smooth your hands over your waist and hips, adjusting the fabric, and you can feel his eyes tracing every line of you — hungry, attentive, and completely fixed.
“There’s food left out for you on the counter,” you say, balancing on one foot as you slip on your heels. “And I’ll bring you something nice on my way back. Will you be alright here by yourself?”
His voice comes out flat, quiet, heavy with something you can’t quite name. “I’ll be good. But… hurry back.”
You fluff your hair, trying to brush off the weight of his mood — he gets like this whenever you step outside, as if he believes you might not return. In just a few short weeks, he has grown so deeply attached, so reliant on you, that even a few hours apart feels like an eternity to him. You tell yourself it’s only because you’re the only thing familiar in this strange land… but deep down, you wonder if it’s more than that. You wonder if you’re already tangled up in something neither of you can undo.
You glance back at him one last time, offering a soft, teasing look through your lashes. “See you soon, Hee.”
And as you turn to walk out the door, you feel his eyes burning into your back, following every step you take.
Heeseung watches you more than you realize.
From the moment he wakes until you step out the door, his eyes follow every movement you make. He studies the way you tie your hair, the way you slip into your work clothes, the curve of your shoulders when you reach for something high. In the beginning, it was only curiosity — trying to understand this strange world, trying to map the only safe place he’d found. But as days turned into weeks, something deeper began to take root.
It hits him hardest when you come home.
Most evenings, you walk through the door still dressed in your work uniform: crisp blazer fitted over your frame, pencil skirt hugging your hips, heels clicking sharp against the floorboards. He notices how the fabric pulls tight across your waist, how the neckline dips just enough to show the soft swell of your chest. But when you’ve been caught in the rain? That’s when his breath catches in his throat and his blood runs hotter than it ever has in the coldest depths of the sea. Water turns the thin material translucent, clinging to every line and shape, revealing the faint outline of your bra beneath, the slope of your stomach, the narrow dip of your waist. He stands there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, a strange, heavy ache coiling low in his gut — something he has no name for, only knows it makes his skin feel too tight, his mouth go dry, and his head spin.
He feels thirsty — not for water, but for you.
He doesn’t understand it at first, why the sight of you makes his heart race so fast it almost hurts, why he wants to reach out and touch every inch of you just to confirm you’re real, why the thought of anyone else looking at you the way he does makes something sharp and possessive twist inside his chest. But slowly, he begins to recognize it. He wants you all to himself. He wants to be the only one who gets to see you like this, the only one who gets to breathe in your scent, the only one who gets to hold you when the world feels too big. He wants to wrap himself around you so completely that no one else could ever come between you. It feels wrong, greedy, overwhelming — but he can’t stop it. Every time you leave, he counts the minutes until you return, and every time you come back, that hunger grows just a little sharper, a little more demanding.
Warm faced and flushed, your limbs heavy with the hum of good company and faint, light alcohol, you step through the door and into the quiet warmth of home. You aren’t drunk enough to stumble or slur your words — you’d left the loudest part of the night behind hours ago — but your thoughts still buzz like static, soft and loose around the edges.
With a quiet sigh of relief, you slip your feet out of your heels, your toes throbbing in protest after standing and walking for so long. You really should have brought a more comfortable pair, but it was too late for regrets now. You’re worn down to the bone, tired in the best way.
Brushing your hair back from your face, you blink slowly as you scan the living room and kitchen. Usually, Heeseung is right there — waiting by the door, already reaching for you the moment your key turns in the lock. Tonight, the space is empty.
You frown a little. “Heeseung?” you call out, your voice soft but clear.
He isn’t curled up on the couch, nor leaning against the kitchen counter, nor lingering in the bathroom as he sometimes does when he’s still figuring out how everything works. A flicker of worry passes through you, until you make your way to the bedroom — and there you find him.
Or rather, you find a large, tangled mound of blankets in the center of your bed. He’s wrapped himself so tightly in the covers that not even a strand of hair is visible. Scattered across the mattress and strewn across the floor all around him are your clothes — the ones you’d worn earlier in the week, your blouses, your skirts, even the soft loungewear you’d left folded on the chair. They hadn’t been there when you left.
Before you can speak, the pile shifts. Heeseung has sharp hearing and a keener sense of smell than any human; he knows you’re back before you even fully step into the room.
“I’m home,” you say gently, reaching to pull the layers of blanket down. “You asleep?”
