#fisherman au

[rosaacicularis]

“you want a mending book, right?” scar asked, head peeking barely above the water, the gills on his neck still submerged in the water.

“if i were to want anything, it would be a mending book, yes.” grian cast his fishing rod back out into the water, his voice was careful and hesitant.

“what if i told you i had one?” scar swam closer to grian, still keeping his distance but grian could feel the water shift from the movement.

“you’re not a mermaid,” grian said, eyes closing into a squint at scar. “you’re a siren, aren’t you?”

“i’ve been called many things,” scar dodged the question. he brought his hand out of the water, brushing shapes into the surface with his fingers. “siren has been one of them.”

“you’re trying to lure me,” grian phrased it like a question, a rising intonation at the end. he reeled his fishing rod back in, another salmon.

“that depends,” scar smirked, his eyes followed the movement of grian unhooking the fish and throwing back into the sea. “is it working?”

[eloquentlytired]

18+ NSFW. MDNI.

fisherman! logan howlett x older! reader

word count: a lot

warning(s): smut, build up to smut, logan is 30 while the reader is in her 40s ( u choose how much ), cheating, logan is smitten with his beloved customer, reader has a daughter, and logan calls the reader mama sometimes bc she is indeed the best mama, reader’s husband is a dckhead if it makes u feel better, mentions of neglect and shitty behavior ( from husband ), but logan makes everything better, I LOWKEY LOVED WRITING THIS

note: I haven't written for older!reader before but I hope I didn't disappoint you my beloved anon! In the meantime I hope everyone enjoys reading this one if YES pls interact it'd make me happy🩷🥰 thank you always for the support !!!

There's nothing that makes Logan happier than doing the work he likes. It's a blessing to have found a small area he's fond of and an even bigger blessing to help out customers. Or to help you specifically.

Logan sees you for the first time when he opens the fish shop — it's the first one to open after the old one has shut down. You greet him with the sweetest smile while your daughter holds your hand.

“Good morning.” You tell him so kindly and your smile turns out to be contagious because Logan returns it instantly.

You ask him about his life and how he's ended up in this place while Logan prepares your groceries. He tells you but purposely leaves some things out of the way. It isn't wise of him to talk about his mutant abilities either way, he wouldn't want to scare you.

He finishes your order purposely slow but you don't tell him off, you don't even reprimand him for it. You smile and wave him off — and your sweet daughter does too.

After that he sees you many times. If he was a fool he'd assume that your diet is mostly sea food but no — Logan has caught on. And you have caught on his stares in return.

“My husband likes this but I much prefer tuna. I'm not sure why.” You tell him as you scan the new products he's stuffed his shop with.

Logan nods.

“Tuna is the best in my opinion.” He says.

“You really think so?” The way your eyes sparkle when you ask him, happy to just share something common with another person.

Logan is an absolute loser— “I really think so.” —and he actually despises tuna.

It's raining heavily when you enter his shop one day, drenched from head to toe. You're shivering while your hands are filled with shopping bags, making your shoulders fall because of the weight. Logan rushes to you — he was about to close up but it doesn't matter anymore — and takes the bags from your hands, stacking them on the counter of his shop.

“I’m sorry.” You tell him softly and Logan can hear the regret in your tone. “I know I shouldn't have come so late. I was trying to stack up the fridge because of the incoming storm. And I've left my daughter in the house alone too, my husband wouldn't pick up the phone—” He's heard that one before from you surely. The bastard.

You stop talking when Logan is suddenly by your side, wrapping a blanket around your shivering body. Your eyes meet and Logan prays that he stays sane through it all. Promises he hasn't noticed the way your long dress has become one with your skin or how the little mascara you've worn has run down your cheeks. Yet you look flawless to him.

“Hey.” Logan calls your name softly and you wonder when it's the last time you've heard someone say it like that, in that loving tone.

Logan doesn't speak your name to order you around to do his laundry or his food. Or the dishes. Or the chores. Or the gardening. Or...

His palm is warm when it settles on your shoulder and it pulls you off your trance. He's kind with his touch and with his gaze — Logan always has been with you. “I’ve got you.” He mutters and you break down in his arms.

Moments later, he's dragged you into the back of the shop and you sit on top of a counter wearing his clothes, sweatpants and a sweater, which barely fit. Logan is big— really big.

“I look ridiculous.” You say with a small chuckle but Logan's eyes regard you differently as he cooks. For you.

“You look perfect.” He whispers and it makes you freeze a little, makes you question everything that the golden ring around your finger stands for.

