synopsis: them doing a post-match interview after winning a big match and they do this interview with their 9-month old baby boy because i have severe baby fever.
isagi had fully intended to give your son back before the interview started, but the second your little boy buried his face into his dad's neck, wrapped those tiny arms around his jersey, and let out the saddest, most offended little whine imaginable when you reached for him, he immediately folded.
"… yeah, sorry," he laughed sheepishly, already bouncing him on one hip. "he's... not negotiating today."
the reporter found the whole thing adorable before the interview even began because here stood japan's match-winning striker, sweat still dripping down his face, medal hanging crookedly around his neck, while absentmindedly rubbing tiny circles into the baby's back like he'd done it a thousand times.
every answer somehow included multitasking. "yeah, we adjusted the press during the seco– buddy, don't eat dad's medal... okay... during the second half we– hey, that's not food?”
your son spent the first 2 minutes completely fascinated by the microphone. every time the reporter lifted it toward isagi, two tiny hands immediately reached for it with the determination of a man trying to win the world cup himself.
eventually... success. the baby yanked the microphone straight out of the reporter's hand.
"bababababaaaa!!! dada!!! bthhhhhhhhh!!"
he then aggressively blew spit directly into the microphone.
the speakers echoed every single wet raspberry throughout the stadium.
complete silence… followed by 40,000 people laughing.
isagi completely froze before immediately losing it himself, head dropping onto your son's little shoulder because he was laughing too hard to breathe.
"bro..." he wheezed. "he really wanted to say something..."
the reporter – absolute professional for approximately 3 seconds – burst out laughing too before dramatically holding the microphone back toward your son.
"would you like to comment on your father's performance today?"
"DADADADADAAAAAA."
"yes, that’s a powerful statement."
the internet immediately declared that your son had just delivered "the greatest post-match analysis of all time."
clips of isagi trying to conduct a serious interview while wrestling a baby for possession of the microphone collected 20 million views overnight.
the comments absolutely killed him:
"he inherited isagi's field vision because he saw that mic from ten centimeters away."
"first assist of his career."
"his media training starts early."
"bro already has more interview aura than half the league."
isagi reposted one edit with the caption: "he's banned from media day until further notice 😭💙"
itoshi rin
rin genuinely believed this interview would go smoothly because your son had been suspiciously well-behaved ever since the final whistle blew, happily resting against his shoulder while lazily playing with the collar of his jersey, and after you made 3 separate attempts to take him back only for your baby to cling even tighter with a tiny pout and watery eyes, rin simply looked at you, gave the smallest shrug, and muttered, "he doesn't want to," as if that settled the matter, which admittedly, it did.
by the time he walked over to the interview area, every camera had already shifted from celebrating japan's victory to zooming in on the sight of one of the most intimidating strikers in the world absentmindedly rubbing little circles across his son's back while adjusting the baby's tiny socks with one hand, completely unfazed by the dozens of reporters surrounding him despite looking like he'd been carrying him like this for hours.
the interview actually started surprisingly normally because rin answered every question in his usual short, matter-of-fact way while your son remained perfectly content against his chest, occasionally patting the gold medal hanging around his neck or trying to pull on the collar of his jersey, making it seem like everyone had worried over nothing.
"he's behaving today," the reporter commented with a smile.
"usually does," rin replied without a second thought.
the moment those words left his mouth, your son locked eyes with the microphone.
every parent watching immediately knew exactly what was about to happen.
the reporter raised the microphone closer so rin could answer the next question, only for two tiny hands to suddenly shoot forward with shocking speed, grabbing it with both hands before anyone had time to react.
"ba."
the entire interview area fell silent.
your son blinked once. then– "bababababababAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
it wasn't crying. it wasn't babbling. it was an impressively loud, victorious yell delivered directly into the microphone, which echoed throughout the entire stadium loud enough for nearby players to physically turn around and see what had just happened.
the reporter jumped so hard she nearly dropped her cue cards while photographers immediately lowered their cameras because they were laughing too much to keep them steady.
rin simply stared at his son for a few quiet seconds before sighing almost imperceptibly. "... loud."
that single word made everyone laugh even harder.
your son, incredibly proud of himself, immediately tried to scream into the microphone a second time, but rin calmly removed it from his tiny hands with the practiced patience of someone who had apparently dealt with this exact situation more than once before.
"... finished?"
"... da."
"... good."
then he continued answering the reporter's question as though absolutely nothing unusual had happened, while your son happily resumed playing with the medal around his father's neck instead.
the internet completely forgot about the match because every trending topic became some variation of "RIN ITOSHI'S BABY SON JUST JUMP-SCARED THE ENTIRE STADIUM," while countless edits slowed down the exact moment your son leaned forward to yell into the microphone with meme audios playing over it.
what truly broke the internet, however, wasn't the screaming – it was the brief moment immediately afterward when your son reached up with both hands, accidentally squished rin's cheeks together, and caused the tiniest, weakest, most reluctant smile to appear before rin realized cameras were still rolling and immediately returned to his usual cold expression.
within minutes, fans had declared your son the only person on earth capable of making rin itoshi smile on command, with thousands joking that japan’s soccer team should stop recruiting strikers and simply hire the baby instead.
itoshi sae
sae somehow managed to make carrying a 9-month-old baby through a post-match interview look effortlessly elegant, standing there with his medal around his neck and his jacket draped neatly over one shoulder while your son sat comfortably on his hip, absentmindedly chewing on the zipper of his jacket with complete satisfaction as though this were simply another ordinary afternoon rather than an international broadcast watched by millions.
before the interview even began, you reached over with open arms, quietly asking if your son wanted to come back to mama, only for him to immediately shake his tiny head, bury his face into sae's shoulder, and cling tighter with a little whine that made the nearby reporters collectively let out an audible "aww."
sae simply glanced at you. "guess he's staying."
he didn't sound annoyed. if anything… he sounded quietly pleased.
throughout the interview, sae answered every question with his usual calm, composed demeanor while simultaneously multitasking in ways nobody expected, casually fixing your son's tiny jersey’s collar after it slipped off, catching his pacifier before it hit the floor without even looking, adjusting the little sneaker that kept slipping off his foot, and gently bouncing him every few seconds whenever he grew restless, all without interrupting a single answer.
the reporter eventually smiled before crouching slightly so she was closer to your son's eye level. "do you think he'd like to say something, too?"
sae looked down at him. "you have something to say?"
your son immediately reached toward the microphone with absolute confidence. the reporter happily held it closer.
"gagagagagaga..." a fat pause. "dadadada..." another pause. "mmmmmmmm."
everyone waited. then without warning… he leaned forward and licked the microphone. completely. absolutely no hesitation whatsoever. not a single thought in his tiny brain.
the reporter froze for a second before laughing so hard she had to lower her clipboard because she physically couldn't continue the interview.
sae calmly took the microphone back, reached for the towel around his own neck, wiped it clean with practiced efficiency, handed it back to her, and simply said, "sorry."
"it's okay."
“he does that."
somehow, the fact that sae said those three words with complete seriousness – as though babies licking expensive broadcasting equipment was a perfectly ordinary occurrence – became funnier than the actual licking itself.
the interview continued, except your son had now decided the microphone was the greatest invention in human history, leaning toward it every single time it came within arm's reach while sae quietly shifted him away at the last possible second before another attempted lick could happen.
fans later counted… it happened 6 separate times.
the internet edited the clip like it was an action movie, like dramatic slow motion, suspenseful music choices, and captions reading "TARGET LOCKED" every time the microphone entered the frame before cutting to sae calmly redirecting your son at the final moment.
thousands of comments joked that the true battle of the evening hadn't been the football match at all – it had been sae spending 5 uninterrupted minutes defending a microphone from his own baby.
nagi seishiro
nagi had completely forgotten there was supposed to be a post-match interview because, after the final whistle, he'd spent almost 20 minutes wandering around the pitch with your son comfortably resting against his shoulder, absentmindedly pointing at the stadium lights and occasionally trying to steal the gold medal hanging around nagi's neck, making the media staff chase him down just to remind him that he still had obligations to fulfill.
when they finally caught him, he simply blinked. "oh." he looked down at your son. looked back at the staff. "guess he's coming, too."
nobody argued.
by the time he reached the interview area, your son had fully decided that his father's medal belonged to him and repeatedly reached for it with determined little grabby hands, causing nagi to lazily lift it out of reach every few seconds while continuing to walk without putting in even the slightest extra effort.
"hey. mine."
tiny hands reached higher.
"... no."
another reach.
"it’s daddy’s.”
louder baby noises followed immediately.
after a full minute of this extremely one-sided argument, nagi finally sighed. "fine..."
he let your son hold the medal. instant peace.
the interview began with the reporter congratulating him on today's win, only for your son to enthusiastically babble right over the top of her introduction as though he had been personally waiting for his turn to speak all evening.
"congratulations on today's vic–"
"BAAAAAAA!"
the reporter burst into laughter. "and congratulations to you, too."
your son nodded. everyone around him completely lost it.
halfway through another question, your son noticed the microphone for the first time.
nagi noticed him noticing it. "don't."
tiny hands reached.
"don't, buddy."
they stretched farther.
"too troublesome…”
your son ignored every warning. and somehow, despite nagi technically being one of the fastest athletes in the world… the baby still won. he proudly grabbed the microphone with both hands before immediately announcing to the entire stadium, "dadadadadadadadadabthhhhhhhhhhh."
the loudest raspberry imaginable echoed through the speakers.
nagi stared at him for several long seconds before quietly looking back at the reporter. "wow. that was a long answer."
the reporter folded over laughing so hard she couldn't even ask another question because she kept trying to compose herself only to remember the raspberry echoing around the stadium all over again.
the internet immediately clipped nagi's completely deadpan response, turning "that was a long answer" into the newest reaction meme overnight, while thousands of fans jokingly translated the baby's speech into detailed tactical analyses, transfer rumors, and complaints about bedtime schedules.
reo even commented underneath one viral clip, "he definitely inherited nagi's interview skills," only for nagi to casually reply, "he talks way more than i do," which somehow made the entire interaction even funnier because everyone agreed he wasn't exaggerating.
mikage reo
reo had shown up to the interview looking as polished as ever despite having just played 90 exhausting minutes, somehow still managing to keep his hair neat while carrying your son comfortably on one arm, who was wearing the tiniest little pair of noise-canceling headphones because reo had insisted before kickoff that the celebrations afterward might be too loud for sensitive little ears.
fans immediately zoomed in. "of course, reo bought luxury baby headphones." "those probably cost more than my rent."
before the interview even began, you walked over with open arms to take your son back for a little while, only for him to dramatically bury his face into reo's shoulder with the most pitiful little whimper imaginable, clutching onto the front of his jersey with both fists as though someone had just informed him he was being separated forever.
even nagi held his arms out with a lazy, "come here."
your son looked at him. then immediately turned back around and hugged reo even tighter.
reo looked far too pleased with himself. "guess i'm his favorite today."
you rolled your eyes. "don't let it get to your head."
throughout the interview, reo somehow answered every question while gently bouncing your son whenever he became fussy, absentmindedly fixing his tiny headphones whenever they slipped sideways, wiping a little bit of drool from his chin with a towel without missing a beat, making every parent watching collectively smile because it was obvious none of these little habits were rehearsed – they were simply second nature by now.
halfway through the interview, your son spotted the microphone. he stared at it with complete focus. reached once. missed. reached again. success. with both tiny hands wrapped proudly around the microphone, he lifted it toward his own face like a seasoned professional before confidently announcing, "dadadadada..."
everyone waited.
"... GOOOOOOO."
the entire interview area exploded into laughter.
nobody actually knew whether he'd been trying to say "goal" or if it was simply another happy baby noise, but the timing couldn't have been more perfect considering reo had just scored the match winner.
reo gasped loud. "did you guys hear that?!”
he looked between the reporter and the nearby cameras with mock seriousness.
"i think that's his first official post-match interview."
the reporter immediately joined in. "would you say today's victory belongs to your father?"
your son stared at her. "babababa."
the reporter nodded thoughtfully. "mhm. interesting analysis."
reo sighed. "he disagrees."
your son then lightly bonked the microphone against reo's chest before happily giggling to himself.
"okay, okay," reo laughed. "i'm getting absolutely cooked by my own son on live."
by the end of the night, the internet had collectively decided your son held a higher position in the club hierarchy than anyone else, with edits introducing him as assistant coach, sporting director, club president, and even reo's toughest post-match critic, while countless fans joked that his "GOOOOO" celebration deserved its own commentary replay.
the sweetest moment happened after the interview had officially ended, when your son suddenly leaned forward all on his own, gave reo the tiniest little kiss on his sweaty cheek, rested his head against his shoulder with a sleepy sigh, and closed his eyes as if the excitement had finally caught up to him.
reo visibly melted.
he completely forgot there were still cameras following him as he gently rubbed your son's back and whispered, "yeah? all done? let's go find mama," before carrying him across the pitch with the softest smile on his face, making everyone watching quietly agree that, as incredible as his winning goal had been, nothing compared to the way he looked carrying his little boy afterward.
bachira meguru
bachira had absolutely no intention of bringing your son into the interview at first, but the second you reached out to take him back, your little boy immediately wrapped himself around bachira's neck like the world's tiniest koala and let out the most dramatic, heartbroken whine imaginable, making bachira laugh so hard he nearly dropped the medal hanging around his own neck before grinning at you apologetically.
"sorry, honey," he said, gently patting your son's back. "he picked his favorite parent for the next 5 minutes... don't worry, it'll be you again after i accidentally tell him he can't eat grass."
the interview was pure chaos before anyone even asked the first question because bachira kept making funny faces every time your son looked even remotely close to getting fussy, causing the baby to burst into loud giggles that echoed through the microphones while reporters repeatedly had to pause because they couldn't stop smiling at the sight of one of the world's best forwards entertaining a baby between every answer.
your son found the microphone absolutely fascinating from the moment the interview started, repeatedly reaching toward it every time the reporter lifted it closer, only for bachira to gently redirect those little hands somewhere else while whispering, "nope... that's not your toy... well, technically it could be your toy, but i think she'd be sad."
eventually, the reporter laughed and simply held the microphone toward your son instead. "maybe he has something he'd like to say?"
your son's entire face lit up. he grabbed the microphone with both hands. "bababababa... DADA!!"
everyone smiled.
then he leaned closer. "BTHHHHHHHHHH."
the loudest raspberry imaginable exploded through the stadium speakers.
bachira physically doubled over laughing, nearly losing his balance because he couldn't stop wheezing into your son's shoulder.