As the covers fall away, he sits up abruptly. His pale hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, his eyes heavy-lidded and still hazy with sleep — but the second they land on you, the drowsiness vanishes, replaced by something sharp and tight. Instead of making space for you to climb in beside him or offering you that soft, relieved smile you’re used to, his nose twitches once, twice, and his lips press into a thin, displeased line.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, confused. “I’m sorry if I woke you… and what is all this? Why are my clothes everywhere?”
He ignores your questions, his voice coming out low and sharp — the harshest you’ve ever heard him speak. “Why do you smell like that?”
You blink, taken aback by the sudden edge in his tone. “Oh… I was dancing for a while, that’s all. Probably just sweat and perfume.”
His eyes narrow, dark and unwavering. “No. It’s not that. You smell different. Not like you. You smell like… other people. Like someone else.”
You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know what to tell you. I was around friends all night. Maybe you’re picking up their scents?”
“It’s not just anyone,” he insists, shifting back against the headboard, his shoulders stiff. “It’s a man. You smell like another man. I don’t like it. It doesn’t belong on you.”
You pause, realizing what he means, and a small, amused huff escapes you — though you can already see how deeply it bothers him. “That’s just Jiung, Hee. You remember Jiung? He works with me at the inn, my best friend. I’ve known him for years. He’s like family.”
But the explanation only makes his jaw tighten more. “I don’t care who he is,” he mutters, looking away, his fingers twisting into the sheets. “He still touched you. You still breathed the same air as him all night. You promised you’d be back sooner. You said midnight, and look what time it is now.”
His words sting a little, but you know it’s not anger — it’s fear, and that overwhelming, possessive hunger you’ve started to recognize in him. You’d lost track of time, gotten caught up in conversation, and yes, you’d broken your promise. You step closer, still in your tight skirt and your makeup, the night’s glow still on your skin.
“I’m sorry,” you say, soft and sincere. “I really am. I lost track of time, that’s all. Nothing happened. He’s just my friend, I swear.”
He doesn’t soften right away. His eyes glisten, bright and shiny with unshed tears, like frost melting under the sun. “Why do you need anyone else?” he asks, voice cracking just a little. “Am I not enough? Why do you get to go out and be around everyone else, when all I have is you?”
Your heart twists in your chest. He’s already been abandoned once, left behind by his own kind, and now he’s terrified you’ll you’ll do the same — or worse, that you’ll find someone you prefer over him. You kneel beside the bed, reaching out to cup his cool face in both hands, and this time he doesn’t pull away.
“Listen to me,” you murmur, leaning in so your forehead rests against his. “You are more than enough. You’re the only one I want here. And even if they never come back for you — even if your pod never shows up — you can stay here. Forever. I meant what I said. I might mess up small promises sometimes, but I will never, ever make you leave. You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go.”
The words hang between you, heavy and true.
“I don’t want to go back,” he whispers, the conviction clear in his voice. “I don’t ever want to go back to the sea, or to them. They didn’t want me. But you do.”
You lie back against the pillows, opening your arms to him. “Then don’t go. Stay here. Stay with me. Forever.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He shifts closer, curling his large body around yours, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder, his skin cool but his breath warm against your neck. This was never supposed to happen — you’d thought he’d sleep on the couch, that this arrangement would be temporary, but he’d worked his way into your bones so fast you barely noticed it happening.
His hands find their usual places: one resting heavy and warm on your hip, the other slipping beneath your neck to cradle your head. For a while, it feels like any other night, quiet and soft. But then his breathing changes — growing faster, shallower, more ragged. His body goes rigid against yours, and you feel it: the hard, thick length of him pressing firm and insistent right between your thighs, throbbing through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.
“Heeseung?” you murmur, half-laughing, half-surprised.
He doesn’t answer with words at first. Instead, he drags his nose along the line of your throat, inhaling deep, like he’s trying to replace every trace of another scent with his own. His hips roll forward once, slow and deliberate, grinding himself against you with a low, needy whine.
“I hate it,” he gasps, his arms tightening around you until you can barely move. “I hate that smell. I hate that he was near you. I hate that you were gone so long… I kept touching your clothes, trying to make them smell like me again, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing felt right until you came back.”
His hand slides down from your hip, slipping under the hem of your skirt to rest flat against your bare skin, his palm cool and firm. He grinds against you again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your ass in a way that makes your own breath catch.
“Missed you so much,” he whimpers, his lips brushing against your pulse point. “Missed your skin, your smell… Why does it feel like this? Like I’m starving, and only you can fill me up?”
