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Water rushes in his ears, as if he put it to a conch shell on the beach.The swell of the ocean is deafening when he breaks the kiss first.
“Please,” Connor begs. His eyes are as round as sand dollars as his grip on Hank’s biceps go tighter. “Please, Hank.”
“Connor…” Hank gulps. His scales reflect in the pale moonlight penetrating underwater, shimmering and shuddering to the beat of his growing arousal.
It’s almost the end of mating season, but Connor’s internal clock is a little bit different than other merfolk. That meant he and Hank had time to hunt and gather food whilst the rest of the population focused on other activities in the safety of their grottos.
But now it is Connor’s turn, and Hank’s body is responding to the other merman’s cycle. Their shared arousal continues to rise like bubbles of air from the cracks of the sea floor.
He can feel it growing inside him; the want, the need, the lust. It is only going to become bigger and more intense if he withholds himself from the inevitable. If Connor could see himself right now, he knows he would be glowing, patterns of pulsating bioluminescence painting striped patterns on his otherwise smooth skin.
Hank brings his large, warm hands to Connor’s waist as they kiss again. Hank is so incredibly large compared to Connor; he almost encompasses the circumference of Connor’s slim build with his fingers. Gently, so gently, the merman guides his mate to the sleeping ledge of their hideout.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” Hank assumes, not that he is wrong in the first place.
Connor nods, allowing himself to be led. “Hurry,” he whines.
There is an air pocket in their grotto, one that is just above the sleeping rock they use. Both Hank and Connor breach the water’s surface to suck in aerial oxygen from their nasal passages; a vital step in initiating the mating process. Then, they duck back down under the comfort of the H2O. Their bodies already know what they must do.
With a soft nudge, Connor obeys Hank’s silent directions to lie down on the seaweed-covered sleeping place. He had prepared it a few nights before, slaving away at rearranging the kelp in huddles around the ledge. If asked, he would proudly explain that the sleeping area has been transformed into a nest; a growing place for his and Hank’s future young.
Or that is the hope. Connor has never had offspring of his own. Hank has, but not for a long time…
Connor quite literally shakes the thought away from his head. Now is not the time to think about the past. Rather, he should be focusing on the present. When Hank looks at him concerned, he defaults to smile at his mate, as if to reassure him that everything will be alright.
Everything is alright, the merman thinks while he still can. The heat of his arousal is beginning to gnaw at his sanity; it is no time to be coy.
“Angelfish,” Hank calls Connor by his nickname and watches him blush so sweetly. “What do you need?”
He watches Connor’s tongue peek out from plush lips, swiping lazily along them in anticipation.
Connor’s pupils are so large that only a sliver of cuttlefish brown iris are present in his eyes. “Need you, Hank. He says, simply put, “Need you inside.”
He grasps for Hank with immeasurable strength until the merman obliges and ends up hovering above him. Their noses brush against one another’s in a symbol of affection before Hank begins to worship Connor with his mouth. Slowly, he pecks every other square inch of skin, eyes transfixed on Connor’s face as his expression hides nothing.
It is very difficult to keep still, Connor comes to find out. He wills his lower half to cease wiggling, though his fluke has a mind of its own. The fin flits up and down, thumping against Hank’s tail in a rhythmic, almost dance-like motion. A moan bubbles from his throat when Hank travels down his décolleté, teeth coming out to nibble him like a parrotfish.
“H-hank,” he breathes, gills flushing boiling water from his sides. He minds his claws, webbed fingers flexing in order not to puncture the merman accidentally.
The texture of Hank’s beard is exquisite against his chest when it arrives with Hank’s devilish mouth. Following the glowing blue stripes along his body, Hank wraps his lips around one of Connor’s nipples, swirling the other one in a whirlpool rotation with one finger. Pleasure spikes through Connor’s being like lightning through water; his back arches, chest puffing out and into Hank’s ministrations. The buds pebble from the hormones that rush through his arteries, his blood somewhat lukewarm compared to a mammal’s, heightening by several degrees.
Hank pauses to smile at his mate, eyes slightly playful, though more clouded with lust.