"HE PRACTICED THAT!" he laughed. "i swear he does that every time i call his grandma!"
the reporter was laughing too hard to continue. "do... do you think he has any thoughts on today's match?"
your son immediately smacked the microphone with one tiny palm. "DA!"
bachira nodded dramatically. "exactly! i couldn't have said it better myself."
the internet instantly declared the baby the funniest post-match interview guest in football history, while edits comparing bachira's nonstop energy to your son's chaotic little personality flooded everyone's timelines, with thousands of comments joking that bachira hadn't raised a son – he'd simply cloned himself in miniature.
shidou ryusei
nobody – not the reporters, not the camera crew, not even you – expected shidou to show up carrying a baby with the same confidence he'd just celebrated scoring 2 goals, casually strolling into the interview area with your son perched comfortably on one hip while excitedly pointing at every bright stadium light he could see, looking completely content in the safest place he knew.
"you sure you don't want me to take him?" you asked one last time.
your son answered by grabbing a fistful of shidou's jersey.
shidou grinned. "sorry, babe. he has excellent taste."
the interview started surprisingly well because your son was completely distracted by shidou's medal, repeatedly lifting it up to inspect it before trying to chew on it while shidou absentmindedly let him, only occasionally stopping him with an amused, "hey little dude, dad kinda needs that."
everything changed the second the microphone entered the baby's line of sight.
he froze. stared. reached. somehow succeeded on the very first try.
"BAAAA!"
shidou immediately pointed at him. "THAT'S MY BOY!"
the baby squealed louder. "DADADADADADAAAAAA!"
the stadium speakers practically shook.
shidou threw his head back laughing. "YEAHHHH! LET HIM COOK!"
the reporter was crying laughing by this point. "would you say he inherited your confidence?"
"confidence?" shidou laughed. "nah." he proudly bounced your son a little higher. "he inherited greatness."
your son immediately celebrated by grabbing the microphone again and aggressively blowing another raspberry into it.
the internet completely lost whatever composure remained.
"THEY SHARE THE SAME ENERGY."
"THIS ISN'T A FATHER AND SON."
"THIS IS A DUO."
fans joked that shidou was encouraging his son's press conference debut like he'd just scored the winning goal himself, while countless edits paired every loud baby scream with one of shidou's goal celebrations because, somehow, the energy genuinely matched perfectly.
karasu tabito
karasu walked into the interview already smiling because he'd spent the last 15 minutes listening to your son happily babble complete nonsense into his shoulder while absentmindedly playing with the little hairs at the back of his neck, and after watching your baby stubbornly refuse to leave his dad's arms despite multiple attempts from you, the coaching staff, and even a very bribable bachira holding out a plush mascot, karasu simply chuckled. "well," he said. "he's made his decision."
unlike most players, karasu somehow managed to keep the interview flowing naturally while carrying a baby, casually answering questions with one hand tucked into his pocket while gently bouncing your son with the other, occasionally pausing just long enough to fix his little jersey after it rode up or quietly wipe away a bit of drool before continuing exactly where he'd left off.
the reporter eventually laughed. "he's been eyeing the microphone this entire time."
"yeah," karasu sighed. "i've noticed."
your son finally made his move. tiny hands grabbed the microphone. "... dadadadada..."
everyone leaned in.
"... GOO..."
pause.
"BABABABABABA!!" followed immediately by a delighted squeal.
karasu pinched the bridge of his nose while trying (and failing) not to laugh.
"... great. he's discovered public speakin’."
"do you think he has your personality?" the reporter teased.
karasu looked down at your son, who was now trying to eat the fuzzy windscreen covering the microphone. "not really… he's louder."
your son looked up at him and giggled.
karasu's entire expression softened. "yeah, yeah. yer funny."
the internet adored how naturally fatherhood seemed to fit him, with countless fans pointing out that every time your son reached for something he wasn't supposed to have, karasu never scolded him or looked stressed – he simply redirected him with the patience of someone who had already mastered the art of negotiating with a tiny human who couldn't even speak yet.
kaiser michael
kaiser had every intention of doing the interview alone because he genuinely believed it would be easier that way, but the moment you tried taking your son back, the baby immediately buried his face into his father's shoulder and clung to him with surprising strength, refusing to let go despite your gentle coaxing, causing kaiser to glance down for a brief second before quietly saying, "he's comfortable," with such calm certainty that even you couldn't help smiling before waving them both toward the interview area.
somehow, kaiser looked impossibly composed standing beneath dozens of flashing cameras with your son balanced securely against his chest, occasionally adjusting the baby's tiny jacket whenever it slipped off one shoulder or gently brushing sweaty little blond strands of hair away from his forehead between answering questions, all while speaking with the same composed confidence he always carried after a victory.
every so often, your son reached up just to touch his father's face, gently patting his cheek or absentmindedly playing with the damp strands of his blond hair falling into his eyes, and every single time, kaiser instinctively leaned down just enough to make it easier for those tiny hands to reach him without interrupting whatever answer he was giving.
halfway through the interview, the inevitable happened – your son spotted the microphone. his eyes widened. tiny fingers stretched toward it.
the reporter smiled knowingly. "would you like to let him answer one?"
kaiser gave the smallest nod.
the microphone was placed in front of your son. "...babababa..."
everyone waited.
"DADA!"
kaiser's lips twitched.
then your son enthusiastically leaned forward and planted the wettest little kiss imaginable directly onto the microphone before giggling to himself.
the reporter completely broke character. the camera crew laughed. even several photographers lowered their cameras because they were laughing too hard to keep shooting.
kaiser simply accepted the microphone back, wiped it clean with the towel around his neck, and quietly apologized before looking down at your son.
"was that your interview?"
"... da."
"... i see."
by the next morning, the internet had fallen hopelessly in love with the contrast between kaiser's composed, almost regal demeanor and the tiny baby enthusiastically covering expensive broadcasting equipment in drool every chance he got, with thousands joking that the only person capable of making michael kaiser patiently sanitize microphones on live television was his own son.
ness alexis
ness had spent the entire walk to the interview softly talking to your son about absolutely everything that had just happened during the match, pointing toward the cheering supporters, waving his tiny hand toward the cameras, and proudly showing him the medal around his neck as though your 9-month-old genuinely understood every tactical decision that had led to today's victory.
by the time you reached them, your son had become so content listening to his father's voice that the second you reached over to carry him instead, he immediately leaned right back into ness's chest with the sweetest little sigh, making ness smile so brightly it almost rivaled the stadium lights.
"sorry," he laughed sheepishly. "i think... i might be trapped."
throughout the interview, ness somehow answered every question while instinctively rocking your son in slow, gentle motions, occasionally kissing the top of his little head whenever he grew sleepy before quietly adjusting the tiny blanket draped around his shoulders because the evening air had started getting colder.
reporters quickly noticed that your son hadn't taken his eyes off the microphone once. "i think someone has something important to contribute."
ness laughed. “i think you're right."
the microphone was lowered. your son reached forward with both hands.
"... dadadadada..."
pause.
"... MAMAMAMAMA..."
everyone collectively went quiet.
ness blinked and looked toward you standing just off camera. "... did–"
before he could finish speaking–
"BTHHHHHHHHH."
another enormous raspberry echoed through the speakers.
the entire interview dissolved into laughter.
ness laughed so hard he actually had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes before gently taking the microphone back from your son.
"that..." he smiled down at him. "that was a wonderful speech, little guy.”
the reporter grinned. "care to translate?"
ness nodded with complete seriousness. "he said..." he pretended to think very hard. "that i'm the greatest midfielder in the world.”
your son immediately smacked him on the cheek with one tiny hand. everyone burst into laughter again.
"or," ness corrected himself through a grin, "maybe he disagrees."
the internet absolutely adored the entire exchange, especially the way ness looked at your son with so much open affection that it almost made people forget they were watching an elite footballer and not simply an impossibly proud first-time dad, with thousands of comments insisting the baby had fact-checked his father live on international television for the whole world to see.
⤷ synopsisˎˊ˗ just a couple cute moments with him and the baby you two created <3
⤷ 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴.ᐟ ˎˊ˗ ego jinpachi ৴ michael kaiser ৴ sae itoshi ৴ isagi yoichi ৴ rin itoshi ৴ bachira meguru ৴ nagi seishiro ৴ shidou ryusei ৴ chigiri hyoma ৴ don lorenzo ৴ kunigami rensuke ৴ aoshi tokimitsu ৴ mikage reo ৴ bunny iglesias
𑣲 EGO JINPACHI
sometimes when you’re tired, ego doesn’t just take your son from you — he stays with him.
your ten month old is resting against ego’s chest in the monitoring room, warm and sleepy, little breaths puffing softly against his shirt.
the screens glow in front of them, players running, data flashing, but ego’s attention keeps drifting downward.
your son makes a tiny sound, shifting, fingers curling into ego’s shirt like he’s afraid to fall.
ego freezes for a second, then slowly adjusts his hold, one large hand supporting his back, the other gently holding his tiny hand.
“…easy,” ego murmurs, voice low and quiet, nothing like the sharp tone he uses with the players.
your son looks up at him, big eyes blinking, studying his face like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. ego meets his gaze, expression unreadable… then his brow softens just a bit.
“…what are you staring at?” he mutters.
the baby responds by smiling. a wide, gummy smile, drool at the corner of his mouth.
ego exhales through his nose, almost amused. “…you’re bold,” he says quietly. “…smiling at me like that.”
your son lifts one hand and clumsily pats ego’s chest, then grabs at his collar. ego lets it happen, doesn’t pull away. instead, he gently taps his forehead to the baby’s, careful, slow.
“…you don’t even know what blue lock is,” ego says softly. “…good. stay like that for now.”
your son babbles, nonsense sounds, happy and warm. ego hums under his breath — barely noticeable, something absent-minded — while his thumb traces slow lines along the baby’s back.
for a moment, the monitoring room feels quieter. softer.
your son yawns again, eyes drooping, forehead resting under ego’s chin. ego adjusts the chair slightly, making sure he’s comfortable, shielding him from the bright screens with his body.
“…sleep,” he whispers. “…i’ve got you.”
and when your baby finally falls asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, ego doesn’t move.
he keeps one hand firmly there, protective, steady, like nothing in the world matters more than this small, warm weight in his arms.
𑣲 MICHAEL KAISER
the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the lights.
michael sits on the couch with your baby resting on his chest, one arm wrapped around the small, warm body. he looks a little unsure at first, like he’s afraid to move the wrong way, but he doesn’t let go.
“…you okay there, little one?” he murmurs, voice low and careful.
your baby makes a small noise, tiny fingers curling into michael’s shirt.
michael freezes for half a second, then relaxes when the baby settles. he lets out a quiet breath and smiles to himself, barely noticeable.
“…guess that means i’m doing something right,” he says softly.
the baby looks up at him, blinking slowly, studying his face. michael meets the gaze, eyes soft, nothing like the sharp look he gives on the field. he lifts one finger and lets the baby grab it.
“…wow,” he mutters. “…you’re stronger than you look.”
your baby babbles, drool forming at the corner of their mouth. michael chuckles quietly, wiping it away with his thumb, gentle and careful. he rocks slightly without thinking, a slow, natural motion.
“…hey,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against the baby’s. “…you don’t have to be strong yet. you’ve got time.”
the baby yawns, face scrunching up, then relaxes again. michael adjusts his grip, pulling the baby closer, protective. his hand rests on their back, steady, warm.
when you walk in, michael looks up at you. “…they fell asleep,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to break the moment. “…you should rest too. i’ve got this.”
your baby sleeps peacefully against him, tiny breaths rising and falling.
michael stays right where he is, not moving, not rushing anywhere.
𑣲 SAE ITOSHI
sae sits on the couch with your baby in his arms, back straight like he’s still not fully used to this, but his hold is careful and secure.
the baby looks up at him, eyes wide, then suddenly starts babbling.
“ba… ba… da—”
sae blinks.
he stares down at the tiny face, clearly confused for a moment. “…what?” he says quietly, brows knitting together. “…are you talking to me?”
the baby responds by babbling louder, little hands waving, clearly very serious about whatever they’re trying to say. sae exhales softly through his nose, almost amused.
“…right,” he murmurs. “…i see. important conversation.”
the baby grabs his finger, squeezing it with surprising strength. sae stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, letting it happen. his thumb gently rubs over the baby’s knuckles, slow and careful.
“…you’re loud,” he says softly. “…but… i don’t mind.”
the baby laughs, a bright, bubbly sound, and sae’s expression changes. his eyes soften, lips twitching into a small smile he doesn’t even realize is there.
“…hey,” he mutters, lowering his forehead closer. “…you don’t need to rush. talk all you want. i’m listening.”
the baby babbles again, leaning closer, and sae adjusts his hold, pulling them against his chest. he rocks slightly, just a little, almost instinctively.
when you pass by, sae looks up at you briefly. “…they’ve got a lot to say,” he says quietly.
your baby yawns mid-babble, head dropping against his chest. sae looks down, careful not to move too much.
“…guess that’s enough talking for now,” he whispers. “…rest.”
𑣲 RIN ITOSHI
rin sits on the couch with his son upright in his lap, one hand firm on the boy’s back, the other steadying his small wrist so he doesn’t tip over.
his son is wide awake.
tiny legs kick nonstop, socks flashing as he babbles loudly, clearly excited just to exist.
“ba—ba—da!”
rin blinks down at him. “…you’ve got a lot to say,” he mutters.
his son answers by smacking rin’s chest with an open palm, then laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
rin stiffens for half a second. then exhales. “…hey. easy.” his voice is calm, not sharp.
the boy reaches up and grabs a handful of rin’s hair.
rin freezes completely.
“…no— don’t,” he says quietly, carefully prying the tiny fingers loose without hurting him. “…that actually hurts.”
his son just giggles, drool shining at his mouth, completely unbothered.
rin sighs, then—almost without realizing it—lets out a short huff that’s almost a laugh. “…you’re already trouble,” he murmurs. “…just like that.”
he shifts his son slightly and starts bouncing him gently on his knee, testing the motion. the boy squeals, arms flailing happily.
rin watches closely, grip steady, protective. “…you like that?” he asks.
another excited babble. louder this time.
the boy leans forward and bumps his forehead lightly into rin’s chest. rin’s hand immediately flattens on his back, holding him in place.
“…careful,” he says softly. “…i’ve got you.”
his son looks up at him again, eyes wide and curious, babbling nonstop like he’s telling rin a very important story. rin holds his gaze, serious expression softening just a little.
“…you’re loud,” he says quietly. “…and exhausting.”
then, after a pause, his thumb brushing gently over his son’s back:
“…but you’re mine.”
𑣲 ISGAI YOICHI
isagi sits on the carpet with his son sitting between his legs, hands ready at the boy’s sides in case he wobbles. he’s calm, focused, watching every little movement.
his son is wide awake, babbling happily.