You don’t need to ask what he means anymore. You can feel the heat rolling off him, the desperate way he clings to you, the raw, unfiltered need written all over every line of his body. You make your choice then — the same reckless, soft choice you’ve made every time since you found him on the shore.
You push your hips back against him, meeting his movement with a slow, deliberate roll of your own.
He chokes on a gasp, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. “Oh —!”
“Shh, I’m here,” you whisper, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair. “I’m right here. And I’m sorry I made you wait. Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take that smell away. Let me make you feel only me.”
Before he can form another word, you turn in his arms, shifting until you’re facing him, your bodies still pressed tight together. You lean in slowly, giving him every chance to pull back — but he only stares, wide-eyed and breathless, lips slightly parted, as if he doesn’t quite understand what’s coming. When your mouth finally meets his, he freezes completely, body going rigid, not sure what to do, too stunned to move.
It’s his first kiss, you realize immediately — clumsy, untaught, but brimming with so much raw feeling it makes your chest ache. You deepen it gently, your lips soft and guiding, and it only takes a few seconds for that desperate hunger to take over. He lets out a small, muffled whimper against your mouth, his hands clutching your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and suddenly he’s kissing you back — feverish, messy, all teeth and tongue and urgency, like he’s trying to swallow you whole, like he’s been waiting his whole life to know this feeling. He stumbles slightly even while lying down, his shoulders hunching forward, his hips jerking involuntarily against you, overwhelmed and dizzy from the sensation.
“Wha— what is this?” he gasps between kisses, his voice trembling, eyes half-lidded and hazy. “It feels like… like everything inside me is melting. Like I can’t breathe but I don’t want to stop.”
“You’ll learn,” you murmur, trailing kisses down his jaw, along the line of his throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there and making him shiver violently. “Just feel it. Don’t think.”
Your hands wander freely now, exploring every inch of that pale, smooth skin — broad shoulders, the firm planes of his chest, the soft curve of his stomach, brushing over the faint, almost invisible slits along his ribs that flutter faintly when your fingers pass over them. He twitches and whines under your touch, arching into every caress, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, your hips, gripping you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored.
“It feels too much,” he sobs softly, tears already beading at the corners of his eyes. “Too good… too warm… I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Let me do it for you,” you whisper, shifting lower down his body, your lips leaving a trail of heat as you go. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pull them down slowly, letting them slide off his hips and down his legs until he’s completely bare before you.
And there it is — thick, heavy, flushed deep rose, standing tall and throbbing between his thighs, already leaking so much clear, slick pre-cum that it glistens all down the length and drips onto his lower stomach. His breath hitches sharply, his hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, eyes wide and terrified and fascinated all at once.
“Ah —! It feels so full… so heavy… it aches right here,” he babbles, one hand hovering over himself like he’s scared to touch it, like it belongs to someone else. “Please… help me… it hurts so bad but I don’t want it to stop.”
You smile, dark and soft, and wrap your hand firmly but gently around his length. He jolts so hard his whole body bows, a high, keening cry tearing from his throat.
“Shh, I’ve got you, pretty boy,” you murmur, your breath fanning over the sensitive head and making him tremble harder. “Just lie still and let me take care of it. I’ll make the ache go away, I promise.”
Heeseung lies trembling beneath you, pale skin glowing like moonlight on water, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. His cock stands tall and throbbing between his thighs — thick, flushed deep rose, already leaking so much clear, slick fluid it glistens all down the length. His eyes are wide and glassy, tears clinging to his lashes, lips parted in soft, shaky whimpers.
“I don’t understand…” he gasps, hips twitching helplessly when you lean down between his legs. “It feels so hot… so heavy… it aches so bad — please help me, it hurts…”
You start slow — soft, kitten-soft licks, dragging your tongue lightly up the thick vein running along the underside, swirling gentle circles around the swollen tip, lapping up every drop of pre-cum that beads there like you’re tasting something sweet. He keens immediately, high and thin, his back arching right off the mattress, hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets.
“Ah —! Oh god!” he sobs, toes curling so hard his calves bunch tight, legs already shaking. “It feels like fire… but it’s good… it hurts but I don’t want you to stop…”
You hum against him, the vibration making his whole body jerk, then take just the very tip past your lips — sucking slow and tight, cheeks hollowing slightly. His mouth falls open in a silent cry, eyes rolling back until only the whites show, tears spilling freely down his temples.