“That good?” He does not bother to articulate further because Connor is mewling loudly, the sheer octave of it canceling out anything else that he would have tried to explain with. So, instead, Hank keeps going. He dips his head, gracing each rib with a little suck here, a little bite there. “You are so beautiful, love,” he declares in a way that has Connor’s instincts reeling. “So”- he licks around Connor’s quivering gill slits- “fucking”- Hank nips at the soft skin closest his mate’s hip fins, wary of the defensive quills that adorn them - “perfect for me.”
With a gasp, Connor’s lower region begins to unfurl. From the soft, almost translucent scales that adorn his tail, a slit forms and opens. It sits towards the middle of his nether half, aligned with where a human’s greater trochanter of femur bone would be. Hank shows no shame as he lays his eyes upon Connor’s intimate parts, the feeling of excitement and anticipation thrumming powerfully through him. He strokes the folds carefully with a finger, avoiding it with his claws, and watches in awe as Connor’s slit pulsates the same bright, strobe blue that lights up the striped pattern across his figure.
Hank looks up at his mate to see a bashful expression gracing his face. “Connor?” his voice lilts at the end.
Connor’s folds twitch and strobe in neon at Hank’s voice. He takes a moment to reply, “It’s been a while.”
He states the truth- they have both been too busy to indulge in the pleasure of themselves. But now is different. Now his body is set to overdrive, heat climbing him like a tree.
Breath bubbles out from his mouth as Hank chooses to say nothing back, opting to touch Connor again, this time with more intent. Connor keens, each groove of Hank’s fingertips bringing sparks of ecstasy to the ends of the merman’s nerves. Hank feels up and down his mound, smirking a bit when Connor’s hips jerk involuntarily when his forefinger slides over the raised nub that sits between two silky lips like treasure on an oyster bed.
What happens next punches a groan from his gut, “Oh.”
With a curiosity and sense of sexual titillation, Hank wraps his mouth around Connor’s sex. His mate tastes absolutely exquisite, unlike the ocean yet somehow born from the salt that is laced within. He cannot explain, but if asked, would answer Connor is his favorite flavor. Connor’s hands shoot out to Hank’s hair, webbed fingers curling in those quicksilver locks. Sharp nails scrape dangerously close to his scalp before he realizes he can retract them back into himself. Hank does the same, as not to injure his partner later.
Hank laps at him some more, fueled by the action. He lathes to and fro, side to side, awed by the unadulterated noises coming from Connor himself. The merman sounds absolutely beautiful, his voice like a song meant only for him; so unique and in tune with every swipe of Hank’s talented oral muscle. Every flick upwards elicits a perfectly jilted note. A firm lick downwards causes Connor’s muscles to clench, his vocal chords tightening to create a melodic chorus of moans.
His tail fin wriggles beneath Hank, restless from the passion trickling in his bone marrow. Hank’s beard tickles and entices him, adding to the sensation. His muscles ache in the best of ways. His body ripples with unbidden want. It feels so good and still Connor craves more.
Out of nowhere, Hank decides to go further; a finger circles around Connor’s hole, caressing the puckered entrance all too gently. Then, before Connor can complain that he is moving too slowly, Hank’s finger breaches him, sheathing itself all the way to the knuckle.
“Fuck!” Connor yelps, taken aback.
Immediately, his passage tightens around the digit inside him, but Hank is not done yet. In fact, his mate takes it one step further; he removes his finger to inspect the cyprine viscosity that glows cerulean like its source. Connor’s cheeks bloom with embarrassment as Hank brings his hand to his mouth, sucking Connor’s juices off, dipping back in.
“You taste so sweet, love.” Connor’s eyes squeeze shut when the merman smears the fluid over his sensitive nub, pulling another moan from his throat.
His fluke thumps at Hank’s, the spines along his tail grazing toughened scales. Hank repositions them so that his head is in line with Connor’s hips and Connor vice versa. It is then that Connor’s mind finally puts together the pieces, in which he suddenly realizes what Hank is suggesting they do. He can smell the other merman’s want so easily. He is not reserved enough to keep from drawing towards Hank’s groin area.
Much like Connor’s own, Hank’s scales shift to make way for a luminescent slit, smoldering a bright gold to contrast Connor’s blue. But as Connor looks closer, extends his neck and bows his face, he realizes Hank’s is much different. The scent is different. The waves of desire radiate from him in a complementary way that entices Connor to investigate further. He mirrors what Hank had done seconds before, though presses a thumb to the entrance to instigate a reaction.
