Oona "Ariel" (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mermaiding) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lazingroyalty2015-10-05 12:44 am
mermaiding) wrote in lazingroyalty2015-10-05 12:44 am
(no subject)
[Oona's life had never really had consistency before. Despite being a mermaid, she'd found herself compared to a cat more often than not, simply flitting around wherever she chose to go; she slept where she wanted, ate what she wanted, and the only real consistency was work and only because she couldn't avoid that (and even then she didn't have to come in if she didn't want to, so there was freedom and choice in that).
She likes to think it's just because of how she is. More likely it's a side effect of having her life so strictly monitored and scheduled from her time in human hands; having nothing like that now was more a rebellion, a stubborn refusal to return to that.
Which is why it hits her as so strange when she acknowledges that she's chosen to spend more time at Adolf's place than her other friends' now. That she's started keeping things at his place, not quite moving in entirely but there are certain things that are without a doubt hers', and not simply borrowed. Things that don't leave when she does, like they normally did. Clothes, a few thing sin the kitchen. A mug that was almost assuredly "hers'" by now. Shampoo and other toiletries in his bathroom. The decorations and knickknacks she bought at random, furniture she brought to make the place look less like some basic militant-style place to sleep and more like, well. A home.
That realization, too, that she considered this a home is startling. Where were these thoughts coming from? It wasn't as though Oona was stupid-- brash and horribly impulsive, yes, but even she had her moments of quiet reflection and deeper thoughts. She just didn't quite indulge in them often, because it usually turned into things like this, making revelations about herself she wasn't sure she was comfortable with.
She sighs and steps out of the shower, rolling stiff shoulders as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. Her work has her sliding into his house at all hours, though for once she was actually in at a decent time (she hadn't even bothered to go to work today was why, honestly). It didn't stop her from changing into more comfortable clothes.
Her gaze slid to one of Adolf's shirts, pilfered from his closet on her way. She had her own pajamas, of course, but they were mostly untouched despite any efforts on Adolf's part. He'd even tried just giving her the shirts she'd taken, but she'd only laughed and tossed them in his dirty clothes at the end of the day and took a fresh one again ("It smells like you, I like it" she'd said once and Adolf's face had done a funny twitch before his hand was covering it and he was walking away, Oona's laughter trailing after him for a little longer than was probably necessary).
She was too damn fond of that eel.
His shirt pulled over her head (she was practically swimming in it and something about that always put her in a much more chipper mood, and she even put underwear on just for him because otherwise he probably would be very opposed to her climbing on his lap anytime soon. Oona chose her battles wisely and this was one she had given up on fighting), she deliberately avoided glancing in the bathroom mirror before she exited to go search out her eel.]
Do you think it is strange? [it's the first thing she says when she finds him. What a good way to start a conversation, right in the middle.]
She likes to think it's just because of how she is. More likely it's a side effect of having her life so strictly monitored and scheduled from her time in human hands; having nothing like that now was more a rebellion, a stubborn refusal to return to that.
Which is why it hits her as so strange when she acknowledges that she's chosen to spend more time at Adolf's place than her other friends' now. That she's started keeping things at his place, not quite moving in entirely but there are certain things that are without a doubt hers', and not simply borrowed. Things that don't leave when she does, like they normally did. Clothes, a few thing sin the kitchen. A mug that was almost assuredly "hers'" by now. Shampoo and other toiletries in his bathroom. The decorations and knickknacks she bought at random, furniture she brought to make the place look less like some basic militant-style place to sleep and more like, well. A home.
That realization, too, that she considered this a home is startling. Where were these thoughts coming from? It wasn't as though Oona was stupid-- brash and horribly impulsive, yes, but even she had her moments of quiet reflection and deeper thoughts. She just didn't quite indulge in them often, because it usually turned into things like this, making revelations about herself she wasn't sure she was comfortable with.
She sighs and steps out of the shower, rolling stiff shoulders as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. Her work has her sliding into his house at all hours, though for once she was actually in at a decent time (she hadn't even bothered to go to work today was why, honestly). It didn't stop her from changing into more comfortable clothes.
