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It’s not often that Henry gets fed up with company and the merry air of the Sasau tavern, but tonight is, unfortunately, that day.
He’s simply a bit pent up lately, unable to rest properly and plagued by nightmares, and so he doesn’t really care for Marek’s stupid problems, or Matej’s row with his stupid neighbour—he would rather be alone.
So he goes on a walk, dressed only in braies because it's quite warm still, away from the town, away from people—into the silence broken only by the croaking frogs, chirping crickets and the calming roar of the river.
He keeps to the shore, where the trees are thin and moonlight aplenty, and the shadow doesn’t hide the paths—letting his legs take him into the blessed quiet of the warm summer night, breathing the air and hoping his mind wouldn’t keep him awake this time.
He walks and walks, until the lights of Sasau disappear, until the only light is the moon in the sky and the shimmer on the river, and he has that buzzing thought that maybe it’s time to turn around and go back—surely the town has calmed down by now and nobody would bother him anymore.
But an oddity catches his attention.
There is something weird on the shore that Henry doesn’t register properly at first, taking it for the reflection of the moonlight on the flowing waters. But reflections don’t move like this—swishy and quick, and they definitely don’t make splashing noises.
He stops in his tracks, straining his eyes to see—it’s something that’s glowing, and triangular in shape, and way too blue to be moonlight, now that he is looking closer.
“That boy is way too curious for his own good,” his ma used to say when she was still in this world. It rings in his head like she is standing right next to him, as he tiptoes in the direction of the strange shine, unable to resist its mysterious call.
He is so focused on it, in fact, that he fails to realise the swooshy thing is attached to something.
Something that catches him by complete surprise.
The thing looks at him with its equally glowing eyes and Henry yelps at the sight, jerking sideways so violently that his thrice-damned foot slips, throwing him into the river’s flows, where he panics at the first hit of cold water to his face so badly that he inhales where he shouldn’t have and flails.
All at once his throat burns, and so do his lungs, and soon enough it’s impossible to say which way is up and which way is down—sounds are both dulled and too loud, his nose is full, everything is heavy—and he can’t breathe, but doesn’t know where the air is, and he is drowning, thrashing, about to die—
Then something hits his sides hard enough for it to hurt and hauls him out. The pressure disappears, and his back hits something solid, and he is coughing, coughing, coughing, sputtering through tears in his eyes.
“Fucking hell, lad, that’s two feet of water you were kicking about in, that would’ve been rather embarrasing if you croaked in it, you know?”
The words don’t stop him from hacking his lungs out, but they do make him look, and what he sees is—
—probably the prettiest man Henry has ever laid his eyes on in his life, sitting next to him on the shore.
Well. Man.
Man isn’t exactly the proper word. Not with those eyes that glow blue.
And the subtle scales that cover his arms. And waist. And neck.
Or the, um, tail.
“Why is your fin shiny?” he blurts out in response to that, because he rather hates silences, and doubly so when it’s from a lad who basically saved his life. It would be rude not to reply—he just wishes he had more control over what left his stupid throat. You can’t just ask a stranger about his— its tail, it’s a tad rude.
But that milk has spilt already. He’s always had a problem with talking coherently at beautiful people. And this one has a tail. There was no winning this one.
The glow flutters and Henry realises the creature is blinking rapidly at him, leaning slightly away as if baffled.
“Well, colour me surprised, that’s usually not the first question I get when someone spots me.”
Oh, its voice is really nice now that Henry is paying attention—youthful, bit playful, delightful when it goes lower. And its ears are pointy and look sharp, like a fin of a perch—but prettier, and probably more dangerous to touch.
His hand itches to try.
“What do people ask, then?” he says distractedly, because those shoulders are broad and rather sculpted, and the wetness of them is quite tantalising under the moonlight. Droplets running down shouldn’t look this good on anyone, and yet Henry is here, watching one trail down a thick neck to where it gathers on a collarbone.
“Once they stop screaming, you mean?” the creature tilts its head, the wet locks of its fair hair staying plastered to its forehead.