He notices, of course he does, but he doesn't mention it. Hell, Logan doesn't even think he cares when your husband is the way he is.

“Tell you what.” He suddenly says breaking the long silence. His hands move swiftly as he finishes preparing a giant portion of tuna and rice. You watch as he places the food in tupperware, counting the little boxes. “This is big enough to feed three people and coincidentally—” Both of you smile at the last word. “— we are two. And your daughter is one more, isn't she?”

Your heart beats fast within your chest and your tears prickle your eyes. It's perfect. It's too good to be true.

“I would hate for this food to go to waste and I'm sure the two of you are starving.” You watch him as he uses one hand to hold the food bag and the other to carry your other six shopping bags.

You move forward, hands reaching out so you can help him but Logan tuts instead and uses his knee to keep you back.

“I dare you.” He grumbles playfully and you nearly shudder because of the way he says it.

“You should respect your elders, Logan.” You manage to say between heavy breaths but all Logan does is feel amused.

He grins, then takes a step closer and you momentarily lose air when he leans too close. “Careful, mama. I wouldn't want you to be late.”

You stare at him still processing his words as he walks away to start his car. The ring around your finger feels weightless.

The dinner is good and you can't register a time when both you and your daughter have laughed so hard before. Dinner is usually dull, especially with your husband around, but you didn't even miss the good old times anymore. They were always overshadowed by the bad ones.

You watch as Logan plays with your daughter and your heart secretly flutters. Yearns for a different life than the one you have right now.

But it's too late, you think, and Logan could still build a good life with someone his age. Why would you even destroy that when he's been so good to you?

But then Logan turns to you and begins to talk. I'll do the dishes, don't you dare move. Stop thinking so much, you'll hurt your pretty mind. What a lucky girl to have a mama like this one.

So that's why you can't let go.

Your daughter is fast asleep. Husband nowhere in sight. No answers, no nothing.

Logan watches you from where he's doing the dishes, sitting on the couch and looking outside. You've drawn the curtains open to watch the rain. It's worrisome weather but it somehow soothes you.

“You worried about him?” Logan suddenly asks, taking you by surprise.

“I should be but I..” You shake your head and leave it at that. Logan understands.

There's more silence but it's not uncomfortable. There's no such word when Logan is around you, taking care of you. He wraps it up with the dishes and heads over to your stereo, fidgeting with it to find a signal.

“It won't work, Lo. Leave it.” You tell him softly and the petname makes him want to drop dead. In a good way of course.

Logan doesn't listen — he searches and searches. Then he finds it and turns to you with a wide grin in his face as if expecting some sort of praise.

Instead, he walks to you while the unknown beat of jazz fills the living room and offers you his hand.

“I don't think we should..” Your voice trails off when Logan doesn't budge. He simply won't.

You take his hand as he pulls you to the center of the room and slides an arm around your waist being so carefully. You rest your hand on his shoulder while your other two intertwine.

He sways with you and you sway with him. There's rhythm, there's harmony. There's something there you haven't had for over a decade and although Logan could have anybody else in this world, he looks most content there. With you.

“There are many people out there for you.” You begin to say as he leans his head closer to yours.

He doesn't reply so you insist.

“People your age. As old as you are—” Logan spins you around and then presses his chest against your back. You're somehow all over him, moving against him.

Both of his hands move to your waist and Logan takes the courage to press his lips against the spot behind your ear.

“I hate tuna.” Logan mumbles, his voice raspy and filled with need. His next actions shock you as he slides one of his hands over yours and strokes over your wedding ring. Logan grips it, removes it and lifts it to your eye level. “But I hate this more.”

The moment he tosses it away, he turns you around and his eyes speak so many things. Need. Desperation. Love. Struggle.

“Wear it back and I'll leave. Don't—” He swallows nervously. “—and I'll make you happy, mama. I swear I will.” But you've never doubted that for a second.

You stare at the carpet, at that little golden band shimmering somewhere. Then back at Logan.

“I’ll hold you back. You'll get bored with me, of me. Having me and my daughter— you won't—”

Logan kisses you because he can't stand listening. But he also can't stand holding back anymore.

The surprise is momentary as you squeeze your arms around his shoulders, struggling to fit all of him into a hug. Logan surprises you more when he uses a single arm to pick you up by your hips, your legs instinctively locking around his waist.

“Lo—”

You're more desperate than he is and for so many different reasons. He carries you to the nearest efficient surface — the dining table — and sits you there carefully.