Her gaze slid to one of Adolf's shirts, pilfered from his closet on her way. She had her own pajamas, of course, but they were mostly untouched despite any efforts on Adolf's part. He'd even tried just giving her the shirts she'd taken, but she'd only laughed and tossed them in his dirty clothes at the end of the day and took a fresh one again ("It smells like you, I like it" she'd said once and Adolf's face had done a funny twitch before his hand was covering it and he was walking away, Oona's laughter trailing after him for a little longer than was probably necessary).
She was too damn fond of that eel.
His shirt pulled over her head (she was practically swimming in it and something about that always put her in a much more chipper mood, and she even put underwear on just for him because otherwise he probably would be very opposed to her climbing on his lap anytime soon. Oona chose her battles wisely and this was one she had given up on fighting), she deliberately avoided glancing in the bathroom mirror before she exited to go search out her eel.]
Do you think it is strange? [it's the first thing she says when she finds him. What a good way to start a conversation, right in the middle.]
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With that done, and with her laugh ringing in his ears... well.
He rolls the both of them so that Oona is on her back, her hands still under his shirt while he braces over her with his elbows on either side of her face. ]
It won't be hard to tell when you know.
[ Don't provoke the eel too much, Oona— he's not as naive as he looks. ]
...You'll turn red.
[ A hand swivels by the wrist, fingers sift along damp hair pooled on bedsheets. ]
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Her heart pounds again and her fingers twitch against his skin. Once upon a time a younger Oona might have scoffed a little at the idea of falling for someone that didn't fit the willowy stereotype of most mermen, but then, a younger Oona wouldn't have met Adolf and simply wouldn't have known any better. Oona can forgive that ignorance now.
Her face turns a little pink regardless.] I am seeing a new side to you, Adolf. [The fact he'd apparently say things that'd make her turn red both makes her want to give up on the whole learning German thing immediately, and press on out of morbid curiosity. It's hard to imagine him saying anything terrible or lewd because, well, it's Adolf. But he's been surprising her a lot lately... Who knows.
Instead she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and she tilts her head towards his hand (touches to her head and hair were such a weakness to her, damn it) while her own hands move against his skin.
She's seen him without a shirt on before, but it's the first time she'd had the freedom to touch, and she relishes in it. She doesn't shy from the scars, tracing their outlines and mapping his body, committing it to memory through touch alone.] I like it. [She tilts her head up, brushing her mouth to his in a teasingly chaste kiss.]
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...Don't provoke me. I'm not a saint.
[ Spartan, yes. Sparing, absolutely. Selfish? No. A saint? Also no. It still eats at him, he still bleeds from where the ring touches his chest under his shirt, but the sound of Oona's voice and her hum cutting through his ears prompts his voice to pitch low, his brows to furrow visibly.
Not in any discomfort, no— it's restraint.
He ducks his head so that she can't read his expression, slides down to rest his jaw on an exposed neck from where his shirt (it looks better on Oona, he decides) dips down too low. Her scars are there like the ones that litter his own body, but they look more like coral forests to him; he traces a long line with his mouth, down to her clavicle. ]
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There's a protest swallowed up (don't touch them, they're ugly) because it'd be hypocritical of her to say such a thing. Her scars still feel fresh in her mind, the sensations slightly dulled, but still enough to send a shiver down her spine. They're ugly, she thinks, but he makes them feel less so. Unimportant. There's no hesitation in his touch and it makes her relax-- he doesn't care, and why should he? Why should she?
Her nails drags against his skin, Oona being careful to make it bite, but not necessarily hurt. She wants to sink into him, teeth and nail and bone and undo him from the inside out. To see him unravel under her hands (over her body), and carefully piece him together again. Perhaps it's morbid. Perhaps it's just the possessive, all-consuming love that caused the sirens of old to drag sailors to their deaths. If they couldn't have them, than no one could. A selfish love that consumed and made them forget their lovers couldn't breathe under water.
But Oona wouldn't go that far. She'd let him come up for air, eventually, even though she continues to try and drag him under now. She shifts her legs around him so he can fit between them, her knees nudging against his sides (it's more comfortable this way, a not-quite-lie she tells herself as if it isn't also about reminding him just what their positions are right now).]