“ba—da—da!”
isagi smiles. “yeah? what is it?” he asks softly.
suddenly, the baby leans forward—slow, determined—eyes locked on isagi’s face. isagi blinks, confused for a second.
“…huh?”
the baby makes a small sound and presses his mouth clumsily against isagi’s cheek.
it’s messy. a little wet. definitely uncoordinated.
isagi freezes.
then his eyes widen and he lets out a soft, surprised laugh. “oh— hey—!” he says quietly, one hand coming up to steady the baby. “was that a kiss?”
the baby pulls back just to babble excitedly, clearly proud of himself, then leans in again, bumping isagi’s nose this time.
isagi laughs again, warmer now. “okay, okay… i get it,” he says, smiling, “you’re very affectionate today.”
he gently presses his forehead to his son’s for a moment, careful and slow. “thanks,” he murmurs. “that actually made my day.”
the baby squeals, hands grabbing at isagi’s shirt, clearly happy. isagi pulls him closer, one arm wrapping around his small body, the other steadying his back.
“you’re gonna surprise me a lot, aren’t you?” he says softly.
𑣲 BACHIRA MEGURU
sunlight pours in through the windows, and bachira is sitting on the floor with his son between his legs, both of them facing each other like it’s a game.
his son is full of energy, babbling nonstop, hands flapping, eyes bright.
“ba! ba! da!”
bachira gasps dramatically. “woah— did you hear that?” he says, eyes wide. “i think you’re summoning a monster.”
his son squeals and slaps bachira’s knee, clearly very proud of himself.
bachira laughs, that bright, happy laugh, and gently catches his son’s hands. “easy, tiger,” he says playfully. “you’re gonna knock me out like that.”
the baby suddenly leans forward, face serious, like he’s on a mission. before bachira can react, his son presses a clumsy, drooly kiss right onto bachira’s cheek.
bachira freezes.
then his eyes light up. “OH?” he laughs. “was that for me?!”
his son babbles loudly in response, leaning in again and bumping bachira’s nose this time.
bachira giggles, pressing his forehead to his son’s. “hey, hey— careful! kisses are dangerous weapons, you know.”
the baby squeals, grabbing at bachira’s hair. bachira pretends to struggle. “ahhh— i’ve been caught! help! the tiny monster is attacking!”
your son laughs, kicking his legs wildly. bachira pulls him into a gentle hug, rocking him side to side.
“you’re so strong already,” bachira says softly, smile warm. “and so sweet. i love that.”
he plants an exaggerated kiss on the baby’s forehead. “mwah! take that!”
the baby babbles back happily, drool everywhere, and bachira doesn’t even care. he just holds him close, laughing, completely present.
and when you watch them together, it’s impossible not to smile—because bachira looks happier than ever, right there with his son in his arms.
𑣲 NAGI SEISHIRO
nagi sits on the couch, your daughter clinging to him like she’s afraid to let go.
her tiny arms are wrapped around his neck, legs hooked around his waist, and she buries her face in his chest.
nagi leans back slightly, careful not to squish her, one hand resting gently on her back, the other brushing her hair away from her face.
he watches her for a moment, expression calm but softening as he feels her tiny heartbeat against him.
“…hey,” he murmurs quietly, tilting his head down. “…you’re really holding on tight today, huh?”
she babbles happily, pressing closer, little hands gripping his shirt. nagi chuckles softly, a rare, gentle sound, and adjusts his hold so she’s more comfortable.
“…that’s fine,” he says, voice low and soothing. “…i’m not going anywhere.”
she wiggles a little, trying to climb even closer, and nagi lets out a small laugh. “…careful… careful,” he says, letting her rest on his chest fully. “…i’ve got you.”
she babbles again, tiny noises filled with happiness, and nagi hums quietly, running his hand along her back in slow, gentle circles.
“…you know,” he murmurs, “…you’re safe with me. always.”
she snuggles in tighter, and for a moment, nagi just sits there, arms wrapped around her, letting her cling and babble, completely content to be her safe place.
“…don’t worry,” he whispers softly. “…i’ve got you. always.”
and she just smiles against him, small fingers clutching his shirt
𑣲 RYUSEI SHIDOU
shidou sits on the carpet with his son on his lap, bouncing slightly, tiny hands waving in excitement. you’re nearby, watching the two of them, smiling softly.
“…hey, careful there!” shidou says, one hand steadying the boy’s back. “…don’t knock over the lamp. i mean it.”
his son giggles loudly, leaning forward to grab at shidou’s hair. shidou freezes for a second, then grins.
“…ahh—okay, okay! that tickles!” he says, making exaggerated faces. his son squeals, delighted.
shidou gently lifts him higher, spinning him just a little in his lap. “…woah, whoa! dizzy yet?!” he laughs. the baby babbles, little noises full of excitement, and shidou matches them with silly, exaggerated sounds, making his son laugh even harder.
you lean closer, chuckling. “be careful, Shidou!”
he glances at you, eyes bright, one side of his mouth quirking into a grin. “…i’m being careful,” he says, though clearly enjoying the chaos. “…this little guy’s got energy!”
his son suddenly leans forward and clumsily plants a messy little kiss on shidou’s cheek.
shidou freezes, then laughs, brushing his thumb gently across the boy’s cheek. “…okay, wow… you’re bold,” he mutters, voice softening. “…i like it.”
he bounces him gently again, rocking side to side, careful but playful, letting him babble and laugh as much as he wants. shidou’s other hand rests lightly on the floor to stabilize himself, eyes always on the baby.
“…you’re trouble,” he whispers quietly, leaning his forehead against his son’s. “…but you’re my trouble.”
his son giggles, clutching shidou’s shirt, and shidou stays like that for a long moment, laughing softly, humming little noises back at him, completely present.
𑣲 CHIGIRI HYOMA
your daughter sits in her high chair, small hands reaching for the spoon, babbling excitedly.
you’re holding the bowl, looking a little frazzled from trying to get her to eat.
chigiri leans over from behind you, arms wrapping around yours, guiding the spoon gently. “…okay, don’t worry,” he murmurs quietly, voice soft. “…i’ve got this.”
your daughter squeals happily and reaches for the spoon, trying to grab it herself.
chigiri chuckles softly, tilting it so she can take a small bite without making a mess. “…there we go… good girl,” he says.
he keeps his hands steady, helping guide the spoon to her mouth again, brushing a small strand of hair from her face when she leans forward too quickly. “…easy… nice and slow,” he whispers. “…don’t rush.”
your daughter babbles, grabbing at chigiri’s hands playfully.
he laughs quietly, letting her play a little before carefully feeding her the next bite. “…wow… you’re strong,” he murmurs, smiling down. “…and very stubborn.”
you watch them, heart warm, as chigiri leans close to her, whispering softly. “…i’ll make sure you eat well,” he says. “…don’t worry, little one.”
your daughter giggles, babbles again, and chigiri gently wipes a bit of food from her cheek with his thumb.
“…hey… careful, we don’t waste food,” he teases quietly, voice still soft. “…but you’re doing great.”
for a while, he just sits there with you, steadying the spoon, brushing her hair, laughing softly at her babbles—making feeding time calm, gentle, and full of little moments of love.
and when she finally swallows her bite, chigiri ruffles her hair and whispers quietly, “…see? we make a good team, huh?”
you can’t help but smile, watching him with both your daughter and the quiet patience in his eyes.
𑣲 DON LORENZO
lorenzo sits on the couch with his son on his lap, little legs resting over his thighs, tiny hands gripping his shirt.
you’re nearby, holding a small bowl of food, but it’s clear his son is happiest right here with dad.
“…easy there,” lorenzo says softly, steadying him. “…don’t squirm too much, or you’ll tip.”
his son giggles, kicking his little feet, and reaches up to grab lorenzo’s hair.
lorenzo freezes for a second, then chuckles quietly, leaning forward just enough to let him play. “…careful! that tickles!” he murmurs, brushing a hand gently across the baby’s knuckles.
the boy leans closer and plants a messy little kiss on lorenzo’s cheek.
lorenzo’s eyes widen, and a soft laugh escapes him. “…wow… bold little guy,” he says quietly, voice warm. “…i like that.”
you hand over the spoon with his snack. lorenzo helps guide it carefully, making sure each bite goes in without too much spilling. “…slow… steady… perfect,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your son’s face.
the little boy babbles happily, tiny sounds of excitement. lorenzo hums in response, rocking him gently in his lap. “…yeah… that’s it,” he says, voice soft. “…good job, champ.”
once he’s done eating, lorenzo pulls him closer, holding him against his chest. “…see?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead lightly to the boy’s. “…you’re my little champion. always.”
𑣲 KUNIGAMI RENSUKE
kunigami sits on the floor, legs crossed, trying to organize some papers, when his daughter crawls over to him, babbling excitedly.
“da-da! da-da!” she squeals, tiny hands reaching for him.
kunigami looks down, sighing softly, but there’s a faint smile on his lips. “…alright, alright,” he murmurs, leaning forward. “…what do you want, little troublemaker?”
she giggles and clumsily grabs at his fingers, tugging him toward the middle of the room.
kunigami laughs quietly, letting her pull him a little. “…okay… i see how it is,” he mutters. “…you’re making me play.”
she babbles louder, bouncing slightly on her chubby legs, and kunigami carefully lifts her into his lap.
“…easy… don’t hurt yourself,” he says softly, holding her steady with one hand, while the other brushes a stray strand of hair from her forehead.
she giggles, reaching out for his face, and clumsily pats his cheek. kunigami freezes for a moment, then chuckles quietly. “…wow… bold, huh?” he murmurs. “…i like that.”
he gently rocks her side to side in his lap, making soft, exaggerated sounds like he’s chasing her laughter.
she squeals, kicking her little legs and babbling nonstop, clearly loving every second.
“…you’re exhausting,” kunigami whispers, voice low and soft, “…but… i don’t mind at all.”
he presses his forehead gently to hers, careful, slow. “…you’re my little troublemaker,” he murmurs. “…and i’ll always play with you.”
his daughter babbles happily again, tiny hands clinging to him, and kunigami keeps rocking her gently.
𑣲 AOSHI TOKIMITSU
aoshi sits on the carpet, legs crossed, with your son sitting in his lap. the little boy is bouncing slightly, babbling happily, tiny hands grabbing at aoshi’s shirt.
aoshi freezes for a moment, unsure. “…uh… careful,” he murmurs softly, voice quiet and hesitant. “…don’t fall.”
your son giggles, reaching for his face, tugging gently at his hair.
aoshi’s eyes widen, and he stiffens. “…oh—ah… okay,” he says softly, leaning forward slowly. “…i… i’ve got you.”
he holds your son carefully, rocking him just a little, still shy with each movement.
the boy babbles louder, squealing, tiny legs kicking excitedly. aoshi hums quietly, uncertain at first, then a small smile creeps onto his face. “…you’re… very energetic,” he murmurs softly.
your son reaches up and clumsily pats aoshi’s cheek. aoshi freezes again, cheeks heating slightly. “…oh… wow,” he whispers, looking down. “…that’s… nice.”
he shifts him gently in his lap, careful with every movement, one hand steadying his back, the other brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “…i… i don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs quietly, voice soft, almost a whisper.
the baby babbles happily, bouncing slightly against him. aoshi lets out a small laugh, barely audible, and rocks him a little more.
“…you’re safe,” he whispers, pressing his forehead gently to your son’s. “…i… i’ve got you.”
your son giggles again, clutching his shirt, and aoshi stays still, timid but fully present, letting the little boy babble, kick, and explore with him.
“…you’re my little one,” aoshi murmurs softly, brushing his thumb along your son’s tiny hand. “…always.”
and he sits there quietly, shy, gentle, and completely wrapped up in this small, joyful presence in his arms.
𑣲 REO MIKAGE
she’s tiny but full of energy, babbling and waving her hands as if trying to tell him something important.
“…hey, hey! careful!” reo laughs, voice warm and playful. “…don’t knock me over yet!”
she leans forward and clumsily pats his face, tiny fingers smudging a little drool.
reo freezes for a second, then chuckles softly, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “…okay, okay, that’s fair,” he says. “…i can handle a few pats.”
she babbles excitedly again, bouncing up and down on him, and reo lifts her gently into his arms, holding her close to his chest. “…you’re strong, huh?” he murmurs, smiling down at her. “…already giving me a hard time.”
his daughter reaches up and grabs his hair, tugging lightly. reo tilts his head, making a soft, exaggerated gasp.
“…hey! careful, little one!” he says, voice playful but gentle. “…you’re going to make me fall over.”
she giggles loudly, leaning her tiny forehead against his. reo presses his own forehead to hers, careful not to squish her, and murmurs softly, “…you’re cute… really cute.”
she babbles happily, clapping her tiny hands, and reo hums in response, bouncing her gently in his arms. “…alright, alright… you win,” he says quietly, voice warm. “…i’ll play with you as much as you want.”
your daughter wiggles, grabbing at his face again, and reo leans back slightly, holding her steady, letting her babble and laugh, completely present.
“…you’re exhausting,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “…but i love it. all of it.”
𑣲 BUNNY IGLESIAS
bunny sits on the floor with his son in front of him, a big sheet of paper spread across the floor, colored crayons scattered everywhere.
“…okay,” bunny murmurs softly, picking up a crayon, “…what should we draw today?”
his son babbles excitedly, pointing at a crayon. bunny chuckles quietly, handing it over. “…alright… that one it is,” he says, voice calm and gentle. “…good choice.”
they start drawing together—bunny guiding his son’s tiny hand at first, letting him make scribbles while adding small shapes himself.
“…wow… look at that,” he whispers, brushing a finger over a swirl of color. “…that’s really good.”
his son squeals happily, reaching for another crayon, tiny hands smudging colors across the paper.
bunny watches carefully, letting him experiment, occasionally pointing out little things. “…see? you can make anything you want,” he murmurs softly. “…i like it.”
at one point, the boy leans forward and presses a clumsy kiss on bunny’s cheek. bunny freezes for a second, then smiles gently, leaning down closer.
“…hey… that’s sweet,” he says quietly, brushing a finger through the little hair on top of his head. “…thank you.”
they continue, adding colors, shapes, and little lines, bunny gently holding his son’s hand when it wanders too much, letting him explore while keeping the moment calm and safe.
“…you’re doing amazing,” he whispers. “…i’m proud of you.”
his son babbles happily in response, kicking tiny feet and reaching for another crayon. bunny hums softly, letting him take the lead, just guiding when needed, fully present in the small, simple joy of drawing together.