Henry nods dumbly, staring at its plump lips. It really is quite an alluring top half of a man, he has to admit to himself. He’d be in trouble meeting it under normal circumstances, not only on this lovely shore under the moonlight, after it dragged him out of certain death. No, Sir—his eyes would be wandering regardless.
“Usually some nonsense like ‘What are you’ and ‘What do you want from me’, and sometimes I get asked if I’m the devil,” the thing scoffs. “As if the devil could be this handsome,” it gestures at itself with a smirk.
Henry likes that smirk—the flutter in his stomach agrees.
“Ah,” Henry nods in acknowledgment this time. “That does sound dreadful,” he agrees. Power of the first meeting, he supposes. “I’m more curious about the tail thing.”
Something fleeting but amused flashes on the creature’s face. “You don’t want to scream? Not even a little bit?”
“Well, you did just save my life,” Henry says slowly. Does he feel afraid right now…? He searches his body for the usual tells—the clenched stomach, the tension in his arms, quickened breathing.
Nothing.
Well. Some of it, but for different reasons.
It is a very pretty not-man. And Henry is at the peak of his youth.
And his tongue has ideas about this chest in front of him.
The creature looks at him funny. “... From two feet of water. You could’ve just stood up.”
Henry just shrugs.
The fishman leans away enough for Henry to realise how close he— it— he…?
He.
—to realise how close he was before. It lets him sit up properly, take a better look.
A long, appreciative look.
“It’s to attract a mate,” the fishman says, eyes on the ground and fingers—webbed and pointy, how interesting—drawing shapes in the wet sand.
He blinks, having to tear his eyes away. “What is…?”
“The tail!” the thing shouts, throwing his arms up. “Do keep up!”
“Oh,” Henry says intelligently. “Any luck yet?”
The look he gets is both withering and accusatory. In the ‘are you fucking stupid’ sense.
“No,” is the curt answer. The tail twitches, the mouth pouts.
Cute, he thinks. How could anyone be scared of this?
“Where does one find a fishman, anyway?” Henry asks, sitting a bit more comfortably so a rock doesn’t dig into his arse. His feet are covered in sand and his braies are probably dirty with mud, but he’d looked worse before. Much, much worse.
“A fi— it’s merman, you yokel!”
He frowns. “Murrman…?”
“Merman! Augh.” The tail flips, sending a splash. It sparkles brilliantly in the faint moonlight.
“Buh,” he lets out, mesmerised by it.
The murrman grows agitated then. “And that’s my problem! One does fucking not! I’m the only one around, haven’t seen another one in ages!”
“Aww, laddie,” Henry says empathetically, resisting an urge to tap the sparkly scales. He sits cross-legged instead, picking a blade of grass off his arm.
“It’s so frustrating!” the creature goes on, swishing more violently. The muscles of that stomach flex quite nicely with the movement. Are all murrmen this muscular, he wonders, enjoying the sight of it. “This cursed body has needs, stranger—”
“Henry,” he blurts out.
“Wha—?”
“Name’s Henry,” he repeats, pointing with a thumb at himself. “How about you?”
The murrman opens his mouth, then closes, then opens again.
Like a fish, Henry thinks and bites his tongue.
“... Hans.”
Henry blinks. “Pardon?”
“My name is Hans,” Hans says, a little more forcefully.
Henry balks. “But that’s so… normal.”
“What in the world did you expect?” Hans asks, exasperated. “Hans is a perfectly good name, do excuse you.”
“No, it’s a fine name, just… a murrman called Hans. I know another Hans, the lad is a carpenter.”
“Merman, for God’s sake. And, well… this fish situation isn’t really a permanent affliction, you see…” Hans says and turns away, and if Henry was looking at a human instead, he would swear Hans is blushing. “It’s more of a curse, really? I’m actually a man, most of the time, but then summer comes and this… this… mating urge thing—”
“Oh.”
“Sometimes I do turn at random, still haven’t figured what causes it, but summers are a sure thing. As soon as it gets warmer I sprout a tail and they have to roll me into the damn river, it’s quite embarrassing, really—”
“Oh.”
