— Apart from the fearful eyes and Yes Men, South Terano has you, a partner who’s more than curious about the details of his past. But, perhaps it takes a boost of encouragement for you to be more vocal. If it’s left for South to handle, then encouragement could come in an array of surprises.
word count: 7.4k
warnings n’ tags: a lot of fluff, canon divergent timeskip, smut, strength kink, size kink, afab!reader no pronouns except one mention of ‘good girl’, curly/coily hair reader. one single ass slap, very brief mention of cervix fucking, reader addresses him as ‘sir’ twice, South is… quite childish.
a/n: played around with his character, decided to share. thanking @hisoknen for entertaining the brainrot + helping me tweak things. also @beautifulblhell for helping me not stress myself out. appreciate u guys so much. i dont get to talk about him enough. might have some errors even tho i edited.
other media: A Sós by Arlindo Cruz + Arlindinho (one of the inspo songs)
minors dni - you will be blocked.
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You never put much thought into the way water moves. Like how it carries a sound, and how that sound resembles something of jewels, tumbling in cloth. It trickles louder as you move closer to the source.
A rough hand helps to guide you over tree roots. They’re all thick, aged, and covered with sprouts. You have no idea where South is taking you, but, looking around, you’re filled with clues as to where you are. Large trunks sprout from the forest floor, along with jagged stones from the mountains that lose their crowns to thin clouds overhead.
i’m just sticking in one exchange in this fic that made me tremble because i can’t just copy paste the whole fucking fic in this reblog,, kye your south is a treat thank you for sharing him with us
“Her little boy grew older. Started to help her at her store. It turned into a food stand after a few years, and she’d have-” Glowing irises search for the word, aided by a twisted frown, until he remembers. “Meat, like- coxinha."
Your head tilts, and he’s enthused by the look.
"Coxinha.” He repeats. “It’s like, fried dough. It’s usually stuffed with chicken.” He holds his thumb and index finger up, estimating a size. “It’s small. It’s been a while since I’ve had one, but I think you’d like it.”
“Hmm. What’s it like? Do you remember?”
He tries his best to describe the taste he remembers from years ago, and liquid pools under your tongue. A clock can’t chime with the hour, but an empty stomach can estimate close enough. It’s only then that the gap between you and your last meal seems more evident. At this point, even a blade of grass sounds appetizing.