“…we make a good team,” bunny murmurs finally, pressing a gentle kiss to the boy’s forehead. “…always.”
getting snatched up by shiratorizawa boys since you bolted like an athlete after confessing.
shiratorizawa vbc x f!reader
yes ladies, inarizaki is incoming; please wait.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
soekawa jin
you corner jin by the vending machines, thrusting a letter at him before blurting out, “i like you!” and immediately bolting. jin, normally the chill one, panics—he forgets his water bottle entirely and sprints after you like it’s nationals. he’s yelling your name so loud people think someone’s being mugged. when he finally catches up, he doesn’t let go, clutching your wrist with trembling hands, cheeks red, heart hammering. “don’t run from me like that,” he says, hugging you so tightly you squeak. he hides his nose against your hair, breathing shakily like he might actually faint.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
ushijima wakatoshi
you slip him the letter right before practice and dash. ushijima blinks once, then immediately starts power-jogging after you—zero hesitation. his heavy footsteps pound the ground like a warning drum. when he catches you, he doesn’t even ask, just grabs your face and presses his mouth to yours with brutal sincerity, like he’s staking a claim. he pulls back, staring into your wide eyes with deadly seriousness. “don’t ever run from me. i want you here.” it’s less a confession, more a command. ushijima holds your hand the entire walk back, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s trying to brand the moment into his memory forever.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
tendō satori
tendō reads your letter once and screams so loud it echoes through the gym. by the time you’re halfway down the hallway, he’s already bouncing after you, arms flailing. “don’t leave meee pretty cutieeeee!!” he practically tackles you from behind, spinning you around in his arms, laughing like a madman. your face is burning when he suddenly dips you like a scene from a soap opera and plants the sloppiest, most overdramatic kiss on your lips. he pulls back, staring like he’s been shot through the heart. “you… you’re serious, right? because if you’re not, i’ll actually die.” his voice cracks, but his smile is huge and terrifyingly giddy.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
goshiki tsutomu
your letter sends goshiki into system failure. he reads it aloud, stutters halfway, then runs after you with tears streaming down his face. “y/n, please wait!!” when he finally corners you against the wall, he’s crying so hard his words are incomprehensible. you’re about to apologize when he blurts, “I LOVE YOU TOO!” and slams his lips against yours in a messy, desperate kiss. then he promptly collapses to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably into your stomach, begging, “don’t regret it, don’t take it back, please…” he clings to you like you’re oxygen.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
shirabu kenjirō
you shove the letter into shirabu’s hands and sprint, but he doesn’t chase right away—he reads it five times, blood rushing to his head so fast he nearly passes out. then he snaps, throws the papers, and sprints after you like his life depends on it. when he catches you, his hands slam against the wall on either side of your head, trapping you. “don’t you dare run after dropping something like that on me,” he hisses, face flushed, pupils dilated. then, almost violently, he kisses you—sharp, desperate, biting at your bottom lip like he’s punishing you for making him lose composure. when he pulls back, his breathing is ragged. “you’re mine now. don’t think you can take that back.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
semi eita
you slip the letter into semi’s bag and bolt, but he finds it mid-practice. once he realizes what it is, he drops everything—including his setter toss—and barrels out the gym screaming your name. when he finally finds you hiding behind the bleachers, he grabs you by the shoulders and just stares at you, panting like he ran a marathon. “you can’t just… you can’t just confess and then LEAVE!” he kisses you, hard, half-sobbing against your lips. then he pulls back and actually laughs shakily, wiping at his eyes. “god, you’re going to kill me one day. but don’t you dare run again.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
ōhira reon
you give reon your letter in the courtyard and take off. he doesn’t even pretend to be calm—he shouts your name like a war cry and chases you down in record time. when he catches you, he grabs you and swings you up into his arms like you weigh nothing. “don’t ever run from me again, please,” he says softly, though his arms are shaking with adrenaline. before you can reply, he leans down and kisses you deeply, slow and overwhelming, like he’s savoring every second. he rests his forehead against yours afterward, smiling faintly but with eyes that burn. “you’ve ruined me forever, y/n.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kawanishi taichi
you tuck the letter into kawanishi’s hands and immediately take off, but he doesn’t chase. instead, he just starts walking in the exact direction you ran, so calm it’s unsettling. you keep looking back nervously—he’s always a few steps behind, quiet, relentless. eventually you corner yourself in the library, and he’s just there, standing in the doorway, staring at you. then he walks up, grabs your hand, kisses your forehead, and pulls you down into his lap as he sits. “don’t run,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “you belong here.” it’s soft, but the iron grip on your waist says otherwise.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
hayato yamagata
yamagata sees the letter, screams, and immediately sprints after you so fast he nearly bowls over three first-years. when he finally catches you, he crashes into you so hard you both fall to the ground. he’s grinning like an idiot, face bloody from a nosebleed, babbling, “you like me?! you really like me?! this isn’t a prank, right?!” when you confirm, he actually bursts into tears of joy and hugs you so tightly you wheeze. he doesn’t let you go for hours, clinging to you like a limpet, repeating, “mine, mine, mine” under his breath.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
yunohama
your letter was still warm in your hands when yunohama practically tackled you to the ground. he didn’t even finish reading before blurting, “this means you’re mine, right? RIGHT?!” his arms locked around you so tight it felt like a crime scene hug. his nose started bleeding when you squirmed, but he didn’t care—he kissed you like he was staking a claim. afterwards, still breathing hard, he whispered against your lips, “you don’t get it… i’d erase the whole world if it ever touched you wrong.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
shibata yu
shibata was laughing. laughing like he’d just lost his mind, clutching the letter with shaking hands. “you picked me? ME? oh, you’re so cruel.” he wiped at his face only to smear tears everywhere, then grabbed your cheeks so suddenly it startled you. his kiss was messy, desperate, like he’d been starving for years. when he finally pulled back, eyes bloodshot, he whispered, “i’ll never stop proving i deserve this. even if i break myself in half.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
akakura kai
akakura didn’t say anything at first. he just stared at the paper until his ears turned cherry red. “don’t—don’t look at me right now,” he muttered, voice cracking, before shoving his face into your neck. he hugged you like he was trying to fuse himself to your skin. the kiss that followed was unexpectedly soft, trembling, almost reverent. when he finally dared to meet your eyes again, he said, “no backing out now. i won’t let you.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
yamagata hayato
yamagata straight-up screamed when he finished reading. then he dropped to his knees like he’d just been struck by divine lightning. “holy crap. this is real. THIS IS REAL?!” before you could answer, he latched onto your waist like you were a lifeline, babbling incoherently between tears and nosebleeds. then, in one wild surge, he stood up and crushed his mouth to yours, sloppy but burning with devotion. “if anyone tries to steal you,” he panted against your lips, “i’ll fight them all. i don’t care if it’s the entire world.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a/n: GIVE ME MOTIVATION TO STUDY OMFG. also i feel like it’s repetitive or maybe it’s just because i’m the one writing lol.
Okay @lusil0u, how to make your watermark look like this (indented? whatever it is, I hope this helps!) :
I am using Procreate, but you can use most art apps I think
To start off, get whatever you want to watermark onto its own layer. It does have to be pure black for this to work the best. This is now layer 1
First, you make layer 1 a soft light layer and turn the opacity to 5-20%
Then you hide layer 1 and duplicate it. That's layer 2 now. Turn the opacity back to 100% and duplicate layer 2
Invert this layer, now dubbed layer 3. the blending mode should still be soft light, not the invert blending mode. hit whatever button works on your art app that flips the colors, or inverts them. It should turn invisible now, or at least close to this. IT IS SUPPOSED TO DO THAT
Now you select layer 3 and nudge it a few pixels in any direction.
I generally move it up one pixel and to the right two pixels, but depending on the shape of whatever you are watermarking you might have to mess around with it to find a nice balance. you don't want it to go too far past where it started out, just enough that you can see a difference.
After that, you turn layer 1 back on. you can adjust the opacity a bit to your liking, but this gives the watermark a bit of color to make it stand out more. I've seen people who dont do this at all, sometimes even I don't, but I do like to make sure the watermark is pretty clearly visible. the opacity still shouldn't go past 5-20% though.
But then you are done! you might have to tweak some things a little bit, but it should look a bit like this. Another thing is that when put on top of pure white/black it wont show up at all, but that is usually just lineart, so it should be fine. I find that it often looks more authentic/realistic when you use a textured brush, but any of them will work really.
I hope this helps Lucille! sorry it was such a long post, but you should be able to make your watermark look like mine did!
Synopsis: Sunday Oak leads a mundane, tiresome life, sequestered away in his seaside estate as he is — right up until the day the ocean sends him a half-dead mermaid who he has no choice but to fall in love with.
HSR Masterlist
Pairing: Sunday x F!Reader
Word Count: 13.9k
Shell Divider: @/slipng
Content Warnings: reader is a mermaid, descriptions of an injury, reader lives in sunday’s bathtub for a hot second, sunday is somewhat suicidal in the beginning, dan heng is either a highly dedicated phd student or an undercover perv or both depending on your interpretation, kind of unserious but also serious at times it’s a strange mix, i think this may be ooc but lowk idk and also idc, smut (m!receiving oral because i’m not figuring out the logistics of fish pussy, mdni please!), 60% second person narrative / 40% third person sunday pov, happy ending !!
A/N: happy mermay to all who celebrate .. i thought I would be bereft of any offerings until a couple of days ago when i was randomly struck with the sunday bug and now here we are .
Today, the sea is quiet, and as Sunday Oak walks along its frothy edge, he wonders what it would be like to drown in it. A bird held under water…he could do it, he thinks. He could cover his eyes with his wings and his mouth with his hand and he could just do it. There’s no one there to stop him — Robin is at a concert, Gopher Wood is at the Oak Manor, and he’s never had friends to invite to accompany him to the beach estate he is sent to every summer for his fragile health. There’s servants, but they won’t notice, not before it’s too late. He glances at the horizon and thinks, well. It might not even hurt all too much.
He has no reason to rush, so he draws his cardigan closer around his shoulders and continues to toe through the sand, careful not to let the waves lap at his leather boots. Even here, even now, he is cautious, pristine. He is half-sure that even as a corpse, he will still be beautiful. It’ll be just as if he’s sleeping, his eyes closed, his wings sodden and salty and limp but without a feather out of place. They’ll find him and bury him but not before they paint that terrible, lovely scene, the contrast of it all, his gold halo against the cerulean sea, lifeless and pale on the fine white sand.
I hope Professor Himeko is the one who does it. Ah, I should’ve added that to my will…
As he takes a step towards the yawning ocean, he remembers, absurdly, his college roommate. It gives him pause, because he hasn’t thought about him in ages, so why now? But he can’t stop himself from pulling out his phone and looking at that old contact, the photo outdated, a headshot taken at a career fair neither of them needed to attend. Seawater seeps into his socks and his wings flutter nervously, his thumb inching towards the green call button, although he knows it’s meaningless. What would they even talk about? What could he possibly say to a stranger that could change any of it?
Hey. Been a while. Sorry I never reached out. Things have been shit. How about you? Good? That’s good. See you around, I guess. Er, or maybe not.
“Alright,” he says aloud, taking a deep breath, his gaze trained on the red sand. “This is — what?”
He knows this beach, he grew up on this beach, he will die on this beach. Red sand — but this beach’s sand has always been white. The red is a flaw, a scar, something ugly and wrong and before he knows it he takes off at a run, following the sanguine streaks to their hideous origin. Then he’s gasping and calling that old roommate of his, because there’s no time for propriety or selfishness and he’s the only one in the world, the cosmos, who Sunday can trust with this.
“Sunday? It’s been a while—”
“Dan Heng,” he says, tripping on the familiar name. “I need you here. Now.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a mermaid,” Sunday says, feeling faint and dizzy at the sight of the long wound dragging from the mermaid’s torso down to the tip of her forked caudal fin. “Dan Heng, there’s a mermaid and she’s bleeding everywhere, I don’t know what to do—”
“I should’ve known it would be some bullshit,” Dan Heng says in that reassuringly detached way of his. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
True to his word, Dan Heng comes almost immediately, cutting off Sunday’s spiraling panic quite neatly. There’s a certain way about Dan Heng that inspires serenity, a self-assuredness in his demeanor that causes Sunday to sigh in relief. It doesn’t hurt that he studies Marine Biology; undoubtedly he’ll know what to do, which is good, because Sunday most certainly doesn’t.
“You were not exaggerating,” Dan Heng says, pulling a roll of gauze out of his beat-up old backpack. It’s the same one he used in college, and in a very distant part of his mind, Sunday makes a note to give him a new one at the earliest occasion. “I can’t even fathom what could’ve happened to her.”
“What do we do?” Sunday says, watching as the mermaid’s silver-black-blue scales vanish beneath Dan Heng’s careful bandaging. Her eyes are pressed closed and she is still, her chest immobile. “Is she even breathing? By Xipe, Dan Heng, I don’t think she’s breathing!”
“Relax,” Dan Heng says. “Mermaids are like frogs, they primarily breathe through cutaneous respiration. As long as she’s kept moist, she’ll get oxygen through her skin just fine. She has bigger issues to worry about; namely, she can’t swim like this, which is basically a death sentence for her kind.”
Something fierce and angry and hopeless flares in Sunday’s stomach at that. Dan Heng stands and dusts his hands off, sighing in disappointment, and Sunday can tell he hates it, too. After all, mermaids are reclusive and shy, rare to encounter, rarer to touch and feel as Dan Heng just has. Anyways, what was the point? Sunday begged Dan Heng to come and Dan Heng wasted an entire roll of gauze and it was all doomed, so why did they do it? Why did they save her just for her to die?
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Sunday says.
“There’s not much literature on mermaids,” Dan Heng says. “We could take her to the university I’m getting my PhD at, but they’ll probably stick her in the lab in the name of progress.”
“No,” Sunday says immediately.
“I thought you’d say that,” Dan Heng says. “I don’t know, Sunday. Look at her. We don’t even know what injured her, but it’s almost certain that if she’s released, she’ll be captured or killed or worse. Which is the lesser of the two evils?”
He’s handing the burden of the choice to Sunday. It’s not indifference, because that’s not a sin Dan Heng has ever been guilty of, and it’s not apathy, because Dan Heng’s not capable of that, either. It’s something peculiar to Dan Heng, and for once, Sunday is actively grateful for it.
“I’ll take her,” he says. Dan Heng takes out a bottle of water and pours it over the mermaid, who shudders a little in her sleep at the sensation. “My bathtub is big enough to keep her, and I have nothing else to do, anyways.”
“Yup,” Dan Heng says, already tucking his hands around the mermaid’s tail and motioning for Sunday to take her torso. “I thought you’d say that, too.”