And reaction, he gets.
An appendage, much like a squid’s, unfurls from Hank’s glowing orifice with surprising speed. Connor draws back; he’ll never quite get used to such a visceral, anatomical response. Heavy musk floods his sinus receptors thereafter, leaving no room for guessing as it becomes painfully clear as to what that appendage is. Connor’s mouth waters with thick saliva, not unlike a moray eel’s. An excited hum bullies its way out from his thoracic cavity, rich brown eyes honed in on Hank’s tendril.
“Go ahead, angelfish.” Hank gives him permission that is so clear cut beneath his words, Connor has no problem understanding what he is allowed to do.
Connor takes the opportunity to take Hank’s cock into his hot cavern. In a way, it is very similar to a tentacle, tapered at the tip, dexterous and nimble to get into every nook and cranny, then thick at the base… and thicker still; Connor forces his throat to relax as he slips down the enormous length of his mate’s member. He struggles to keep himself in check as he reaches the halfway point.
Hank hisses out a sigh, front incisors worrying his bottom lip. His ocean eyes bore holes into Connor’s hip fins, seemingly lost in the feel of Connor’s mouth around him. That is, he is lost until he snaps back to reality, and then he does the same to Connor. He devours Connor’s mound without forgiveness.
Connor chokes on both a squeal and Hank’s huge cock as Hank reciprocates his actions. He hears the merman chuckle slightly and narrows his eyes. Two can play at that game. With renowned fervor, he brings two fingers to tease over the radiant flesh at houses Hank’s gigantic cock. That proves to be a mistake on his end, though, for Hank’s gruff articulation sends vibrations through Connor’s being. Hank’s beard rubs roughly against his folds, the change in texture so sudden that it throws Connor off course. His insides clench down on nothing, tail quaking as he tries to get a grip on the ramping pleasure before it cascades.
Hank’s cock throbs in his mouth, distracting him enough to redirect his focus. He draws his lips over his teeth, moving up and down over the girth. Hank’s self-made brine coats his tongue’s dorsum, and suddenly, everything else is secondary compared to his partner.
Hollowing his cheeks, he bobs his head more diligently, trying his best not to gag when the tip of Hank’s shaft writhes around in his throat. It is such a peculiar feeling, as if it has a mind of its own. It does not matter if his jaw is starting to ache or if his throat is attempting to rebel. Connor suppresses a cough and pushes himself to go faster, further, more—
Until his teeth and lips hit something far bigger than what he can put his mouth around. Blearily, Connor opens his eyes, forgetting when he had shut them last, to see what impedes him from taking Hank all the way.
If he could gasp, he would. There, his plush lips kiss the beginnings of an inflated bulb near the root of Hank’s tendril-like member. Automatically, the fire in the pit of his stomach roars ever higher. He can only imagine what Hank’s knot would feel like pressing up against the rim of his hole: breach him and stretch him so wide that everything would cease to matter except this…
A growl elicits from Hank’s throat, reverberating around Connor in the most erotic of ways. He pulls back then, doing his best to ignore the disappointed whine that escapes Connor’s lips.
“Patience, Connor.” He switches their positions back to their original one, log rolling Connor onto his back so he may mount him.
Both mermen hiss as their arousals brush over one another. Connor’s glowing slick covers them both as Hank takes the liberty to rut his hips back and forth, coating his cock generously in his mate’s copious fluids. His glans rubs sensually against Connor’s pearl of pleasure, then down to catch on his entrance before going back up to taunt him of what he so wants. Even if Hank had told him to be patient, Connor does not think there is any semblance of self-restraint left in his body. He needs it, and he needs it now.
Hands shooting out to clutch at the peaks of Hank’s shoulders, Connor holds his partner with such a wide-eyed stare that it runs immense intensity through the aquatic currents around them.
“Hank, in me! In me, now!” Connor beseeches, “I need it!”
The temptation is too great; Hank cannot resist the call of his mate for long. He takes a hand down to line his searing shaft with Connor’s sopping hole. His tail fin intertwines with Connor’s, their scales sliding along each other’s, gills siphoning seawater next to one another. Then, he is pushing in without another moment’s hesitation.
