#merfolk lover

merman x gender/body neutral reader 693 words sfw | angst with potential happiness, mention of scars and cruelty

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Disbelief stretches the seconds, twists them about until your head feels light and warm and you can’t stop your mouth from moving. “There’s a… a merman in the Currant River?”

The station attendant, a young man with a backwards sports cap, jaw cracking with the force of his yawn, simply shrugs. You’ve never heard of merpeople this far inland. “Haunts the old boathouse. Most everyone calls him Echo,” he explains, tipping his head to the road with a River Access sign in large white letters across the street. His mouth clamps shut as soon as the name passes his lips, jaw tensing before he finally breathes out. “It’s… Honestly, it’s a bit mean, you know? Or, well, you don’t know.” Color rises on his dusky cheeks, nose scrunching, as if he regrets passing on the gossip. One of his hands steals up to his throat, rubbing awkwardly at the base of his neck. “Locals and tourists alike, just… It’s become a game, I suppose, trying to see if you can get him to sing. Anyway, listen, if you’re finished up, I need to-” He gestures towards the back of the shop, and vanishes as soon as you dip your chin.

‘Bit mean’, he’d told you, shame heavy in the line of his shoulders. You doubt very much that it was only a bit. 

You don’t go looking for the merman, no matter how tempting it is. You can’t be the first person to consider seeking him out with the intention of being kind, but you doubt he appreciates visits born purely of pity. If he wanted to leave the area, if he needed help getting back to his home, surely he would have asked for it?

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Currant River is named for the tide of Mountain Currant bushes lining near every inch of the riverside. Sometimes, if the wind blows strong through trees, berries will drop down into the water, bobbing along with the vivid blue-green current, carried down the rapids like an offering from the river itself. People used to launch out of the old boathouse with buckets between their legs, gathering berries along the river before birds could pick the bushes clean. It doesn’t happen as often these days, or really at all, now that Echo has taken up residence in the boathouse. It doesn’t erase the desire for the berries, especially when it comes to some of the locals, but it does mean that most of the bushes are picked clean in easy to reach spots.

You’ve been wandering along the riverside for nearly an hour one afternoon, a small bucket tucked under your arm, when you accidentally kick a river rock. It strikes another with a large clatter, skittering down over the bank before it vanishes into the water.   

From somewhere up ahead, a sharp crack echoes through the air, a perfect imitation of your kicked rock, followed by the same skittering noise and soft splash.

Amused, you reach down for another rock, listening closely as you tap out a gentle rhythm. Further along the river, the noise repeats. There is no response when you call out a greeting. Heart in your throat, you continue on, weaving between berry bushes until you come to a stumbling stop around the riverbend. Echo, for it must be him, is sprawled in a patch of sunshine in the shallows next to the boathouse. He’s lithe, silvery-blue and covered with coppery freckles from his shoulders down to his tail, idly flicking from side to side. There’s a fin along his back, and his dark hair is tangled around some of the pronged edges, falling heavy against his cheeks. You suck in a breath, and Echo turns. 

Scar tissue twists up the hollow of his throat, branching out like lightning. Echo imitates your startled breath, though his expression is stoic, bordering on irritated. Your gaze dips to the rock in his hand, sharp edged nails tapping rhythmically along the damp surface. You sit down where you are, setting aside your bucket and lifting your own rock, he doesn’t move as you do your best to repeat the rhythm. 

A guarded smile blooms on Echo’s lips.

Standard monster races, but exotic jungle versions.

If I had to pick you a monster lover, it would be... Betta Merfolk!

male octomer x female human 2215 words lemon | 3rd POV, mention of alcohol, mention of drowning, darker themes, tentacles, mild description of cis female parts, our octomer lad is definitely on the villainous side but everything is (and will always) be consensual mermay prompt: 'tentacles' and 'if there is angst who am i to complain' and 'ALL 11 HERBS AND SPICES'

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Rivulet is a delicate name, depicting the soft, sinuous trickling of liquid over stone. Over skin. It's a pretty name, gentle on the ears, and paired with Rivulet's handsome face, it’s far more than most need to lose their train of thought. His sweet, earnest voice and his nervously tangled tentacles leave most everyone tripping over their own tongues to assuage his apparent nervousness The slow blink of his eyelids, lashes thick over the human-pink arch of his cheeks, fool everyone into thinking he’s kind, into thinking that they can and will get everything they want out of him.

Alethea thought that once too.   

She’s never been blind to his blatant machinations though, having come from the surface world where humans wear false faces day in and out for work. She’s spent years witness to cherub cheeked smiles and simpering platitudes, and it’s easy enough to recognize that kind of mask if you know what it is that you’re looking for. Here in the depths though, any hint of human appearance and warmth is cherished. Coveted, and all manner of things are ignored or purposefully forgotten in the hopes that they might be allowed a taste. Never mind that Rivulet is no more human than the lionfish Mer he’s chatting up, his upper body looks like one, and that makes him popular.