Sunday glances back at the sea one more time, and then he reminds himself that there’s no hurry. He can come back another day, another time. He has an eternity to die, after all. Then he leans over, encircles his arms around the mermaid’s waist, and holds her chest against his, waiting to feel her heartbeat before motioning Dan Heng forward.
You wake up in a terror, your fins slapping against marble before you squeal in pain at the protests of a freshly-wrought injury. You suppose it doesn’t matter that your enclosure is hardly big enough to swim and hardly deep enough to submerge yourself when you are incapable of doing either, but you are still frightened.
You’ve heard of places like these, your mother called them zoos and she said your father drove himself to death in one. Have you been jailed and put on display just as he was? Did they hobble you to prevent you from escaping once again? You thrash about in protest, slamming your tail against the lip of the bath, sending bottles flying, shattering and releasing their perfumed contents into the air, turning the entire room heady with the scent of flowers. It hurts but you bear it, you must.
The door swings open, and two men rush inside. You splash a wave of water toward them, but the taller of the two raises his hand and flicks it out of the way before it can hit them, his handsome face filled with concern.
“Vidyadhara,” you sneer, because the sea-dragons were once companions of your kind, but they turned traitor long ago and return now only to lord over your people.
“Please, lady mermaid, you mustn’t overexert yourself,” says the Vidyadhara’s companion, who is slender and winged, his hair the color of driftwood and his eyes the shade of sunken treasure. You don’t know what he is but he is entrancing in a way that you are sure must be dangerous, so you turn your nose up at him, too.
“He’s right,” the Vidyadhara says. “You’re gravely injured. Struggling like this will only make it more difficult for you to heal.”
You scowl at them in an attempt to look intimidating, but when your tail is stiff from bandaging and there’s cloth covering your chest, you look more like a land-walker throwing a tantrum than an ocean predator in your own right. The Vidyadhara is unimpressed, and the winged man outright ignores you, gathering the jagged shards of crystal you tossed everywhere into a neat pile out of the way.
“Are you with them?” you say. The two exchange looks before the winged man steps forward and offers you his hand. He must know that you could yank him into the water with you, could overpower him even as you are and drown him, so for him to give it so willingly means that it’s a trap of some sort. You eye him suspiciously but do not take it, instead glaring at the Vidyadhara, who is insufferable but at least not deceitful.
“With who?” he says. The winged man withdraws his hand, and now it is the Vidyadhara’s turn to sit cross-legged at the edge of the bath, his chin in his hands as he looks down at you. You don’t bother even pretending to drown him, for it will come to nothing, and instead settle for watching him warily. “The ones who did that to you? No, we found you on the beach and saved you. You ought to be thanking us right about now…though I can understand why you aren’t.”
“What happened to you?” the winged man says. There is a profound melancholy to him; you don’t believe the Vidyadhara realizes, but the air around him reeks of it, thick and heavy and sad. You wrinkle your nose and wish you could splash him clean, but for some reason, you’re quite sure he wouldn’t be very receptive to it.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” you say, crossing your arms and sinking deeper into the water, which is as pleasantly warm as a bay after a day of sun.
“We don’t,” he insists, and he raises his hand again, but you flinch away before he can touch you. “I found you bleeding on the beach and called Dan Heng for help. He studies sea creatures, he knows better than anyone what to do and he’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
“It’s true,” the Vidyadhara, Dan Heng, says. “Surely you have some awareness of your own condition. You’re not even native to these waters, are you? If we hadn’t brought you back here, you’d be shark food or a museum exhibit by now.”
Your fins twitch pitifully, and you think back to the icy waters of your home, where your pet orca must be wondering why you haven’t yet returned with the rest of your pod. How sad. How strange. A mermaid with torn fins and a gashed-up tail who sits in a bathtub with a Vidyadhara and his companion because she cannot swim away. Shark food or a museum exhibit. Would it be better or worse than this? You don’t know.
“Why did you do it?” you say.
“I didn’t need a reason,” says the winged man. “You were suffering, and I couldn’t bear to watch you in pain any longer.”
“What Sunday said, but also, I’m working on my thesis right now, and you would make for a great primary source,” Dan Heng says. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions when you’ve warmed up to us a little more.”
You blink. “Thee-sis?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sunday says. “More importantly, you’re alright, and you can stay here until you’re better.”
“The word ‘can’ implies a choice in the matter,” you say. “Whether I like it or not, I’m trapped here, aren’t I?”
Sunday purses his lips but does not respond. Dan Heng massages his temples and mutters something under his breath about stupid Halovians and ridiculous mermaids.
“We can’t let you go in good conscience,” he says, a little louder this time so you can all hear him. “Not like this.”
“Lady mermaid, we really only wish to help you,” Sunday says.
“You can help me by leaving me alone,” you say, and you make sure to only splash him, because you daren’t go after Dan Heng, who will ensure it is a moot point anyways.
The deluge washes over him and leaves him looking soaked and spindly and utterly miserable. You giggle, waiting for him to say something cruel to you in response, but he only gestures for Dan Heng to follow him and then bows deeply, gallantly.
“As you wish,” he says, and then they both are gone, leaving you to hum whalesongs in the dim, curtained light.
“Believe it or not, she’s actually quite docile as far as merfolk go,” Dan Heng says. Sunday raises a brow. There’s many words he’d use to describe the mermaid — unreasonable, flighty, messy, mistake — but docile doesn’t rank particularly highly amongst them. “I’m serious. She barely even tried to drown us. Of course she’s frightened, but can you blame her for that? No doubt we’d be the same in her shoes.”
“I suppose so,” Sunday says. His head hurts a bit, right behind his left brow, which means he’s going to have a migraine soon, but he doesn’t want Dan Heng to leave just yet, so he resolves to ignore it.
“I’ll write up some instructions on how to take care of her before I head out,” Dan Heng says. “It shouldn’t be too hard. You’ll just have to change her bandages every so often and buy fish and seaweed for her to eat. Oh, and eventually she’ll need a bigger enclosure...but that can be a worry for later. For now, keeping her alive is the priority.”
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Sunday says, a little more desperately than he planned to. He and Dan Heng haven’t really spoken at length about anything but the mermaid, but he didn’t realize how much he missed his company, any company, until he had it again and was faced with the prospect of losing it. “I mean, it’d be rude of me to let you leave without at least offering dinner.”
Dan Heng frowns. “I really would like to say yes, but I have an Intro to Biology course to teach in the evening, so I need to leave soon. I’ll be back in when I ca to make sure everything is progressing as it should, though, and of course if there’s an emergency you can call me.”
“Right,” Sunday says. He wishes he could say he had things to do, classes to teach or a job to work at, but his position as Head of the Oak Family is more of a figurehead role — a richly compensated figurehead role, but one nonetheless. He’s sent to the seaside like a child, for his health and so that his self-appointed councillors can do as they please with the Oaks’ power; he might’ve cared, once, but now it just exhausts him, so he lets him do what they want, with the sole caveat that they leave Robin alone.
“You know, Sunday,” Dan Heng says, giving him an odd look. “You can also just call me if you feel like it.”
It’s a nice sentiment. They both know he won’t do that, he’s too proud to admit to any such failings, but it’s nice of Dan Heng anyways. Instead of thanking him, though, Sunday merely nods and then holds up his phone.
“I just got the document. I’ll do my best,” he says. “Farewell, Dan Heng.”
“See you soon, Sunday,” Dan Heng says. “Let me know if anything needs clarifying, though I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it all out. You were always like that.”
The document is written in clinical, scholarly language, almost like the outline to a research paper, with bolded headings and formatted bullet points. There’s a section for food — Sunday’s stomach turns when he sees that most mermaids prefer eating raw fish to anything else — and another for wound care, as well as general tips for expected behavior and customs to be aware of when interacting with her.
Don’t smile with teeth. If she doesn’t have much exposure to land-dwelling species, she’ll take it as a threat. Don’t be hesitant. Mermaids are very good at sensing emotions, and she will likely prey on any insecurity with swiftness. Don’t trust her — please, please, don’t trust her. There are many things we do not yet know about merfolk society, and what might seem friendly to us could be a thinly-veiled threat on her behalf. She will definitely drown you if you let her.
Sunday. It is absolutely imperative that you do not let her.
It begins like this: Sunday comes to the bathroom, not meekly, but softly. He tosses fish at you, and then he watches as you eat it. Sometimes he brings you seaweed, too, and once he even brings oysters, which are a rare delicacy underwater and do soften your heart enough that you lessen your teasing slightly, albeit not by such a margin that he would actually notice a difference.
The Vidyadhara, Dan Heng, does not return for a while. You don’t mind it, really, because Sunday is easier to torment than his friend. He is pliant in a way Dan Heng was not, gentle where Dan Heng was stern, and when you fling water and insults at him he does not say anything, though you can feel his irritation simmering in the air. He’s not like the Vidyadhara, who felt nothing at all; it’s restraint, that’s the long and short of it. He feels so terribly and very much that it overwhelms him into an amusing silence.
You don’t know how many days it’s been when he enters with bandages and a glass jar, an apprehensive look on his face. The air smells pungent and sharp, a little like the mouth of a drunkard but colder, meaner, and when you peer at him, sniffing the air to confirm, you’re aggravated to find that he’s otherwise empty-handed.
“What is that?” you say, nose wrinkling.
“Dan Heng says it’s just about time to clean your wounds and change the bandages. We don’t want any infections,” he says, setting the jar and the bandages on the rim of the bathtub and taking a step back. “Can you do it yourself, or do you want me to?”
“Of course I can,” you snap, though it’s a bit of a lie. Under the sea, wounds are left to heal on their own, without any interference. It’s natural that way, and those with graver injuries, the kinds beyond recovery, know to let themselves sink and die to a shark’s maw or a ship’s anchor. That’s what should’ve happened to you, you’re not an idiot and Dan Heng said as much upon your first meeting, anyways.
You’re quite sure you can figure it out, though. How difficult can the medicine of the land-walkers be? Yet your fingers are unused to the knots Dan Heng has tied, for seaweed cannot wind in the tight ways of the gauze, and it’s only your own vanity that pushes you to pretend to keep trying for fear of how Sunday will react.
He watches you fumble for a minute before, slowly, he places his hand on your arm, stilling it without a word. You tuck your chin to your collarbone and stare at your tail, because you don’t want to know what kind of expression he’s donning. Is it pity? Mockery? Something else? You don’t know which would be worse, so you try to pretend he’s not there at all, but it’s difficult when his cold fingers trail from your bicep to your sternum, finally removing that accursed shirt he put on you, undoing the buttons and setting the soaked blue fabric aside.
His knuckles brush against the underside of your breasts, and to your surprise, a jolt rushes down your spine, causing your ventral fin to twitch as the sensation coalesces into a strange, hot pit in your stomach. You’ve never felt anything like it before, but you’re not opposed to it in the slightest — in fact, to your surprise you find you want it, you want his hands to roam higher or lower or somewhere, anywhere, as long as he keeps doing that, whatever that is.
Yet Sunday appears deaf and dumb to your longing; or, if he is aware of it, he must put it down to something else, because he does not linger, continuing his delicate path towards the impossible knot over your navel, untying it deftly and then beginning the careful task of unwinding the bandages which cover most of your tail and torso.
The removal of the gauze feels like a sigh of relief. Between them and the shirt, you’ve felt a little suffocated, though Dan Heng was kind enough to bring supplies that at least allowed you to breathe even when you are so wound up. Still, nothing is better than the feeling of your bare skin in the water, and as Sunday rolls up the messy discard, you splash yourself, as much out of joy as to avoid looking at the wound for any longer than you have to.
“This might sting a little,” Sunday says when he is done, breaking the spell he unwittingly put you under. You cock your head at him, for you cannot possibly fathom what he means by that. How could a dollop of white paste possibly hurt? So you only hum and wait for him to approach, that medicine from the jar coating the fingers that he presses to your stomach—
You shriek and slam your tail into him, bowling him to the ground, which you would’ve apologized for if your body didn’t feel like lightning was arcing through it. He tries to stand but you hiss at him, baring your sharp teeth, a threat in any language. He mirrors you awkwardly, but you sense no hostility behind it, confusing you even more, your fins flaring despite how it tears at your wound.
“Stop!” he says, his wings flattening against his neck in fearful deference. “Stop, stop, I’m sorry, lady mermaid, I was only smiling. It’s a friendly gesture for land dwellers, I didn’t mean to threaten you, I thought you were attempting to — I’m sorry. Dan Heng told me, but I still…”
Smiling. You’ve never heard of the custom, but his explanation does make sense. You think you remember Dan Heng and Sunday smiling like this at one another, and they certainly seem to be friendly with one another. You nod slowly, though when he once again attempts getting up, you slap your tail against the bathtub in warning.
“What did you just do to me?” you say. “What was that — that thing you put on me? It hurt more than the wound itself!”
“It’s an antibiotic meant to clean the flesh,” Sunday explains, still lying on his back, resigned to his fate, limbs and wings splayed out and askew. “It’ll prevent infection and expedite healing. I know it’s painful, but it’s necessary to make sure you don’t get worse, because that will definitely hurt more.”
You eye him warily, and then you push the jar towards him, nodding for him to take it.
“Put it on yourself,” you say.
“What?” he says. “That’s just a waste. I’m not hurt.”
“Put it on yourself, and prove that you are telling the truth, that that is not just some kind of poison meant to kill me from within,” you insist. He has the nerve to huff a little before dipping his fingers in the paste, swirling them about and pulling the sleeve of his white shirt back so he can dab it on his wrist. Then, without even getting up, he offers his wrist to you, as still as a shipwrecked statue when you lean over and nudge your nose against it.
Beneath the medicinal stench is a fragrance you’ve come to associate with him, a fragrance you could never find under the sea, not even if you searched for a million years. The few land-dwellers you’ve met before have made you gag, stinking of sweat and that drink they call wine, disgusting and foul, with rotting teeth and festering scrapes. But Sunday, he’s not like that, he is musky and warm and pleasant and you would lay your cheek upon his heart to grow closer to the source of him if you were not so opposed to his very existence, his unbearable capture of you.
It doesn’t seem as though he’s suffering, which means he must be telling the truth. You don’t want to say sorry, necessarily, but you do prod at him with your caudal fin, begging him to look at you and then slowly, hesitantly, allowing your mouth to curve in the way his had.
“Are you—?”
“Smiling,” you say, uncomfortable with the kindness and the gesture alike. “You said it signified friendliness for your kind.”
His eyes light up, and then he scrambles to his feet. “So you’ll let me…?”