The initial pain that Connor perceives is nothing short of satisfying. Hank spreads him wide, keeping him locked there with his tail as he thrusts in, deeper within Connor’s beautiful body. It feels like Hank is finally where he needs to be, filling Connor to the brim. His passage invites Hank in further, squeezing around his cock rhythmically. His mouth hangs open, face slack as gratification washes over him, his muscles tensing without warning before relaxing.
One more thrust and, at last, Hank seats himself as far as he can, with the exception of the widened part of his knot. Connor is like a vice around him, so incredibly hot that he can’t stop himself from admitting it.
“You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart.” As if to coax his mate, Hank presses a kiss each to the apples of Connor’s cheeks, right on his pulsing neon mating markings.
Connor only clenches harder around Hank and his shoulders. He does not need to talk this time. His brown eyes are burning with the desire for absolutely anything Hank will give him. And oh, Hank will give. He will give everything he has got.
He starts a rhythm fast and neat, enough to thrust all the way in with the exception of the bulb at the base. Then, Hank pulls almost all the way out, until the tip of his cock is on the verge of sliding out; the only thing stopping it is the tapered head curling around and clinging to the lip of Connor’s entrance. Connor releases a pent up wail as his mate’s tendril-like cock pushes back into him without reprieve.
It feels. It just feels. Connor cannot put the sensations into exact words. He is being split open by Hank’s giant cock, rocked into with a velocity so great that the whoosh of water moving around them rings loud in his ears. Connor does not know if it is just he and Hank getting warm, but everything begins to smolder around them, clusters of bubbles erupting from the sides of their sleeping- no, their mating ledge, waves of warmth vibrating through the enclosed atmosphere of their residence.
The welcoming pain ebbs into unbound pleasure in which it makes them strive for more. Connor clutches at Hank, fluke slapping aggressively at the back of Hank’s own, their tails undulating against one another from the movement. Hank’s tendril-like cock bullies its way through Connor’s gripping passage, only pausing when he nudges against the smooth circlet of muscle that struggles to welcome him in.
“Come on, baby. Be good for me and open up,” he all but commands, and ruts as far as he can go.
A scream rips through Connor when Hank angles his hips just so, pushing up into his partner further than before.
There is an obscene squelch that elicits as the member inside him piledrives into what feels like his core. Hank’s cock squirms, the tip flicking side to side, feeling the circlet that prohibits him from going deeper. Then, it finds the divot closest to the middle, aims blindly, and drives forward. Connor’s mouth gapes wide as an almost audible ‘pop’ comes from within him with an indiscernible sensation that overwhelms his nervous system.
By god, there it is. Hank’s massive cock drags along and through the small opening of Connor’s cervix.
Any words besides Hank’s name falls away from Connor’s vocabulary as he ululates in uncontrolled pleasure. It doesn’t hurt anymore; no discomfort as he takes what he needs. Hank, he realizes, is burrowing into the deepest part of him, drilling into his very molten core. He feels so full, truly and totally one with his partner.
And Hank just keeps going. His tendril-like cock stretches and morphs shape, narrowing at the tip to venture further within Connor, then filling out to stretch Connor wide. Then, he leaves no time for reprieve. He thrusts in and out at a frantic speed. The two mermen tighten around each other like a coil, unknowingly holding each other like two writhing congers.
Connor is blown with so much passion and sensation; he no longer knows where he ends and where Hank begins as their bodies move against one another. Everything is so much, so good that the pleasure is melting his cognitive function. He loves being claimed like this. He acts without thought now, muscles gripping down on Hank to coax him into the inevitable. He wants his seed, for Hank to coat his insides and fertilize each and every egg he has. At that thought, Connor sums up enough word-finding power to say as such.
“Hank, please, please, please,” he begs so sweetly. His claws are out now, so dangerously close to piercing his mate’s skin as his hands grip Hank’s shoulders hard. “Come inside me. Do it. Fill me up.”
A terribly guttural moan falls from Hank’s lips then, the effect of Connor’s words washing over him. His hips buck harder, pace erratic as he nears finding purchase. Only a little more before Hank binds them together. Connor shoots a hand down to play with his nub, the pearl of his sex.
Connor pushes one more time, “I need it! Give me your babies, Hank. Breed me.”