“Too much — too much — please —” he babbles, voice cracking, hips trying to buck up but you hold him firm by the thighs, keeping him right where you want him. “I can’t take it — it’s so much — your mouth feels like it’s swallowing me whole…”
You pull off with a wet, lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his tip. Before he can catch his breath, you wrap your hand tight around his dick — firm but not rough — and start pumping in slow, slick strokes, using your own spit and his fluid to make every glide smooth and filthy. Then you dip back down, taking him deeper this time, half his cock filling your mouth, your tongue swirling and pressing against the sensitive ridge just under the head.
“Mmm —! YES —!” he wails, loud and unrestrained, his whole body convulsing. “Right there — right there — feels like I’m melting — I don’t know what’s happening —”
You keep switching it up: suck deep until he’s gasping for air, pull back to lick and nip lightly at the tip, then wrap your hand around the base and pump fast — wrist moving in a rapid, steady rhythm, squeezing just right as you go up and down, thumb swiping over the slit every time you reach the top. The sound is wet, slick, and obscene — skin on skin, your lips smacking soft and messy, his broken moans filling every corner of the room.
“Look at you,” you murmur around him, the words vibrating right through his cock. “So pretty when you cry for it. So big and hard and throbbing just for me. You like my mouth, don’t you? Like how my hand feels wrapped tight around you?”
“Y-yes —! Only you — only you make me feel like this —” he sobs, legs shaking so hard the bed shakes with him, heels digging into the mattress. “Please — don’t stop — I feel like I’m gonna burst — it’s building up so fast —”
You speed up even more now — hand flying over his dick, pumping him in a frantic, relentless pace, your other hand cupping and squeezing his heavy, full balls, rolling them gently in your palm while you lick and suck at the tip like it’s the only thing you need. He’s completely unraveled: face flushed bright pink all over, eyes squeezed shut tight, mouth hanging open in endless whimpers, every muscle in his body pulled taut as a rope.
“Hurts — it hurts so good —!” he screams, voice high and wobbly, tears streaming down his cheeks and into his hair. “I can’t hold it — I don’t know how — it’s gonna come out — please —!”
“That’s it, baby,” you purr, pumping harder, faster, tighter. “Let it go. Give it all to me. I want every drop. Empty those heavy balls right into my hand, into my mouth — give me everything you’ve got.”
The second the words leave your lips, he shatters.
His whole body bows off the bed like he’s been struck, back arched so deep his shoulders lift, thighs clamping tight around your head. A long, wailing cry tears out of him — loud, trembling, pure pleasure and overwhelm all mixed together.
And then it comes — thick, hot, and endless, just like the tides.
The first spurt hits the back of your throat, and more follows in heavy, pulsing waves — rope after rope shooting out, coating your hand, your wrist, spilling down over your fingers, over his stomach, pooling thick and white all over his skin. It keeps coming, wave after wave, so much it drips down his sides, soaks the sheets beneath him, and still his cock throbs and twitches, pumping more until you’re sure there’s nothing left. It feels like buckets of it, warm and sticky, covering every inch of him you can reach.
He collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving like he just swam through a storm, legs still shaking uncontrollably, toes finally uncurling but still trembling. His face is soaked with tears and sweat, lips swollen and red, eyes dazed and half-lidded, looking completely wrecked and beautiful all at once.
“Too much…” he whimpers, voice barely above a whisper, hips still twitching in little aftershocks. “So much… it came out so fast… I didn’t know I had that much…”
You lift your hand, covered thick and creamy, and lick it clean slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Look at all that you gave me,” you murmur, crawling up to kiss his wet, sticky skin, tasting salt and heat. “All for me. Only mine. You did so good, my sweet selkie boy.”
He whimpers, pulling you close into his arms, pressing his face into your neck, still shivering from the intensity of it all. “Hurts… still feels so good…” he mumbles, delirious and soft. “Don’t ever stop touching me… please…”
You shift slightly to rest your cheek right over his heart, listening to the frantic, rapid thud of it beneath your ear, feeling the cool, smooth warmth of his skin against yours. For a long while neither of you says anything, just wrapped up in each other, in the quiet hum of the room and the distant sound of waves rolling against the shore.
Then, soft and sure, you murmur the words that feel truer than anything else right now:
“I’m so glad you’re here, Heeseung.”
And even though he can’t go back to the sea for another whole year, even though he’s still learning what it means to belong here, he pulls you tighter against him, burying his face in your hair, and you know — in this moment, at least — he feels exactly the same.
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