“Yes,” you say. “I will believe you this time, but if I find you lied, if I find this ann-tie-buy-ought-ick is a cause and not a cure, even your Vidyadhara friend will not be enough to save you from my retribution.”
“Alright,” he says. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”
Despite your acceptance, you curl into yourself as he takes out another dollop of the paste, peering at him shyly from beneath your lashes. You feel it’s almost worse now that you know the pain is coming, now that you’re aware he will brand his cruel healing into your ragged tail, but to his credit, he is slower this time, allowing you to observe the paste sticking to his index and middle finger, to poke where it gathers on his palm before he begins the methodical task of slathering it over your wound.
You’ve never cried before, you’re fairly certain, but tears well in your eyes and a small sob escapes you unbidden as the antibiotic settles into your frayed scales and delicate skin, worse than any jellyfish sting. You don’t know how you are still awake, how you haven’t yet died from the agony of it, but you remember, barely, that Sunday promised this will help you. Things will be worse without it. You will never return to the sea if you cannot suffer through this tragedy, so you grit your teeth and endure it.
And if small whimpers occasionally break the surface as Sunday finishes applying the paste before wrapping your tail and torso back up with gauze, he gives you the grace of playing the fool, although he does, when he retreats, stroke your arm gently, once, twice, thrice in comfort, quickly enough to be called an accident but purposefully enough that you know it wasn’t.
That night, he brings you oysters, removing the meat for you himself, feeding them to you with thin fingers that brush against your tongue every so often, as if he, too, cannot bear the thought of apologizing but wants, in his own way, to repent.
“Dan Heng, I’m a monster,” Sunday groans as soon as his old roommate picks up the phone, which thankfully he does on the first ring.
“I think you’re just generally dramatic, but sure, let’s pretend you’re right. What makes you say that?” That’s something Sunday’s always appreciated about Dan Heng; he’s no-nonsense, doesn’t pull punches or put up with melodrama.
“The mermaid,” he says. He can almost feel Dan Heng perking up through the line at the mention of his newest research fascination, who he has not yet found time to see, leaving it to Sunday to email him reports of his findings, which generally consist of mundane things like an observed fondness for oysters. “I was changing her bandages the other day.”
“Is she okay? Did you hurt her? Did she hurt you? Mermaid tails are incredibly muscular, she could definitely do a lot of damage if she hits you with it, injury or no injury.”
Sunday thinks back to how effortlessly she knocked him over and scoffs, although he is inspired to feel a little grateful. To hear Dan Heng tell it, she could’ve done a lot more than she did, so a bruised tailbone and sore wrist feel like a small price to pay.
“Worse,” he says. “Way worse.”
“Way worse?” Dan Heng says, and then there’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line. “What happened? Is she…alive?”
“I — I think I groped her!” Sunday says.
The line is eerily silent before Dan Heng coughs and clears his throat. “Bailu, you should go for a bit. I’ll help you with the rest of the problem set once I’m done with this.”
Sunday freezes. “Bailu? Who is Bailu?”
“I may or may not have been in the middle of hosting office hours when you called,” Dan Heng says. “And Bailu may or may not be the freshman who just overheard you say that.”
“Dan Heng!” Sunday screeches, his wings clamping over his eyes out of embarrassment. “What is wrong with you? Why would you pick up my call in the middle of your office hours?”
“In my defense, I didn’t think you were going to loudly announce you groped your mermaid when I answered!”
“I think I’m going to faint,” Sunday says, though his embarrassment is undercut with a shameful thrill when Dan Heng calls her his.
“Don’t do that, it’s not like she knows who you are. Just tell me everything. What happened? How?”
“Do you promise not to judge me?” Sunday says.
“Sunday, we are far beyond the point that my answer to that question actually matters.”
Sunday supposes there is some reasoning to that statement, so, with his wings still obscuring his face, he begins to explain.
“I took off the shirt I lent her so I could undo her bandages, and, well, when I started undoing those very bandages, my hands brushed against her breasts!”
There’s a pause. “And?”
“What do you mean, and? Isn’t that wrong enough?”
“Not really. It’s not like you were doing it with any sexual intent. You were performing a medical procedure, that’s hardly monstrous. I wouldn’t be surprised if I touched her by accident when we found her on the beach, and I’m sure she’d understand if I did. It’s not a big deal, unless — wait, how did she react? If she was uncomfortable, I can see why you’d be worried.”
“Uh, no, she didn’t seem uncomfortable. She didn’t really do anything, that is. I think one of her fins twitched a bit, but other than that, she seemed alright.”
Dan Heng coughs again. “Would you know which fin, by any chance?”
“One of the ones by where her hips would be, if she had legs. Why? Does it matter?” Sunday says. For some reason, Dan Heng swears under his breath.
“Just….never mind for now. How was she otherwise? Did she cooperate with all of it?”
“She hit me with her tail when I first tried applying the antibiotic salve,” Sunday says, his back twinging at the memory.
“That’s not surprising, sadly. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you. You’re not too beat up, are you?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine, and we reached an understanding afterwards. She even smiled at me,” Sunday says.
“Didn’t you read the PDF I sent you? Smiling is an aggressive thing for her species, that’s not exactly an understanding.”
“No, I know, I know. At first she did it out of hostility, and I made the mistake of smiling back — don’t lecture me! I apologized, told her it’s a friendly gesture for our people and explained the purpose of the medicine, and then she smiled before saying she was doing it in the way we do. She wasn’t lying, either, because then she sat there and let me treat her without any fuss besides a bit of crying,” he says.
“Interesting.”
“I fed her oysters afterwards, too,” he feels compelled to add, not wanting Dan Heng to think he’s mistreating her. “She likes them. I think it made her happy.”
“Sunday, I hope you know you are an idiot.”
“What?” Sunday says, a little startled at the sudden switch in Dan Heng’s demeanor.
“I would explain, but I’m actually interested in seeing how all of this plays out, so don’t worry about it. Just keep doing whatever you’re doing, and please know that you never have to hide anything from me.”
“Okay, thanks, but why’d you say it like that?” Sunday mutters.
“All I’m saying is please report every single interaction you have with her, no matter how mundane or embarrassing it would be. This is for my thesis, so do a good job, please.”
“As you wish,” he says. “I should go now. It’s about time for her lunch, and I don’t like being late.”
“Yeah, Bailu’s been waiting for a while, and I think her problem set is due in a couple of hours, so I should, uh, probably explain things and help her with that…”
Sunday hangs up without another word, deciding then and there that he’ll never leave his house again.
You try touching yourself under your shirt once or twice, running your fingers over your chest and waiting for it to feel like that. And it’s nice, it’s definitely nice, but it’s not the same as when Sunday did it. Is it some kind of land-walker magic? You want to ask, but something stops you, your tongue growing heavy whenever he enters the bathroom, rendering you mute and stony and drawn.
“I’ve commissioned a pool for you,” he says one day while you snack on dried kelp. You’ve never had it dried until now, but the crunch and the salt of it are so pleasant that you’re something of an addict by this point. “It’ll be more comfortable than sitting in a bathtub, I’m sure. Whenever Dan Heng comes around next, we’ll move you there.”
The prospect of getting to swim makes your heart sing, so you try that thing again, that land-walker gesture, baring your teeth out of friendliness and fondness instead of fear. Sunday smiles back at you, and you recognize it for what it is — an acceptance, an understanding, an amicability.
He’s trusting of you now in a way he wasn’t before, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, leaning against the wall with his feet tucked up but easily within your reach. You could drag him into the water and drown him if you wanted, you’ve considered it once or twice, but every time you stop before you can move. You don’t want him to drown. You don’t know what it is you do want from him, but it’s not that. It’s not death.
“Are you ever going to tell us what happened to you?” he says, breaking you from your reverie. His eyes are closed, and he is so serene that, if he had not spoken, you’d think he was asleep. “Clearly, it was something horrible.”
Your wound has made steady progress in the time you’ve been living in Sunday’s home, but it’s still raw and angry and resistant to movement and touch and healing. According to Sunday, whose source is the Vidyadhara Dan Heng, it’ll take a while before it knits over completely, and then another while longer before your muscles regain enough strength that you can return to the ocean safely. You have no frame of reference, so you have to trust him, but you miss it, there’s no doubt about it; you miss your orca and your mother and the silvery glaciers of like home.
“You don’t have to tell us,” he continues, cracking an eye open and then extending his hand towards you. He does that often, though you’ve never taken it. It’s his way of telling you can trust him, you’re pretty sure, but the thing is that you don’t trust him, not fully, not yet. “Just me.”
Or, at least, you didn’t.
You can see him swallow when your damp fingers interlace with his dry ones, his throat bobbing as he widens his legs and lets them drop into the water so you can fit between them, resting your head on the hard plane of his stomach. He wraps one arm around your shoulders, petting the space between them in a way that, for some reason, causes you to begin to weep.
“They tried to capture me,” you whisper. “We were returning home for the summer, and I saw a turtle caught in a net, so I went to free it.
“My mother warned me not to; she said that all inventions of men are to be feared, that the land-walkers have their tricks and their ways. I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I went anyways.”
He stroked the back of your head as, inexplicably, you grip the white silk of his shirt, clinging to it as if he could change it all, as if he possessed some miraculous power that would allow him to go back and make it so nothing ever happened. Of course he does not; of course there is no such thing; but it soothes you a bit, to cry and to let him caress you as you hold onto him like you will be sick if he leaves.
“It was a trap. You are smart, I’m sure you saw that coming. They were, ah, what is the word that the land-walkers use…poachers? Pirates? We call them whale-killers, for our great cousins are their preferred prey, but these whale-killers were not in search of whales.”
“Mermaid hunters,” Sunday says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “It’s a highly illegal practice, but when those in power will pay good money for a pet mermaid of their own, the laws aren’t always enforced. Despicable.”
“They wrapped me in netting and pulled me onto that ship of theirs,” you say. “It was nothing like this place, all dirty and dank and filthy, the water blooming with algae and larvae, the men foul, drunk, sick in both body and mind. The fish they tried to feed me was rotting, Sunday, I could see the maggots wriggling beneath the scales before I slapped it away.”
His fingers dig into your skin, and it’s absurd to think that such a mild Halovian could ever protect you, but in that moment he is a shield between yourself and the rest of the world. You cannot believe you ever thought he might be one of them. He is not capable of that injustice, that immoral, indelible wrongdoing. Despicable. Disgusting. He is neither. He is not as they were.
“I killed their captain,” you say. “He showed me his rusting spear and told me he’d kill me if I misbehaved, so I hit him with my tail for his daring. He dragged that polearm through me in retribution, and so, with the last bits of my consciousness, I beat him to death with my own fins, for I could not stand the thought of him continuing to exist, to trap anyone else as I was trapped. If only I had met him in the waters, I’d have drowned him as I’ve drowned so many other whale-killers, he’d be dead before he knew it…but instead, they tossed me from the side of the ship without ceremony. I suppose they did not want to manage my corpse when it began to wither. I suppose that was where they drew their line.
“I don’t remember much from there. I knew I was going to die, too. I would sink to my death and that was the way of things, but I guess I washed up on the shore instead, and that’s where you found me. How lucky I am, that you were there. Had you been much later, you might’ve been met with nothing more than a picked-over skeleton.”
Sunday is quiet for a second, and then, softly, so softly you wonder if you’ve imagined it, he says, “I went to the beach to die.”
“What?” you say. His irises are dreamy and clouded over, as though he is looking through you instead of at you, as though his body is still entangled with yours but his mind has drifted away on swift currents, gone somewhere distant and lonely. “Why?”
“Life under the sea is simple,” he says. “Life on land is difficult. I have no great desire for that ultimate ending, not normally, not yet, but that day…I thought that maybe it might not be the worst thing to give myself to the sea and let it choose the course of my destiny. It was never a choice for me, lady mermaid; it was mere and simple lethargy. When you have nothing, you also lose nothing, change nothing. It was like that.”
You grab him by the shoulders before he can protest and drag him into the water with you. He yelps and sputters, but before his surprise can mature into proper fear, you curl your tail around him and press your lips to his, your eyes fluttering closed as you focus solely on the ebb and flow of his mouth, his tongue, the heady emotions pulsating off of him, the way he pulls you closer by the back of your head as though he is making some demand, some imperative command you have no choice but to listen to.
It’s different to kiss someone out of the water. The all-encompassing embrace of the ocean concentrates into that singular point of contact before it vanishes in favor of something that is entirely him, entirely Sunday, something that tastes like him and smells like him and makes you want to chase after him when he pulls away, cheeks flushed and wings batting nervously, the feathers lightly touching your face and then fleeing again before you can grow properly accustomed to their downy feel.
“I am deeply sorry,” he says, though he does not move from where he all but lays atop you, his hands now braced against the wall for balance and distance.
“Whatever for?” you say.
“I don’t — I mean, for land dwellers, kissing someone is different. You only do it when you desire them, and I know it must be different for mermaids, yet I let you do it anyways—”
“It’s not,” you say lightly.
“Huh?” he says.
“It’s not different,” you say. “Well, maybe a little. There’s no need for us to kiss one another, but if there is a land-walker who we admire, who we desire, as you said — a handsome sailor caught in a wreck, perhaps, or a pretty maiden cast away from a ship — we might kiss them, we might lend them our breath so that they can live. So, isn’t it the same?”
“Then why did you kiss me?” he says, regaining enough self-possession to jump out of the bathtub, leaving you to watch him as he rubs a towel over the wet ends of his hair, his eyes wide and pupils blown.
“Because, Sunday,” you say. “You saved me from certain death, and so, I want you to live.”
Dan Heng’s office is small and windowless, tucked away in an obscure corner of one of his university’s many science buildings. Sunday feels like a fugitive slinking through the hallways with a hood over his head, flinching every time he passes by a girl. Any one of them could be Bailu, after all, and although logically he knows Bailu has no reason to be able to recognize him, just the idea that she might is enough to make him nigh-paranoid.
He waltzes in without knocking, although he has not told Dan Heng that he’d be coming; it was a bit of a spur of the moment decision, really, and he doesn’t think he can handle talking about it over the phone, so all he can do is keep his fingers crossed that his friend isn’t busy.
Luckily, he is at least in his office. Unluckily, there’s a girl sitting across from him, lavender-haired and wide-eyed, a pencil gripped in her hand and several chemical reactions badly drawn on a piece of graph paper in front of her. Dan Heng smiles slightly when he sees Sunday, which coming from him is as good as beaming in welcome, and then he nods at the girl.
“Bailu, this is my college roommate Sunday,” he says. “Sunday, this is Bailu.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bailu says. “You’re the one with the mermaid, right? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone or anything. I only know because I happened to overhear you the other day.”