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[ Another hushed warning, with his lips still tracing patterns over the crisscrosses on her skin. He looks up at her through the curtain of his bangs, filters his gaze upwards as bedsheets bunch under his forearms. The way she claws at him is a suggestion, and he's not dense enough to miss where they are right now, how their limbs are intertwined. The smooth curve of her thigh, trapping him in place.
It's a conundrum. Not a bad one. ]
You said you can be patient.
[ Ah, that's mean: he knows it, and his eyes glint from where they come in and out of view under his hair. It's even more infuriating, probably, when he lifts himself up by one elbow and wraps his other arm under the small of Oona's back, to pull her up from the bed and against the headboard.
He pins her there for a second, head cant to the side, watching— but that moment comes and goes, and he dips his head back down to her shoulder again to litter it with open-mouthed kisses.
(Not enough, he knows.) ]
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You are the one making it difficult. [Don't even try to place any accusations towards her, mister. Her fingers dip teasingly low, snagging the waistband of his pants and pausing, nails tapping gently at his hips.] This is good behavior, for me. [She chuckles low in her throat and it ends on a soft sigh.]
I will only go as far as you are willing to take me. [Perhaps it goes without saying, but setting boundaries and what's acceptable and not acceptable, a limit on how far this will go until Adolf's ready, is all very important to her. Partly because Oona just values honesty and open communication, but also mostly because that was simply the mermaid way when it came to intimacy. This was the last place she wanted any sort of misunderstandings.
She brings one hand back up to take Adolf's chin, tugging at him gently to look at him and make sure she has his attention.] I will give myself only to you. What you give me, what you can not or will not... I will accept it all. I want only you and all that you are willing to give, regardless of if it includes sex or anything like that.
[Oona stumbles a little over her words, attempting to choose each one carefully to properly convey what she wants. It doesn't matter to her if he wants to break the bed every couple hours or to practically become a priest-- she wanted him, after all, all of him, and all that came or didn't come with that. She was a sensual creature by nature, that much was never a secret, but she was perfectly willing to put that on lockdown for him.]
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For 20 years, Adolf's barely shed a tear— not for himself, at least. Not for others, either, not in a long time. They'd dried up with the rest of him, buried themselves with his parents a long while ago.
So he wonders why it is that he wants to cry now, as pathetic as that is, as inappropriate as it would be in this moment, tangled in Oona and her hair and her warmth. ]
For a while [ he says, when he finally manages to squeeze words out a throat that feels too tight ], that's all I wanted.
[ To find someone, to let them find him. He takes a deep breath, draws Oona closer so she can hear his heart racing three tempos too fast, to let her know that this is exactly what she does to him. ]
I thought that I could do that. Love someone. [ Finding words is like grasping for straws in the dark, and it's difficult: nothing sounds quite right. ] —So it was hard, yeah. When I found out that she'd been taking her ring off. Seeing other people.
[ Admitting that is a weight off his shoulders, and he slumps into Oona, puts his forehead between her collarbone. ]
If this is enough... if I'm enough, despite that. [ And when he exhales this time around, it's almost a laugh. A real one, not disguised under any other sentiment. A proper one, one that's meant to convey happiness, nothing else. ] I'm yours.
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You were mine from the first time we spoke in the rain. [Her tone becomes lightly teasing again, playful despite her sincerity.] You simply did not know it at the time. I decided then that I would not let you go.
[it seems like a lifetime ago, but splashing water into his face had certainly been the beginning of the end of it all. Or maybe just the start of a new beginning, for both of them. Ah, well.
Oona presses a kiss to his head and hums again contently.] I do not lie, remember? I never will. So you can trust what I am saying is only the truth-- you are more than enough, you are everything. [It bears repeating, however many times she can manage it.] I am in love with you. You are mine, yes, and I am yours.
[There's no need to tell him how much she hates his wife--ex-wife, she reminds herself rather smugly--or how much they all better hope the woman never makes an appearance in the city if she wants to live for longer than a couple hours.
(She wouldn't tell Adolf any of those thoughts, because it would only hurt him, but that doesn't stop her from thinking it).