But they believe they can trust him, Alethea thinks, lip curling into a sneer when she catches sight of Rivulet’s flushed cheeks. That he doesn’t have ulterior motives because he’s one of them. Idiots. This deep beneath the surface, his kaleidoscopic hair has turned to shadows and faint flashes of blue, highlighting the pink over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s beautiful, like a moonlit prince underneath the glowing blue coral ceiling, straight out of a seaside fairy tale.

“Or a nightmare,” Alethea mutters, relishing the faint trail of bubbles that slip free of her lips. She pretends the swift slide of them are barbs, prickling incessantly at Rivulet’s curling tentacles. At least then he would have a reason to fidget about with them, no better than a child scuffing his shoe in the dirt when they attempt to charm an elder. Alethea swallows, eyes closing tight. Keeping herself angry is so difficult. 

mermaid x gender/body neutral reader 354 words sfw | fluff, mild flirtation, sitting in ocean water, cuddling, reader has chronic pain

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Westerley’s fingers are cool against your wrist, coal-black thumbnail a gentle pressure as she traces idle patterns over your pulse. You breathe in, salt air heavy on the back of your tongue, and tip back your head. Your lips brush against the scales along the side of her throat, the texture of them tickling, like carbonated bubbles, gone before you can think to chase the feeling.

It still hurts, but with her arm wrapped around your shoulders and the water lapping at your thighs, it’s easier to find your bearings, to get your head over the pain constantly clamoring for attention.

“‘S nice, Wes,” you murmur, relaxing into her hold. You press a real kiss against her speckled throat, summoning enough energy to nuzzle in closer. 

She hums, pleased, and your eyes crack open. Her hair, dark as oil, with thick spirals of red-violet seaweed laced through the tresses, is damp against your forehead. You can still see her tail though, the dark sheen of her fin swaying back and forth through the shallow waves. “I’m always nice,” she insists, and pauses in her pattern drawing only when you laugh. She can’t hide her smile, not when her cheek is resting against the top of your head. “When the situation calls for it,” she adds on, completely unashamed. “And it just so happens that the situation always calls for it when it means time in your company.” Westerley is very selective when it comes to being kind to humans. She’s made more than her share of casual grievances with human passersby. 

“I know what you’re trying to-”

“Yes, yes, I’m trying to con you into another date. Is it working?” Westerley leans back, enough for the brilliance of her copper eyes to catch the late afternoon light. For a heartbeat, they’re molten, the warmth of them more than enough to drive away any and all rational thought. She grins, inhumanly wide, gently bumping her forehead against yours. “Feeling better?”

“How’d you know?” 

Westerley’s grin slips into a pleased little smirk. “You’ve grown warm in my arms, enough to chase the damp from my skin.” 

mermaid x female human merperson x male human 338 words sfw | fluff, can be read as purely platonic or a precursor to relationships, 3rd person POV mermay prompt: mermaids playing water polo or water volleyball, but not quite understanding all the rules

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The orange volleyball slaps against the water, missing Blas’ outstretched arms completely, scattering droplets of water over his brown chest and across his arms. He doesn’t move, even when an incoming wave catches the ball, spinning it out of reach and carrying it towards the shallows. 

“Hey!” Ana snaps, but even her sharp voice doesn’t draw his attention back to the game. She moves forward, reaching for the net to try and get him to look at her, only to stop, jaw dropping open when she finally spots what has Blas so distracted.

A single head has crested the waves, a moment’s swim away. Thick, long green hair floats along the surface, caught in the tide and streaming towards the net like banners in the wind. Their eyes have large pupils, surrounded by thin, silvery irises, but Ana can’t make out the rest of their face. 

Blas lifts a hand in greeting, and the merperson waves shyly back, eyes narrowing as they smile, mouth still hidden under the waves. A loud smack startles Ana and Blas both, making them whirl towards the shallows where another mermaid has hold of the volleyball. Heart pumping adrenaline through her veins faster than a riptide, Ana pulls out a shy smile, tucking short, wet hair behind her ears. 

“...would you both like to play?”

The mermaid grins, muscles rippling as she forces the ball under the water as deeply as she can, faintly scaled skin gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. “My serve?” She asks and there’s a flicker of her tail, the arch of a fin on her back as she twists, and then Ana and Blas stare, wide eyed, as the volleyball flies clear past the net and the other merperson. They promptly vanish, ostensibly to retrieve the volleyball being carried away by the waves. When Ana turns her attention back to the mermaid, she’s staring after the ball with pursed lips, a crease between her hairless brows. 

“We may need a few pointers,” she confesses, offering a shy, needle-tooth smile.  

You were really happy when you found yourself a secret fishing spot,but that changed when what looked to be a seagull harpy started showing up.

They’d sit there staring,waiting for their chance to strike and steal the fish you caught or even the food you brought to eat while you waited.Putting them in a case didn’t help because then they’d steal that and drop it from high up to break it open or just not bring it back out of spite.

A smart or at least normal person would have given up and moved,but you were stubborn and you had a nice “surprise” for them when you went there again.