“And then I just swim around, unable to think about anything else than— Er—”
“Um, I think I get it.”
All he gets is a pained groan in response.
“And no other mermen in sight, eh?” he asks lightly.
“No…”
Things get quiet for a moment as Henry mulls it in his head.
But he isn’t only curious. He is also brave. Stupidly so, as his pa used to say.
“Do humans work?” he asks eventually, chancing a glance.
Hans is looking solemn, with a pinch of frustration. “I… don’t know…? They all ran.”
“But I’m right here,” Henry tilts his head, frowning.
Hans snaps his head up, sending droplets flying. One hits Henry in the face and lands on his lips. “I— yes, but— Um—”
“Ah, lads don’t do it for you, eh?” Henry guesses, disappointed.
“No! I mean— Oh, fucking hell. You do realise I’m talking about fucking here, yes?!”
Henry blinks. “... I’m not opposed.”
Wasn’t it obvious?
They look at each other wordlessly for a moment, before Hans’ gaze falls down to where Henry is sprouting a rather sizable—if wet—tent between his legs. A tongue darts out, and Henry has half the mind to note that it looks human-like. Pink and wet.
Its tip, at least.
Hans looks back up at Henry’s face, but he is slow about it, making sure to take in every detail on the way. Henry preens under his gaze—he does think he is a solid lad, with hair in the right places and a good amount of muscle. And he’s heard quite a number of endorsements about his arse, but standing up to wiggle it at a merman he’s met mere minutes ago would be rather impolite in his opinion.
“Really…?” Hans asks quietly, looking into his eyes almost shyly. His lower half curls on the ground into the shape of a crescent moon. Henry nods eagerly. “Why?”
“You’re really pretty,” Henry admits bluntly, looking him up and down.
Oh, that’s definitely a blush.
“And your tail is beautiful,” he adds.
And it is—an enormous see-through fin that looks like it’s woven with glowing blue threads that seep into the tail itself and fade away somewhere beneath the scales.
They’re gold, he realises as he scoots closer, daring to swipe his hand across what he would normally call a hip—and slick, and smooth. It’s fascinating, the way they blend into skin where the tail ends and the hard stomach begins. He rubs his thumb at the join of the two halves—such a contrast between the softness and stiffness there.
The fin swishes into the water, quick, like a tail on a prowling cat.
Henry catches himself then—he is close, way closer than he should politely be, but there’s something in the air between them here, and Hans isn’t inching away.
If anything, he is leaning in, bright eyes hooded and watching Henry like he is holding his breath, as if Henry is a skittish deer ready to run at any moment. But Hans probably has no idea how much Henry likes what he is seeing.
What’s not to like?—
He runs his finger up over the belly, watching it jump under his touch. Han’s breath hitches, igniting something in Henry’s blood.
—That chest that could rip a tight shirt?—
He palms it and squeezes, amazed at how little give there is in the flesh. Hans leans, pressing into his hand.
—The arms that look like a warrior’s?—
He glides over the muscles, feeling every hill and dip, watching as his touch sends ripples of something akin to gooseflesh, if gooseflesh was scaly instead.
—Even the patches of small scales are cute, even those inhuman ears. They make his mouth water and his tongue tingle with an urge to taste.
And those claws? Henry would love them on himself, as surprising as it is to realise that. To have them wrapped around his wrists as they pin them to the ground, honed points pressed against skin like a threat… His body shudders in excitement at the mere thought.
Yes. He wouldn’t mind a lay with this half-man, not when he looks like he has descended from the Pantheon itself. The only thing that confuses him is—
“Um, how exactly do you—”
Hans kisses him, burying his sharp fingers in Henry’s hair.
He tastes sweet, and Henry moans when the nectar-like taste invades his mouth, making him drool and grow strangely dizzy, instantly craving more and inviting that tongue in deeper so he can suck on it with abandon. His own hands grow bolder, wrapping around the waist at first, then daring to go lower, petting the scales and teasing at their edges, looking for something, anything.
