#bianccwrite

[echolocating]

midnight is muddling our senses again - a splatoon oc fic (archive of our own link)

rating: M (warnings in tags)

i had this story cooking for quite some years now. since 2017ish it went from an rpg maker game to a comic to this fic, so i'm pumped to finally put it out there in its best form. pour your favourite sipping drink and watch two bartenders and their friends figure themselves out

[echolocating]

for the drabble writing ask here's a combined phrase: collapse, nap, breeze. its sleepy time babey!!!!

im SO SORRY it took so long but (holds platter) here is your ordered fluff sir

drabble asks: collapse+nap+breeze (+sunbathing?)

The long-suffering ozone layer still isn’t in full shape, though it’s getting there. The midday sun bites in. The sky’s spotless, the temperatures are at a high. It’s bearable nevertheless, as the sea brings a steady wind. In moments that break the stillness, the salty breeze hits the searing skin, causing a sort of effect akin to dry brining. No wonder all of the elders spend their retirement years around the coasts, they’re self preserving. It’s a bit too early for Olive to start the process, so he douses in suncream for the third time this hour.

His maned head peeks from the middle of the beach - not too close from the water, not too close to the radiating concrete stairs. There’s two towels, one with a worn down Fresh Fish print, one a simple dark grey. He claimed both of them, sitting somewhere in-between. Olive’s gaze is vaguely turned towards the Inkopolis Bay, not tracing anything in particular. He readjusts his wide-brim straw hat, and hugs his knees to his chest.

A red speckle emerges from the shallow waters. The redhead runs a wet hand over his face. Olive sketches an expression of content behind the sunglasses. Though, at a distance, he can't notice Rodi's gait being too languid for himself. It’s turning wobblier the closer he comes to the towels.

Found at the towels’ edge, Rodi throws himself right on his knees, spreading any sand found underneath them everywhere. Fleeting discontent befalls Olive, as the sand sticks on his thigh. Rodi lets out a sigh for the effect and another faltering fall, a near belly-flop onto the towels, just before his knees shook from dizziness.

Olive picks his golden aviators, lowering them under the tip of his nose. “Well? Was it refreshing?”

It seems he expected the question, from how quickly he answers. “Like fuckin’ broth!” Rodi doesn’t raise to his elbows, he remains lying with his back to the sky.

Olive adjusts their puny umbrella, which never wants to stay upright, and makes sure the shade somewhat covers Rodi. He gingerly places his palm on top of his lover’s tentacles, to check for temperature. He’s radiating warmth as always, albeit more.

“Are you sure you’re well? What if it’s a heatstroke? If water or shade don’t help, then we should think of retreating.”

Rodi keeps his eyes closed, arms tucked under his chin as a pillow. His speech is slower than usual, a bit muffled by his arm. “You drive yourself back home,” he chuckles into the crook of his elbow.

“There’s a café a few minutes away from here.”

“I’m fine, really. I’m absorbing solar energy. You already know the process. Photosynthesis.”

A breath puffs out of Olive’s nostrils. Placing his hat on the sand, Olive lays on the side of his body, lined next close to the other. “Very fascinating. I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Mhm. You would’ve known if you wrote about me, and not some lame corals in your dissertation.” He waits a bit, in case Olive would start explaining why he’s ignorant. Instead, he feels his fiance’s palm against his skin again, checking his forehead, the back of his neck, his cheeks. He might be lucky this time. The hand settles on his hip, which is probably not part of the routine temperature check.

And then, Anthos softly goes, “actually, they’re not lame”, and brings up terms such as symbiosis and aquacultures. Rodi’s already heard the story, multiple times, while it was unfurling in their own home, lunchtime after lunchtime on end. These big words never stir his mental imagery as much as the actual experience, when he first saw the Bay’s corals together with Olive. Their vivid colours appear behind his eyelids. The incessant breeze mimics the sea’s lukewarm currents, feeling just the same as three years ago, when his head was fully underwater. The more he dives into the memory, the less he’s part of the conversation. There’s an enveloping sense of comfort taking over. Before he knows, he forgets about his feverish condition, and any other bodily concerns.

Eventually, Olive notices his peacefulness, his softer breathing, and steadily lowers his voice. Though, he doesn’t stop his ranting, as he’s well accustomed that any sudden changes can snap Rodi’s sleep rather easily. Regardless of this fact, he carefully inches his face closer, bit by bit, until his lips press against Rodi’s shoulder. Regardless of how the sea salt dried on the shoulder stings the cracks in his lips, or how ungracefully sweaty it is, he keeps them there. Regardless of how hot it may get, the sea breeze will always be there.