Sunday’s not sure whether he wants to murder Dan Heng or pass away himself or both. But he’s polite and also doesn’t want to make even worse of an impression on Bailu than he already has, considering she already probably thinks of him as some kind of mermaid molester, so he only nods at her.
“Likewise, Miss Bailu.”
“Did you need something? I’m surprised you came all of this way, I would’ve thought you’d be too busy,” Dan Heng says when there’s an unnatural silence, none of them knowing quite what to say.
“I was hoping I could talk to you,” Sunday says. Thankfully, Bailu gets the hint, putting her stuff away in her bag and muttering something about how she’ll never get her problem set done at this rate.
“Do you want tea?” Dan Heng asks when the door swings shut behind her. Sunday almost refuses, but then he remembers his sister once told him that herbal tea is excellent for nerves and anxiety, and considering his supply of both is well past overflowing, he nods, taking a seat in the hard-backed chair Bailu just vacated as Dan Heng starts the kettle.
“Thank you,” he says when Dan Heng hands him a steaming cup of something that smells like peppermint before sitting across from him. “You should’ve taken her.”
“The mermaid?” Dan Heng says. “Why do you say that? Based on everything you’ve told me, she really likes you.”
“I know,” Sunday says. “I like her, too, but too much. Dan Heng, she — I — we kissed in the bathtub!”
Dan Heng stares at him for a second before snorting. “It’s about time.”
“Pardon?” Sunday says.
“I figured out pretty quickly that you didn’t realize, but you know, everything you’ve been doing for her is essentially a watered down version of what we know about mermaid courtship rituals. Oysters are a rare delicacy for them, so they’re commonly fed to potential mates to express interest, and the treatment of her wounds could subconsciously be taken as a form of allogrooming, which you should be familiar with, as it’s present in Halovian bonding as well,” he says.
Sunday remembers that Dan Heng called him an idiot the other day, and suddenly he is quite sure that no descriptor has ever been more apt. How could he have known that mermaid traditions were so different and then not thought for even a moment that he might be conveying something other than what he meant to? Just because he was not playing music and bringing gifts for her, as was the Halovian way, did not mean that he was not indirectly telling her he wanted her; similarly, just because she did not sing to him or preen his feathers did not mean she did not accept his longing.
“Also,” Dan Heng says, pulling out a tablet and using a stylus to draw circles on a diagram of a mermaid’s tail. “These were the fins that twitched during the breast incident, correct?”
“Can we please call it something more dignified?” Sunday says before holding the tablet closer and nodding. “But yes, I think so.”
Dan Heng hums, taking it back and snapping it shut. “Right. So, she was aroused.”
“Aroused?”
“Do I need to explain what that means to you? I’d really rather not,” Dan Heng says, and for the first time Sunday realizes his friend’s entire face is bright red and he’s avoiding his gaze.
“No, I know what that means, I just — I can’t — what is wrong with me?” Sunday says. His stomach twists and turns in a million knots, and the room begins to spin, or is it that he’s the one spinning and everything else is still? The cup of tea slips from his grasp, and it’s only Dan Heng’s quick Cloudhymn magic that prevents it from spilling everywhere, although Sunday barely registers it. “How could I do that to her?”
He’s sick. He’s sick, he’s sick, he’s so sick. How is he any different than those mermaid hunters who captured her? They would’ve sold her to a politician or a billionaire who would’ve done the same things as him, who would’ve rubbed their grimy fingers over her chest and fed her all of the oysters she could’ve ever wanted until she fell prey to their charms, just as she fell prey to his. He’s itching all over, he’s taking his coat off and his wings are beating restlessly and his thoughts keep spiraling and spiraling, she doesn’t deserve this, she doesn’t deserve him, she’d be better off with Dan Heng, at least Dan Heng is a Vidyadhara, they’re related to mermaids, Dan Heng would’ve known what he was doing and would’ve stopped it, the monster is him, Sunday Oak, how could he do that to her? His mermaid. His, and what did he do to her? He—
A spray of warm, lavender-scented liquid breaks him out of his daze. He blinks. Dan Heng uses his Cloudhymn magic to slap him across the face with his lavender tea again, and then once more for good measure.
“Sunday. Did you ever take any introductory biology courses back in school?” he says.
“Yes, everyone has to,” Sunday says, wondering what the correlation could possibly be.
“Do you remember what the classifications for a Level 0 Intelligent Species are?” Dan Heng says.
“Uh, it’s been a while, but I think capable of rational thought was one?” he tries. Dan Heng nods, emboldening him to continue. “Intelligent speech, advanced societies with familial structures, and nonthreatening when approached?”
“The last one was actually amended a couple of years after we graduated to be ‘amenable to negotiation.’ The followers of the Hunt didn’t like the old wording,” he says. Sunday thinks back to the few followers of the Hunt he’s met and decides that the request makes sense. “Otherwise, yes.”
“Why are you quizzing me on things you’re meant to be teaching?” Sunday asks.
“Do you think the mermaid is capable of rational thought?” Dan Heng says.
“Obviously,” Sunday says.
“And intelligent speech is a given,” Dan Heng says. “Has she mentioned anything about familial structures or societies or anything like that?”
“I think their lifestyle isn’t quite the same as ours, so I don’t know if I would say society in the way we describe it, but she has talked about her mother, so I guess that implies some kind of a familial structure,” he says.
“And she did negotiate with us when she first woke up, even if she was a little aggressive about it. You know what that means, right? Mermaids, including your mermaid, can be considered a Level 0 Intelligent Species. Relationships between species within the same intelligence classifications are completely normal, and Halovians, like mermaids and Foxians and the Vidyadhara, are considered to be Level 0,” Dan Heng says, handing him his peppermint tea back.
“You don’t get it, Dan Heng,” Sunday despairs, downing half of the cup in one gulp, internally thanking Cloudhymn magic for keeping the drink at the perfect temperature. “She told me how she got that wound. It was mermaid hunters, they captured her and mistreated her and when she killed their captain, they threw her in the sea and left her for dead. But what if she hadn’t done that? What if she was taken to land and sold to an aquarium or a businessman or something like that? They’d do the same things to her that I did, and they’d be imbeciles for it, so doesn’t that mean I’m one, too?”
“No,” Dan Heng says. “Firstly, you didn’t pay someone to kidnap her, you literally saved her life, and secondly, you haven’t even done anything! Yes, you unintentionally courted her, but she’s the one who reciprocated, isn’t she? You didn’t even know what you were doing. I’m more worried about you, in truth. She wants you, but do you want her?”
“Yes!” Sunday says. “Yes, of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
“I can think of a few people,” Dan Heng says. “Seriously, though. You want her. She wants you. Your species are intellectually compatible. What’s the issue?”
There’s not really an issue when Dan Heng says it like that, which means there’s not really an issue, period. Sunday wants to argue anyways, wants to say that he’s at fault for this, that he shouldn’t feel this way, but then he remembers how the mermaid wept when she embraced him and told him of her past, how genuinely she looked at him when she said she wanted him to live, how she liked to tease him with her words and her fins, and he thinks that maybe this is not a fault but a fate. And if that is the case, then does it matter how it came about? Maybe not. Maybe the sea spoke its answer to him a long time ago, if only he had had the mind back then to hear it.
Twilight paints the sky in muted shades of indigo and orange when Sunday returns to you, a little more flustered than he usually is, with a basket of oysters tucked under his arm. You’ve never sensed this kind of shyness emanating from him, and it’s strange enough that you flick him with water in reprimand.
He looks up with wide eyes, and, inexplicably, a pink-coral blush blossoms on his fair cheeks before he returns to the oysters with doubled intent. Figuring you won’t get an answer until he decides to speak of his own volition, you settle for watching him, how deftly his fingers work and how his brows scrunch together endearingly in concentration on the simple task.
“Dan Heng told me,” he says when he offers you the first bit of meat from his hand. “About the oysters. That they’re, um, a mating ritual for your species.”
“You didn’t know that?” you say.
“Not at all, and I would like to stress that it was not my intention whatsoever. Halovians have different ways than mermaids — we bring gifts and sing songs for prospective mates. Allogrooming is a measure of friendship, not attraction, and food is shared communally amongst all, not just bonded pairs,” he says.
“I see,” you say. It shouldn’t matter to you. It doesn’t matter to you. So why do you feel disappointed and embarrassed and childish? You shouldn’t have assumed anything. His kindness is a characteristic of his species, just as Dan Heng’s objectivity is one of his and your temper is one of yours. You weren’t special. He wasn’t touching you and feeding you and kissing you because he wanted you. It was just his manner and your naivete at play, nothing more.
You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care you don’t care you don’t care you — you just want to hide in a sea cave and hug your orca and pretend like Sunday isn’t a man you’ve ever met or thought about or kissed or any of it.
“Lady mermaid,” he murmurs, so tenderly that you suddenly cannot fathom ever not knowing him. Placing a string of pearls around your neck, he bows his head at you, and there it is again, his shyness from earlier, but mixed with something else, something shivering and foreign but pleasant, surely pleasant. “May I sing for you?”
The pool is set to be finished soon. Sunday told his servants it’s of the utmost importance that it’s filled with saltwater from the sea, and they are too used to their master’s odd whims to question it, only exchanging glances before promising him that it will be done.
Right now, it is an empty construction, but Sunday still likes to sit on the deck and gaze upon it. He thinks she will like it, or at least he hopes she does, although really anything should be better than his bathtub, which is larger than most bathtubs but is still just that, nothing more. Still, he really did put effort into designing the entire thing, reading through every article and textbook he could find about mermaid habitats, trying to remember things she had mentioned about her home under the sea.
It’s enormous and made of white stone, the bottom bedded with sand and shells and even a thicket of seaweed so that she can sleep comfortably on the floor at nights. Gardenia bushes bloom around the edge, and one corner ducks under a tall, arched ceiling and a patio where he’s arranged chairs so that he can sit comfortably with her as she swims, even if it’s raining, even if the sun is so bright it would burn him otherwise.
If her recovery takes too long, he’ll bring her other fish to keep her company. One of the textbooks he borrowed from the library said that mermaids will often take other sea creatures as their pets — the most common are seals and whale sharks, but there’s very few marine animals that aren’t fond of the rulers of the ocean. There’s an aquarium nearby, he could ask to borrow something from them; he’s Sunday Oak, head of the Oak Family name and fortune, there’s no way they’d say no if he waved enough money and status around. He wonders if she would like an octopus, one of the small, elephant-eared ones, or maybe a seahorse, as colorful and bright as any flower. It’s all the same to him, anyways. Whatever she wants, he’ll find it, he’ll bring it for her, no matter how far he has to go in pursuit.
His phone buzzes, a text instead of an email, which means it’s probably important. Opening it, he rolls his eyes when it’s just a two-word message from Dan Heng: any updates?
For a moment, he’s not sure what to say, if he should even tell him anything. Yes, Dan Heng. I sang to her and then I fled, but not before I kissed her. And oh, how you would envy me if you knew what it was like to kiss a mermaid, to drink the champagne of her mouth, to finally breathe when you have spent your entire life thus far suffocated. Did you know that’s why they do it? For a mermaid, kissing is not love but life, or maybe they are wiser than we land dwellers and understand those two things are synonyms. How you would resent me. How you would long to be me, if only you could.
All he types, however, is not much. Simple. To the point. That’s all that matters. That’s all that Dan Heng needs to know.
In a good way?
Yes. In a good way.
“Dan Heng will come visit you soon,” Sunday says. Even when he doesn’t need to feed you or change your bandages, he comes to sit with you, telling you stories about his sister, singing you her songs and, if you are lucky and he is not as particularly self-conscious as he typically is, leaning in to kiss you quickly before standing and leaving. It’s never as much as you want, but it’s more than you’ve ever had, so you do not whine about it, even if you do miss him when he goes, boring as the bathroom is.
“Your Vidyadhara friend?” you say. Sunday nods, and even though you weren’t particularly fond of him when you met him before, the prospect of seeing someone new does excite you, and anyways Dan Heng is meant to be something like your primary doctor, so maybe he’ll give you a clean enough bill of health that you can finally go home. Your tail doesn’t ache as much anymore; you think it’s at the point that it’ll heal even if it’s left alone, but of course Sunday is the fussy type, so he is as meticulous as ever.
“He’ll interview you and look you over and make sure you’re progressing as planned,” he says. “But I have a surprise for you. Do you think you’re strong enough to get up if I help you?”
“I think so,” you say, tossing one arm around his shoulder and using the force of your tail as well as his strength to push yourself onto the ledge of the bathtub, laying there limply until he wheels a chair over and maneuvers you so that you can sit in it, tucking your tail onto the seat so that your long, trailing fins do not catch on the wheels. “Are you taking me somewhere?”
“Yes,” he says. “The pool is finally finished. I thought you might appreciate more space, and since you’re doing well, I thought it was worth trying with just the two of us and leaving Dan Heng’s help as more of a failsafe than anything.”
He wheels you through his manor, which is enormous and empty and nothing like the Sunday you know. That Sunday wears shirts with the sleeves rolled and the top two buttons undone, his wings relaxed, a smile present on his face more often than not, so who is that stiff-backed, stern, suited man you see in the paintings? He looks like Sunday, his name is Sunday, but he’s not him, and you’re relieved when you enter the backyard and he gently tips you into the pool and you can efface that awful visage from your mind for good.
It takes you a moment to adjust to swimming again, but it comes back naturally, easily, the salt water alleviating your pain, the grief in your muscles melting away as you stretch out luxuriously, lying amidst the sand and the seaweed and closing your eyes. This is the greatest gift you’ve ever been given, an ocean in miniature, so painstakingly constructed that if you allow your mind to wander, you can forget that you aren’t home in the first place.
Sunday is sitting by the edge of the pool, his pants folded up so he can swish his legs in the water without wetting them. Surely he can see you approaching him, but he pretends like he does not, acting surprised when you tap his leg with your fin and then splash him playfully in the face.
“Is it to your liking?” he says, and maybe it’s the unadulterated daylight or maybe it’s something else, but he almost appears to be glowing, his bright halo casting gold onto his perfectly-made features. “You cannot yet return to the ocean, so I did my best to bring the ocean to you.”
“You didn’t need to do all of this,” you say. “You could have left it as an empty pool of water, and I still would’ve thanked you. Seashells, sand, seaweed and flowers…it is too much. What will you do with it when I am gone?”
“I shall keep it just as it is,” he says, half-teasing but half-serious, too. “In case you ever want to come back.”
This earns him another lighthearted splash before you duck under the water and tug at his ankles, resurfacing to find him looking down his nose at you with raised brows, though he cannot feign displeasure for very long.
“Do you mean to drown me after all, lady mermaid?” he says.