But instincts take over and he pushes and pushes, until that pretty creature is laid flat against the shore, tail curled slightly like it wants to hook itself around his leg. And Henry drinks the sweetness straight from that mouth then, takes instead of waiting to be given, licks and suckles with maddening greed.
Claws run down his chest, leaving behind trailing shivers that become sparks when they reach the seam of his braies and don’t stop, dragging the fabric together with them, baring him to the night and exposing his eagerness to the warm air. He kicks the garment off, grass tickling his naked thighs as a strong arm pulls him in, pointy fingers settling over the swell of his arse, cupping and squeezing as he becomes enveloped, his prick dragging over slickened scales, meeting something hot and slippery, and large, that wasn’t there just a moment ago.
It’s then that he breaks the kiss to look down, his chin wet with drool.
“Oh,” he says breathlessly, staring at a cock unlike any he has ever seen before. It’s like something unfurled where the hips should be, letting out a prick so otherworldly Henry is almost sure he is dreaming.
It’s longer than he is used to, and milky blue and slightly translucent, and Henry has only ever seen an opal once, but it’s somehow like that, but prettier. It’s leaking too, a thick, syrupy, glowing kind of liquid that sparkles on Henry’s fingers when he swipes at it, unable to resist. It’s almost like honey in consistency, but when he parts his fingers it becomes stringy between them, creating something akin to a spider’s web, only much more beautiful.
He gives it a curious lick—salty, but not overly so, not as bitter as a human’s would be, either. Rather enjoyable, actually, he thinks, cleaning it off lazily with slow laps of his tongue.
The wave of heat that hits him is almost instant.
All at once his heart begins to beat harder and his body starts feeling hot, warming his previously cold feet—it’s as if he has downed an entire tankard of strong ale at once with how woozy he becomes, the fog in his mind included.
“Oh, goodness,” he says dizzily, swaying where he sits on top of Hans, their hard cocks so very close to each other—so different it’s striking.
When the hell has he moved to sit there…?
“Are you alright? I know it’s a bit unsettling,” he hears, but barely, because something interesting is happening to his insides. He feels light, and the world is spinning slightly, and he feels both a little boneless but also restless.
And so so burning with need.
“I feel odd,” he confesses, eyeing the increasingly leaking prick, its glowing filth making the scales shine like jewels. There is so much of it, and it smells so strong, yet Henry wants to put his face right in it and roll so he can take that scent back with him, wear it, have it on him for the rest of his days.
“You do look like you feel odd,” Hans mumbles, his claws digging into the skin over Henry’s hips, leaving thin red scratches, as if marking Henry for himself.
Henry stops listening.
His need spikes, desire slamming into him suddenly and violently, tearing him to his knees where he spreads his legs wider over the thick tail, his own cock jumping with interest at what he craves to do. He watches, mesmerised, as he positions himself right over the glowing length—it’s right there, between his thighs, hard and smothered in unknown juices that smell too good to bear.
And Henry needs it inside himself, now.
His arse twitches, a greedy little pulse in his hole that begs to be stretched around something girthy and slick—the fire in his belly demands it, craves it, wants to swallow whatever decides to fill him up. It doesn’t matter what—he needs it, anything.
He casts Hans once last glance, just to make sure he isn’t the only one affected here, even if he isn’t certain he would be able to stop himself anyway—but the merman is flushed enough that the scales under the skin of his cheeks became visible, and his tailfin is swishing around so hard the water is splashing over Henry’s back, and so he gives a sigh of relief, takes that impossible cock in hand to line himself up and sinks down, his body welcoming it all like it was born for it.
He whines wordlessly at the sensation that washes through him once he slides down the throbbing length—like a wave of prickles on his skin that starts low near the base of his spine and then travels up, making him gasp. He tries to clench around the cock but can’t—it’s like he is forced into relaxation, enough that his knees shake with the effort to keep him up. He gives up trying to lift himself, slumps against the scales—completely unable to move—mouth open and head thrown back, thighs slippery and drenched in the shiny filth.
He truly wants to flop over, spread his legs and take it.