But Rosa's loss is Oona's gain, even if it comes with having to piece together the broken bits that the woman had left behind. But that was fine, because Oona could make something stronger, better, than Rosa ever had and it's not a competition, but Oona would firmly say she won this anyhow.]
And I am very lucky to have you.
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[ And when he lifts his head, when he pulls up and tilts his head to the side to let his bangs sift over his face, Adolf smiles the way he might've when he was still a child. A crooked, unpracticed expression that's marred by years of disuse. It's as awkward and gentle as the rest of him, and it lingers while he slides both hands on Oona's cheeks to kiss her properly, sealing his promise with his lips over hers.
(Even if he wakes up on Mars again, opens his eyes to the rain and a cruel inevitability, this time, he won't falter— his heart will be here, Oona's nails dug into it, beating in time to the sound of waves.)
His voice is hoarse when he finally pulls away for air, forehead pressed against the small person that he knows he adores despite all odds. ]
Thank you.
[ He mouths, before he repeats it again, softer: thank you. It's the sort of all-encompassing gratitude that he can't attribute to one instant or one example, so he makes do without specificity. ]
As long as I have you to come home to, I can live.
[ Or die, it doesn't matter which. In all honesty, she could pull him under right now, drown him in the ocean without a moment of protest from him. He's already halfway delirious with emotions he'd forgotten, and he cranes in to kiss Oona again so he can memorize how she hums against his mouth, how her smile tastes, everything. ]
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Her heart feels like it's skipped a beat as she looks at him, the corner of her mouth curling in an answering smile as he kisses her again.
She also wants to tell him there's nothing he should be thanking her for--she's only giving him exactly what he deserves, but now isn't the time for such protests. Oona returns the kiss with a measured leisure, like they have all the time in the world to do nothing but kiss each other. She wraps her arms around him, fingers digging into his shirt as she presses her body against him. Her knee nudges playfully at his hip and she hums again, the melody coming as easily to her as breathing.]
And I will always be here waiting for you.
But, of course you will live. Do you think I would accept anything else? Will not allow otherwise. [A small giggle--it's absurd to think she could stop that if it were going to happen, but if anyone could have the gall to storm up to Death itself and force its hand to change, it would be Oona.] Unless I kill you myself, you are not allowed to die. [But she's smiling even as she tilts her head to nip playfully at his lip.
(She doesn't even want to begin thinking about how much shorter his lifespan is compared to her own, that's a thought she'll be forcefully removing for the next 50 years or so).
Oona pauses a moment, slowly shaking her head] ...And I should be thanking you, too. For giving me my heart back. [As stuck in her trashy romances as she was, it had always been considered a thing for "Someone else." Not her. Not a broken mermaid who burned too bright with hatred for an entire species. And yet here she was, believing those fairy tales actually did have some truth to them to live up to.]
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...We'll see how that goes.
[ About her killing him, which he probably wouldn't mind nor struggle against if push came to shove. Speaking of pushing and shoving, though.
He slides a hand down Oon's hip to where his shirt's bunched at the waist, smooths it down over her bare legs before sliding his palm under to trace the contours of her body up, up. ]
And make sure not to lose it again, then.
[ A duck of his head, and he kisses the spot where her heart would be over the fabric of the thin shirt. For all the restraint he has packed in his body, he also has as much affection to give: Oona is his outlet, one he's lucky to have found. ]
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So instead of a witty retort, her breath catches in an embarrassing squeak. She bites her lower lip and turns red, squirming a little. His warmth seeping through the shirt is both too much and not enough.]
Want this off... [A mumble, because really it's just getting in the way at this point. And actually being in a relationship now means she can forgo social niceties like wearing actual clothes now right?
The most important discovery Oona's made so far, to be sure.]
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So he shouldn't be embarrassed about it anymore, not really. And he isn't, but her expressing that is still somewhat... well.
He stops midmotion in running his mouth over her scars again, keeps his head there while he answers. ]
...You'll still have to keep your clothes on around me.
[ A warning, gentle, as if he's read her mind. ]
I'm still a red-blooded male.