“I’m only looking,” you say. “They’re so inefficient and silly. What do you call them again? Flippers? How do you swim anywhere with them?”
“Tarsis, metatarsis, phalanges,” he says. “Feet, not flippers, meant for walking, not swimming.”
“Tarsis, metatarsis, phalanges,” you repeat. “Your ‘feet.’ Then what are these?”
“My tibia and fibula,” he says as you run your fingers along the divots of the muscle, entirely fascinated by how it feels, so unlike your tail, which is densely packed and rough. Sunday is soft everywhere, not a jagged edge or broken scale to be found, and you find yourself suddenly obsessed with this anatomy lesson. You want to learn it, you want to know the name of every different piece of his that you’ve never seen on anyone else but him. “My shins and calves.”
“Shins and calves,” you say, and then you lay your head in his lap, splaying your fingers over the very tops of his legs, which are so perfectly made for you to rest like this. “And these?”
“Femurs,” he says, his voice a little strained for some reason, though you can’t imagine why. “Thighs.”
“I like them,” you say, kissing the inside of them over his pants for emphasis. He flinches but does not push you away, though you can hear how, for some reason, his heart begins to pound faster. You do it again, and his heart rate spikes even more. “Mermaids don’t have thighs. Such a pity, I almost wish we did…and here?”
“My pelvis,” he says when you point at the place where, if he were a merman, his tail would begin. “Hips.”
“Hips,” you say. They’re a bony construct, you can feel the points of them as your hands wander from his sides to the seam where his legs meet his torso, the joint elegant in a way that the transition from skin to scale never could be. “Oh, what is—”
He inhales sharply, his knuckles white from his grip on the edge of the pool as every inch of him all but trembles. You tilt your head at him, confused, your palm still resting over the bulge in between his legs.
“Did I hurt you?” you say.
“No, you — you didn’t hurt me,” he says. “It’s just — I’m sensitive there, all land dwellers are.”
“Can I see?” you say, for now that you have been given this new mystery you are entirely enticed by it. You want to see this sensitive place of Sunday’s, you want to touch it and claim it and know it in a way no one else can. Without waiting for an answer, you begin to fiddle with the button, which earns you a small, strangled okay from somewhere deep inside of him.
He does not say anything when you pull his pants all of the way off and set them to the side in a wet heap; when you tug at the waistband of his boxers — seriously, you will never understand why land-walkers instead on wearing so many things — he does not help, too focused on painstakingly undoing every fastening on your soaked shirt, pulling it off of your shoulders, leaving you free and bare. You don’t even have the time to be confused by the suddenness of it, because then he inches forward, bending down to kiss your hair and cupping your breasts in his hands.
“What is it called?” you ask before he can distract you further with featherlight touches and kisses along your temples, your hairline, your jaw.
“Corpora cavernosa,” he says. “Corpus spongiosum. It’s a reproductive organ.”
“Corpora cavernosa and corpus spongiosum,” you say. “Doesn’t it have another name? How pelvis is hips and tibia is shin, isn’t there some other way to call it?”
“Yes,” he says, avoiding your gaze, though you can tell he notices when you bat your eyelashes at him, his words coming out strained, through gritted teeth. “Cock.”
“Hm,” you say. “I see. Can I feel it?”
“What?” he says, a little shrilly. “You — what?”
You’re not sure why he’s so surprised, it feels like a bit of a natural conclusion in your mind, but you repeat carefully, slowly, so that you are not misunderstood.
“Sunday,” you say. “May I touch your cock?”
His face turns rosy, his wings covering his face as he hums in agreement. Immediately, you graze your open palm along the underside of it, marveling at the silkiness, the smoothness of the skin, the heat and the heaviness of it. You’ve never seen anything like this, like a land-walker’s cock, and your ventral fins swish with involuntary excitement, although he has long since given up on touching you back.
When you flick your tongue against his tip, you’re delighted to discover that it tastes a little salty, a little like home. You only meant to do it once, experimentally, but you cannot help doing it again, though a breathy groan from Sunday stops you before you can continue.
You almost ask if you’re hurting him once more before you remember what he said, that land-walkers are sensitive there, and then you finally realize that that emotion he sometimes feels around you, that pleasurable, shy, shivering one, is want.
“Does it feel nice when I do that?” you ask him.
“It does,” he says, and his wings still guard his face but you’d wager it’s as red or redder than before.
“Can I keep doing it?” you say. He pulls one wing back a bit, peeking at you shyly through the feathers, and you try your best to smile at him, hoping that that land-walking gesture applies here, too.
“Do you want to?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, please, Sunday, I want to.”
“Okay,” he says. “Keep going, then. If you want to, then I, ah, I certainly won’t stop you.”
You watch him as you drag your tongue along the length of his cock, taking careful note of which places and ministrations prompt small noises and movements from him, focusing on them so that you can hear his lovely, musical gasps over and over and over again.
“Careful,” he says, drawing his hips back, away from your eager mouth. “If you keep doing that, I—I’ll—”
He takes your hand in his, squeezing tightly and using it to replace your lips, pumping up and down before, abruptly, the tension in his body and the air alike dissipate, melting away into an overwhelming, contended fondness, his pleasure coating your neck and dripping down into the hollow at the base of your throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his fingers still interlocked with yours, his free hand roaming over your hair, your cheeks, your chin.
“Why?” you murmur, the exhaustion rolling off him making you sleepy yourself.
“I used you without any thought of what makes you feel nice,” he says, and then he kisses you thoroughly, apologetically, like he is begging you to understand, to set right his wrongs. Pulling back only slightly, he murmurs against your lips: “Let me make it up to you, lady mermaid.”
“Make it up to me?” you say, your drowsiness fleeing the instant he kisses you one more time before taking your nipple into his mouth. “Oh.”
With a swift maneuver of your tail, you yank him in the water with you, holding onto him tightly as he shows you the land-walking way of saying sorry.
“This is an incredible enclosure,” Dan Heng says, dipping a toe into the mermaid’s pool and then flashing Sunday an approving grin. “You’ve outdone yourself. Don’t get rid of it when she leaves, okay? I might bring specimens here instead of the lab, it’s certainly nicer than anything at the university.”
“Of course, you’re welcome to,” Sunday says, because any excuse for Dan Heng to visit is a good thing. “I’m sure she won’t mind if you have to bring anything even while she is here.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he says. “Mermaid!”
“Vidyadhara!” she calls back, appearing and whacking her tail against the surface of the water, attempting to splash him despite her knowledge of his Cloudhymn magic. Dan Heng is unfazed and unharmed; the only one doused is Sunday, who is used to it at this point and doesn’t even fuss.
“I’m here to look at your injury and see how you’re recovering. Will you cooperate, or do I need to sedate you?” he says. She glances at Sunday nervously, and he blinks in what he hopes is a reassuring way.
“She’ll cooperate,” he says to Dan Heng when she only ducks back under the water. “Lady mermaid, you know I would not bring him here if I thought he would harm you. Please do as he says, it’s for your benefit.”
Silence.
“I’ll feed you oysters afterwards if you’re good.”
“Fine,” she says, manifesting suddenly at Dan Heng’s feet, offering him her tail and smiling sweetly. “Do as you’d like.”
Sunday returns to the kitchen to prepare her oysters, trusting that Dan Heng can more than handle himself, as well as trusting her to keep her word. He would never admit it aloud, but it does please him a little to know that even now, she holds no fondness for anyone but him, that he is different from everyone else, that there is a certain regard and relationship between them both that goes beyond anything he’s ever known before.
“Good news,” Dan Heng says, entering the kitchen casually, like he’s done it a million times before. “The scar is pretty nasty, but she’s fine otherwise.”
“Do you mean she’s healed?” Sunday says.
“Yes, she doesn’t seem to have any issues with movement or any limitations to her range of motion. The scar is a little unsightly, but mermaids don’t place much value in things like that — her fins are still large and healthy, so she’ll be considered as attractive as ever to her people. She should be able to acclimate back to life under the sea pretty quickly,” Dan Heng says.
“No,” Sunday says instinctively. Dan Heng, who has just taken a bite out of an apple, furrows his brow at him. “We can’t just send her back! The ocean is dangerous, what if she gets captured again? What if she gets hurt and I’m — we’re not there to help her? Mermaids don’t have medicine or anything like that, if she gets hurt again…and not to mention those mermaid hunters are still out there! They’ll try to take revenge if they find her, she killed their captain and they hate her for it…it’s so dangerous, there’s no way we can just let her go! She needs more time.”
“She does, or you do?” Dan Heng asks, chewing on the fruit, his voice level, detached. Sunday’s racing thoughts screech to a halt, which is a typical effect that Dan Heng has on him, always knowing what to say, for better or for worse. “Sunday, you can’t keep her here forever.”
“Why not?” he says, and he feels like a little child again, Gopher Wood taking him by the hand and leading from his ruined home. “Why must she go?”
Dan Heng finishes the apple, tosses the core in the trash, and then gives Sunday a sympathetic look. Sunday is obstinate, he always is, but for once, Dan Heng does not stand stubborn and cold in his way; instead, he is gentle when he speaks, kind, his thundercloud eyes compassionate instead of reserved and guarded as they usually are. Sunday knows before he even says anything that he will be right, because Dan Heng always is, and he will hate it, because Sunday always does.
“That’s not a question,” he says. “You have to let her go home, Sunday.”
“No, I don’t,” Sunday says, but without any vigor or conviction. “I won’t.”
“You will,” Dan Heng says. “If you really love her, you will.”
Sunday and Dan Heng help you into a wheelbarrow filled with saltwater, each taking one handle and looking entirely ridiculous as they pull you after them. Dan Heng does not struggle quite as much as Sunday does, but he is also not quite as determined, so they both end up putting in equal effort, which you find rather humorous, as it is slow and convinces you that you never want to be a land-walker, not when their lives are clearly so inconvenient.
“Does it matter where we drop you off?” Dan Heng says. His Cloudhymn magic is keeping the sloshing water from spilling over, so there is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead; taking pity on him, you use your caudal fin to wipe it off and pat his cheek gratefully.
“No, it’s all the same. My home is far away, anyways, in a place with glaciers and ice floes, so I’ll have to swim a great distance regardless of where I start off,” you say.
“Wonderful,” Dan Heng says. “We can just stop here, then.”
You’re on a wooden dock, the ocean stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, so beautiful, and tears gather in the corners of your eyes. You’ll be home soon. Your entire life, everyone you had to leave behind, they’re all waiting for you there, somewhere beyond the horizon. Beneath the surface, you’re sure the whales are singing, and there’ll be fish to play with and an entire world you can swim around, as many times as you’d like, and save for the scar down your tail, it will be as though this whole ordeal never happened.
“Hey,” Sunday says. Dan Heng has taken a few polite steps away, inspecting a tidepool with the utmost of interest, as though the secrets of the universe might be contained in its shallow depths. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Don’t trust any land dwellers. They’re not all as kind as Dan Heng and I,” he continues.
“I won’t,” you say.
“Your tail should be fully recovered, but if it starts to hurt again, make sure to rest it until it’s better,” he says.
“I will,” you say.
“And—”
“Sunday,” you say, chuckling a bit at his fretting. “I’ve lived my entire life under the sea. I’ll be alright, I promise.”
“I apologize,” he says. “I just…”
“I know,” you say, reaching your arms out towards him, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck, stroking along his spine. There are so many things you could possibly say to him, but there aren’t enough words in the universe to explain the only of them that actually means anything, so you simply cling to him and hope that Halovians, like mermaids, can understand the intent behind that. “I know.”
“You can always come back,” he says. “My dear mermaid. I won’t change anything. It will be just as you left it, and if you ever want to…you can always, always come back to me.”
You don’t have an answer, so you simply kiss him, savoring his taste, his scent, his everything. You don’t want to forget him. You don’t want to forget a single detail of him, you want to memorize him as he is now and keep the effigy close to your heart forever.
“Are you ready?” Dan Heng says. You’re not sure when he returned, but, combing your fingers through Sunday’s hair, you nod at the Vidyadhara, who nods back and prepares to tip you back into the sea, where you belong. “Farewell, then.”
“Farewell, and good luck with your thee-sis, Dan Heng,” you say, and then, one final time, you smile at Sunday. “Goodbye, Sunday. Thank you for everything.”
“No,” he says. “Thank you.”
Today, the sea is quiet, and as Sunday Oak sits on the edge of a nondescript wooden dock, he wonders if it’s just as quiet in a place far away, a place with glaciers and ice floes and beautiful, beloved mermaids. If he were a better swimmer, perhaps he’d submerge himself, perhaps he’d jump in and keep going until he found that place — that is to say, until he found her. But he cannot swim that well, it’s not something expected of a Halovian, so he is left to sit and watch the placid waves and imagine what she might be doing, wherever she is.
He didn’t think he would miss her this much. Robin is back from touring, and she was delighted to learn that a mermaid was a guest in their home, although she left before they could meet. Dan Heng speaks with him even though he has no reason to; the two of them meet for lunch once a week, and Dan Heng has introduced him to the rest of his friends, who accept Sunday as quickly as if he’d been with them from the start. By all definitions, he has never been happier, so why is it that he finds himself coming to the seashore, to the dock, even now? Why is it that he wishes he could see her again, even just once, even just to tell her that he thinks of her so often it physically pains him?
Abruptly, the dock shakes, as though something very heavy has hit it, and before Sunday can scramble to his feet, a large black-and-white fish he’s only ever seen in textbooks pokes its head out and regards him curiously. It’s an orca, a sea-wolf, although this one is acting more like a puppy than anything, even nudging him playfully with its snout when he gapes at it for too long.
“Are you lost or something?” he says, because sure, he’s not getting a PhD in marine biology the way Dan Heng is, but even he knows that orcas aren’t native to these waters. The orca lets out a clicking noise, and then it splashes him. He frowns at the orca, about to chide it for its rudeness, but then a silvery tail knocks him into the water and a pair of arms catches him before he can sink too far beneath the surface.
“Hello,” she says. “I see you’ve met my orca. I think she likes you.”
“Is it really you?” he breathes, and the mermaid, his mermaid, smiles at him, her tail wrapping securely around his legs and her head leaning against his chest. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “I just…wanted to see you.”
Before he can respond, her orca whistles excitedly and rams into him, rubbing against the breadth of his body in greeting. And Sunday has never really considered himself to be an animal person, but the orca is kind of sweet, and now his mermaid is laughing as she tells her pet to be careful with him, so he thinks to himself, well, maybe this isn’t so bad.
Then she’s helping him back onto the dock and kissing him, her hands toying with his waistband and her tongue lapping against his own, so he throws caution to the wind and decides, for once, to stop thinking at all.
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