At that, Hank comes with an enormous roar. Each movement is rougher than the next, jolting through his body and into Connor’s own. Spurts upon spurts of Hank’s cum shoot hot into his cavern, so intense that it feels like it is searing him from the sheer warmth. A splash of satisfaction rolls through him for a brief moment, knowing his eggs are getting what they need to become fertilized. But then, ah, it is far from over. Hank thrusts forward one last time before something swells within Connor’s womb, and at the same time below, plugging his entrance with Hank’s knot.
Hank shushes the surprised yelp from Connor as his cock gets bigger inside his mate. The tendril shape enlarges into a more solid shape, gaining girth faster than he can put into words. But it is not like Connor needs words to know what is going on; Hank grits his molars when the tip of his member spreads out into a domed T-shape, catching onto Connor’s cervix, unwilling to budge even if he wanted to.
“Oh my god,” breathes Connor.
He is so full, so filled. Hank has bred him, he realizes now.
The fingers on his nub rub faster at the thought, the roiling in his belly growing stronger and more furious. Pleasure climbs his nervous system like a tree. Hank’s cock swells until it locks them together, his knot keeping them flush against one another. Connor cannot help but stare into his eyes as he nears completion. Hank’s eyes are the deepest ocean blue, luring him in and seeing right into his soul at the same time. There is nothing he can hide, all of his emotions out on display as Connor’s pleasure peaks, and suddenly he is thrown into an orgasmic tide that crashes against metaphorical rocks.
Connor’s eyelids flutter like a betta fish’s fins, his whole body pulling taut as he gains purchase. His sloppy walls pulse and contract around the length of Hank’s glorious cock, milking all that is left to give into the deepest part of his body. Connor’s tail squeezes around Hank’s, desperate to keep himself grounded but failing. His gills shudder as he pumps out more warmed water from them, breathing while feeling like he is suffocating on the stifling passion around them. Electricity frazzles his brain, static filling his mind as he gets lost in every new sensation claiming his peripherals. Without much fight, he succumbs to ecstasy.
It takes a moment for both mermen to come to, holding each other in the safe darkness of their grotto. Connor listens to Hank’s deep breathing, noticing the way it slows minute by minute, back to its normal respiration rate. They roll to their sides carefully; Connor whimpers softly when the motion causes Hank’s knot to tug against his overwhelmingly tender cervix.
“Sorry, angelfish.” Hank is back to calling him sweet pet names. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”
Connor opts for kissing Hank in response rather than talking. They share a chaste meld of lips together, allowing their bodies to relax and their heartbeats to calm from the intense activity. Only after some time does Hank’s length go back to its original form, softening and slipping out of Connor. Even then, they make no move to clean up, instead feeling the hand of sleep slowly descend upon their eyes.
Connor gathers up enough energy to pronounce before he gives into his exhaustion, “I love you.”
Though he does not hear what Hank says next, he has no doubt that what he would have heard is a carbon copy of his declaration of love, not lacking in emotion.
The dull aches and cramps start about a month later. Connor now knows for sure that Hank’s seed has taken, and his body is preparing for the next stage. Unconsciously, he brings a hand to his belly, feeling how big he has become. The skin there has become more firm, round, and warm. Though this is his first time carrying offspring, his body makes it clear on what is happening.
He has already gone through two intermittent rounds of intense contractions today, but Hank is out hunting and he is afraid. Without his partner here with him, he feels lost, scared that something might go awry when he starts pushing out their eggs; their children. Connor sits himself down on the sleeping ledge turned nest, hiking his tail onto it so his body is fully supported, then rolls to his left side. Another contraction runs through him, stronger than the last. He moans pitifully, biting down on his lower lip to distract himself from the discomfort in his abdomen. His skin goes flushed as he attempts breathing intently, easing only a tenth of the pain.
Connor’s slit opens to the water around him and quivers, drawing his attention to it. The contractions are narrowing, closing in on one another. Whether or not Hank is here, he realizes to his dismay, he is going to have his babies. He presses a hand to his folds, as if to delay the process from happening, and jolts when what he gets is a shock of pleasure instead.
The feel-good nearly outweighs the cramping of his belly. Connor does not hesitate to try it again, fingers finding his already eager nub at the top. He strokes himself between webbed fingers, pained gasps transforming into moans without.