[ Meaning, she can't just do that to him all the time; she'll drive him crazy, at this rate. He obliges her for now, though, and pulls back enough so that Oona can take her shirt off if she wants...
...unless she wants him to do that for her, which she'll have to articulate. ]
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[She might have, on another occasion, teased him to take it off of her himself, but for all her talk about how she can be patient she doesn't waste anytime in pulling the shirt off to toss carelessly to the side.
She's been in various states of undress around him before, so this really shouldn't have been that different. Except, well, it obviously is. Usually he avoids actually looking at her body, keeping his eyes carefully above her shoulders, but now there's no sense of propriety to keep his eyes--or hands--from wandering.
Her own hands press against the scars between her breasts, the single unbroken one that bisects her body to below her bellybutton. The matching one on her back gives off a phantom sting, a pain remembered that she knows no longer actually exists.
When faced with the uncomfortable realities of her scars, Oona does what she's always done: She lifts her head a little and lounges back against the headboard as if to show them off, like they didn't bother her. 'Fake it until you make it,' she'd heard humans say before, and it was advice she certainly tried to follow.
So her hand slides from her body to grasp the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards slightly in suggestion. Her head tilts deliberately to let one lock of her hair slide across her face, the ends curling between her breasts] I want this off too.
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Whether it's a provocation or not seems moot by now, and Adolf finds himself running one hand up from where the scar ends beneath her navel and up between her chest. He lets the palm linger over her heartbeat for a few seconds before he finally concedes to her request, shifts back along the sheets so he can peel his own shirt off and toss it gently to the side.
If there was a time when self-consciousness was appropriate, he's passed that juncture long ago: he knows what he looks like, his mess of scars and discolored burns, the inorganic metal embedded in his chest, his joints, his bones. Despite that, he also knows that Oona won't flinch, and that's the reason he complies without protest. ]
...Not exactly what you were promised in stories, is it.
[ Princes usually come in better shapes and sizes, with charm and promises and 'ever-afters'. There's self-deprecation nestled in Adolf's words, but it's overshadowed by a brand of shyness that he tucks under his bangs and a tilt of his jaw downwards. He clears his throat, and moves forward to loop a hand around Oona's waist to push her gently back down onto the mattress. ]
What else do you want.
[ His voice is a rasp against her ear, simultaneously as serious as he always is (sincere, always sincere) and somewhat knowing (so he can spoil her, yes, and probably worse). ]
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Half-lidded eyes watch closely-- she's seen him without a shirt before, it's inevitable when she's spent as much time over here as she has, but this time the context is much different. And no, she doesn't flinch, but allows her eyes to roam eagerly. She doesn't see the imperfections he surely does. She sees tight muscle and a story etched into his very skin. A sad, horrific story, yes, but it has survivor all over it, and she can appreciate that much if nothing else.]
Stupid. [An affectionate murmur and she reaches out to let the tips of her fingers brush against his chest and down his stomach until she can't touch anymore without having to lean forward. Her hand drops off to rest on the bed and she smiles] I am too old for those fairy-tales. I like this reality much more.
[He moves her again so easily and her teeth worry her bottom lip, her arms securing themselves around Adolf's neck. She presses a kiss to his cheek and nips playfully at his ear.]
You.
[Oona is a mermaid of simple answers and simple pleasures--she really doesn't need much. She pulls away to cup his face, angling her head up for a heated kiss-- air? Who needed that? She'd steal the very breath from his lungs if she could right now]
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There's nothing he can say about her request, how that one syllable is capable of tugging his fractures back into place. There's nothing he can say, so he wisely doesn't, and opts instead to show her his intentions with actions, with gestures, because she so often tells him that he's more expressive with his body language than he is with anything else about him.
A wide palm callused with years of training cups Oona's hip, draws her inwards so that her lower half is effectively lifted from the mattress; Adolf keeps her there, hand at her tailbone and positioned between his legs, so he can roll up and against her in one surprisingly fluid motion, emulating what it'd be like if he were inside her.
Which is, incidentally, what he'd like— a moment of near-selfishness, conveyed through a fragmented exhale that runs a sigh across Oona's lips. ]
I can do that.
[ He finally manages, between rocking over the curve of Oona's body once more. ]