He collapses forward instead, shivering when the length shifts inside him—has he ever been so full before? He can’t even recall—it’s like everything is fading away, leaving just this pleasure and intense heat that keeps spreading and spreading through his entire body. He should feel more of a strain—he knows this—and yet it’s like his body has accepted this beautiful merman fully and only wants more.
He noses experimentally near those dangerous ears—it smells nice there too, salty but earthy, with an undertone of sweetness. Surely, this is what a sea is like, what else could it be?
He mouths at the spot, then licks when Hans’ heartbeat speeds up beneath his lips in response. Claws grip at the meat of his thighs, making Henry keen in thrill, reducing him to a panting, eager mess.
“You’re so warm,” Hans breathes out, pulling him closer and pressing himself deeper in, making the filth drip down Henry’s arse. Henry sucks in the fragrant air—it feels so incredibly good. Yes, oh God, yes, right there. He wants those hands to grab him and move him however they desire. “I didn’t realise how cold I was.”
He dares a bite—a sharp, but teasing nip of teeth.
Hans gasps and bucks upwards, pressing him down by the hips, burying himself in Henry to the hilt.
“Oh fuck,” is what he would have said if he could, but his voice fails him and he chokes instead, seeing something like stars and grinding down greedily to feel more of those maddening sparks.
That spot, there, yes, perfect, oh Christ.
He grabs uselessly at the shore’s grass, rocking his hips into each thrust, nose filled with scent of salt and sex, drunk on it, drunk on the prick relentlessly spearing him, drunk on how easily this creature is using his body for his own pleasure.
His knees are scraping against the rocks in the sand, rubbing his skin raw—he will have to wear long breeches for a while, lest someone asks what happened to his legs. But he doesn’t mind, not right now, not when he is being fucked like this, not when his own prick is smearing filth on the pretty scales.
He bites again, harder this time, and Hans dives into him again with a cry, and dear God, Henry is so full he feels all of that cock in him, gliding and coating him in thick glowing juice from the inside. It’s leaking out of him in hot drizzles, painting his thighs and making them shine, both their bodies smeared with evidence of this forbidden coupling. But Henry couldn’t give less of a shit right now, not when it feels like he is ascending to Heaven itself.
He seeks out that mouth, drinks the sweetness from it, tugs at the damp hair in a frenzy while the merman fucks into him in violent rhythm, in and out, always to the brim, always making him shiver and paw in mindless desperation. He wants more, he wants it harder—he is on the brink, ready to fall, just as those claws at his arse spread him further, indecent, sinful, and downright obscene. And Henry swallows him, his rim dragging with each pull, hot and twitching, his prick aching and trapped between their mating bodies. He wants his tongue on pretty scales and to suck that syrup from his own teeth, he wants hands in his hair and his cheek in the mud, he wants to be fucked until he can’t think anymore—
His back tenses up, drawing him like a bow, and the merman doesn’t stop thrusting into his arse, skin slapping wetly against scales, so close to perfection, yet so far.
His toes curl and his eyes roll up, and the merman sinks his fangs in Henry’s neck.
His climax comes then, coating them both in his filth, his seed dull on the shimmering skin. He shakes with it, with each wave crashing into him, stronger and more lasting than anything ever before—it keeps going until he drools all over Hans’ neck, panting like a dog after a hunt, his whole body turning loose and weightless, wrapped in two strong arms keeping him close.
And yet, his cock doesn’t soften.
Hans notices him noticing and smiles—the curve of it handsome on that confusing face.
And then Henry is belly down, his cheek pressed into the wet soil, a thrill of excitement running down his spine immediately, reawakening the rest of his flesh with a spike of desire so strong he damn near humps the ground.
Webbed hand spreads him open and exposes his stuffed hole to the summer’s air—the thick, salty syrup is dripping out of his arse and onto the sand, marking his skin with glittering shine and warming his aching ballsack.
He lies there, properly fucked, brought to completion and spent, and yet—
“More,” he moans, presenting his arse and grasping at the grass. “I need more,” he begs, panting and unable to feel any shame.
The hand disappears from his arse, but a rough something swipes against his hole, gathering the mess there, careful and meticulous, unwilling to even scratch him.