It is incredibly strange, he thinks, to be getting off at a time like this, but it eases the agony enough to keep the sensations at bay. Connor grows wet, inside and out, wetter than his aquatic surroundings. His breath hitches as his lower abdomen tightens, and he flops his tailfin up and down on the ledge as a way to calm himself. His slick glows neon once again, like the time he and Hank bred. Something is going to happen; every system in his body warns him.
Before he knows it, Connor is crying out as his first orgasm hits him between the eyes. It is so quick, it nearly knocks him down onto his back. Panting, gills sucking in water greedily, Connor tries to relax as a strong ripple of tension courses through him. He keeps to his left side again, watching in awe as he pushes out his very first egg.
It is beautiful. The egg glows softly, deep cerulean in color to match where it came from, about the size of a pirate’s gold coin. The membrane around it is soft and squishy, see-through yet not developed enough for Connor to see it growing into a full mer-baby. Something warms in his chest, something so passionate that he feels as though he might cry pearl droplets, but another cramp strikes through his body to distract him.
Connor mewls in agony. This one is more intense than the last. Keeping his hand at his slit, he massages his twitching sex to counteract the pain. His body manages to push out another egg, and this time he feels himself stretch around its diameter. Gasping, he chases the underlying sensation from his hand on his nub as another egg follows thereafter.
Pleasure peaks and he is coming again, his passage spasming. The nerve bundle peeking from his folds twitches as three more eggs leave his body and gather with the others on the sleeping ledge.
How much longer will this go on, he wants to wail out to no one in particular. Connor hisses as a particularly large egg hurries out of him, only to get stuck around his aching muscles. He feels so sore already, unsure if orgasming one more time will help him get through another round. Where is Hank? What if he never gets through this? Will any of the eggs survive if he fails to finish? Connor seems to doze off for some time before a shooting pain strikes through his belly. His nails scrabble at the rock below him. His worry emanates from his pores, projecting out into the gentle current that flows in and out of the hideout. Exhausted and emotional, Connor lets a few tears escape from the inner corners of his eyes, watching them float downwards, solidifying into multicolored pearls to adorn his nest of eggs.
“Connor? Angelfish?” He hears Hank’s gravelly voice from the entrance of their residence. His voice gets closer, concerned, presumably rushing to his mate in distress.
When he turns Connor to look at him, he is breathless, the evidence clear as day. Shushing Connor’s snivels, he gathers the merman into his strong arms, placing him in his lap. Hank draws a protective circle around him and his eggs- their eggs. He litters kisses all along Connor’s cheeks and neck. His hands are incredibly comforting as he reaches for Connor’s swollen abdomen, soothing the muscles there.
He speaks, “Oh, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
Connor hiccups at that. “Hank.” His hand leaves his glistening mound to run his fingers through Hank’s beard, not minding the luminescent mess he is making.
Hank quiets him with a peck to the lips, two of his own thick fingers taking place on Connor’s sensitive nub. He jerks it back and forth, letting up only when Connor screws up his face.
“Too much?” he asks, smooth like the softest of volcanic clay.
Connor shakes his head, taking in how handsome and kind his partner is. He is so lucky. “N-no, just go slow.”
Hank replies, “Of course, Connor.”
It feels like hours where they sit there, pulling countless orgasms from Connor. The pile of eggs grows as the minutes pass, each of them like jewels; so precious. After a while, Connor’s belly goes back to its normal size, cramps subsided. He leans against Hank, grateful that the last of eggs are now lying next to them on the rock surface. Hank has let him go, eyes transfixed on their potential offspring.
With a sigh, they separate so Hank can bring some flat leaves of kelp to the nesting ledge. Connor creates a corral around their eggs with them, peering at them with loving eyes. “They’re perfect,” he announces.
The water swishes as Hank sidles up next to his mate. “And they’re ours,” he says when Connor rests his head on his broad shoulder.
“I wonder how many will hatch,” Connor wonders. His voice sounds tired.
“No matter how many there will be, we will love them all.”
The merman nods, his cheek smooshed up against Hank’s skin. “Of course, we will.” He means it.
That night, the sound of the tide matches their breaths, the swell of the ocean in sync with their heartbeats. Somewhere beneath the noise, small heart rhythms emerge within the glowing blue eggs, pumping with life.
Connor smiles.