A shadow looms over him, cutting off the moonlight, and Hans covers him with delicious weight, slipping between his spread legs.
“Don’t worry, Henry,” Hans mutters huskily into his ear, making him shiver. Claws prod at his lips and he lets his mouth fall open, lets Hans feed him the filth and licks the inhuman hands clean, the rush of that syrup hitting him hot and quick. He arches his back, wordlessly begging to be taken again, sick with need and mad with that desire, lips closed around the sharp fingers, suckling with his eyes shut and trying to rub himself against that blunt press of cock against his entrance. “I will have you until morning,” Hans says and slips into Henry again with a low grunt.
Henry moans, unable to keep his voice down. It rings across the shore, alerting anyone nearby that here he is, relentlessly fucked by the prettiest fish in existence, gasping on the strangest cock he has ever seen, and pumped full of glowing merman seed that makes him feel drunk and pliant.
And it’s different like this, with his face in the dirt—more beastly, more raw, more like he likes it. He can’t keep quiet anymore, every breath he lets out carries some sound of pleasure in it, as close to begging as it can be without saying anything.
His prick lies untouched, still hard, still trapped under them both.
“How lucky for me that you decided to drown in front of my eyes,” he hears like through a fog, mind clouding over and body growing heavier.
Hans isn’t fucking him as hard as before, but somehow it feels more intense. The scent of him is all around, and Henry’s arse is making squelching sounds that would’ve been embarrassing any other time.
Right now he finds them incredibly arousing.
He is drooling into the soil, no longer remembering what words even are. He hums, and grunts, and gasps, but all that matters is that sensation, like euphoria that’s slightly out of reach.
It’s hot, he feels hot—in his chest, and spine, and somewhere deep inside, a burn that makes his lids go heavy, and his head blissfully empty.
And then hands push him by the shoulders into the dirt, and Hans picks up a pace, and he chokes on air as he comes again, hard and long, and lingering—but Hans doesn’t withdraw, he keeps Henry full, leaking, and shaking under him, and then his hips move again.
Henry can’t keep his eyes open anymore.
He spills twice more like that before he gets rolled on his side, arms wrapped around his chest to keep him close and lips kissing at his neck and ears. There’s that tail tucked firmly between his legs, curling towards him like he is straddling a crescent moon, except the moon wouldn’t be thrusting into him lazily while his shaking thigh is up in the air.
Claws drag on his chest and Henry convulses, shooting a pathetic spurt of seed into the grass.
And Hans still doesn’t withdraw, fucking him slowly and shallowly, mouthing at him and carressing his belly.
Maybe if he could open his eyes he would see the faint glow of that cock buried inside him, filling him to the brim with monstrous seed. If only he could…
But instead he lies limp, feeling the slight scrape of his thigh moving on the ground with each thrust, the soil slicker and slicker every time Hans comes inside him.
“Until morning, Henry,” Hans whispers and sinks his teeth into Henry’s shoulder as a new drizzle of filth drips out of Henry’s hole.
Henry just moans and lets himself be taken.
When he wakes up, the sun is already high up in the sky.
At first he doesn’t know where the fuck he is—this isn’t a bed, it’s not even inside shelter, but then he shifts and a sting in his arse reminds him precisely what it was that happened and where he currently is.
He sits up on the shore, alert and bare arsed.
And as soon as he does, something hot and thick leaks down his thigh.
Oh my God, he thinks, looking quickly around. Nobody in sight, thank Christ, but that doesn’t exactly solve the problem of going back to his rented room.
And where the fuck is—
Footprints in the sand. Heading towards the treeline before they disappear into the grass.
And his fucking braies are nowhere to be seen, either.
“That bastard,” he says in pure disbelief, before scooting into the water to clean himself up.
I will bloody find you, he swears to himself as he sneaks through bushes and tall grasses to steal some poor sod’s breeches.
But even as he does, he can’t really keep a dumb smile off his face.
It’s the best he’s felt in years, he finds.
And he would really want to see a certain pretty fishman again.