Your eyes lock for a moment as Logan steals another kiss from you. “You want the ring?” He asks and you almost laugh. Fuck the ring.

You're the one who initiates the next kiss, tilting your head to deepen the action. Your hands tremble with excitement, Logan's tremble because he's never touched such a beautiful woman before in his entire life. His woman.

He's quick with your his clothes although a little messy. You can feel his excitement but also his nerves shifting as he reaches for your bra next, struggling to take it off.

“Easy.” You whisper against his lips and Logan is surely dead, must be dreaming. The hook never comes off because Logan rips the front of your bra with his bare hands and disregards it like it's nothing.

You can feel yourself physically react, cunt clenching around nothing although you want it to be around him. Now.

He's right here, your arms wrapped around his head as Logan takes a bud into his mouth and sucks. You react by whimpering softly and Logan sucks harder as his hand occupies your other breast, fondling it within his fingers.

The attention on your chest makes you weak, you love it. You're sensitive, he murmurs before grazing your nipple with his teeth. “I need more.” You find the courage to tell him and Logan nods because so does he.

His fingers grip your panties and rip it too — he has no control over that. It's like a primal urge to do it.

“How long?” Logan asks as he rubs two fingers across your cunt, parting your lips teasingly before releasing them. Every motion offers a wet noise from you. It's embarrassing.

“I don't remember.” You answer and it's all he needs to know to confirm about the failure your husband is.

You watch Logan drop to his knees. His eyes are blown wide with lust and his mouth parts as if starving. You realize what he wants and that he's been craving this moment since forever. The thought alone makes you shiver.

“I have never—” done this, you want to tell him but Logan let's his youth take over his reactions.

His hands are strong around your thighs, they're secure and sure. He won't drop you and you fucking know it as he guides your lower half over his face and sits you down hard.

Your hands shoot up to cover your mouth.

Logan mouths against your pussy before parting your folds with his tongue, dragging it high and low. Your hips shake and he flexes his fingers around your thighs, squeezing every skin he can get.

He licks everywhere. All of you.

His face gets buried into your weeping pussy as his nose grinds against your clit and his tongue circles your entrance teasingly slow. There's too much coming out of you, you're like an endless stream, and Logan isn't afraid to taste every drop.

It becomes worse when he distances you from the table and your legs dangle off the floor. You stare wide eyed because your only means of support is Logan's hands on your hips oh — and his face which has basically turned into your personal seat.

“Logan wait—” You yelp but your voice is muffled by your hands.

Logan doesn't listen, doesn't even pull away to breathe. The man is starved and there's only one thing he wants to achieve — to eat you whole.

You've given up trying to reason with him especially when he eats you out this way. You move your hips fast and are desperate to reach your peak. Logan's fingers tighten around your thighs as he guides your thrusts, moaning while you ride his face.

You bite your lip as you throw your head back and arch your entire body, thighs shaking around Logan's head. He wiggles his tongue against your clit as you orgasm, the stimulation of your bud making your entire body quiver.

He's got you, hands steadier than ever and keeping you safe, as you come.

When he slowly pulls you off, you look down at him but the concern melts away. You stare at his face and faint beard covered by your slick. It's not embarrassing anymore — it's different. You can't have enough.

The door of your marital bedroom is shut and locked firmly. Whatever shame or guilt you might have felt at the start, it doesn't exist anymore.

Your legs dangle on Logan's shoulders as he pounds you, his cock rummaging through your tight walls and hitting spots you didn't even know existed. Not like this.

His balls are heavy again and full of the load he wants to fill you with. But it's been hours like this and he hasn't stopped — Logan is something else.

“You think you can fit one more for me? Let me fill you up?” His lips brush against your ear and you shiver. You nod, lips fallen wide for sometime now and blabbering incoherent words. Logan only catches the more leaving your lips.

His hands keep your legs risen and over his shoulders as he fucks you, his balls smacking against your skin with each pound. They're covered in cum too because of how many times Logan has filled you, some of it pouring out.

It's too much but at the same time not nearly enough.

Your hands twist the bedsheets beneath you and you look at him — silently pleading with him to swallow your noises. Logan knows and his lips find yours, silencing you just in time as he comes again and pours his seed into you for the last time.

His heels dig against the bed because it's so intense as you squeeze around him and use one of your hands to toy with your over sensitive clit, feeling it all. Taking everything in.

“Logan.” You moan against the kisses and he grunts softly, swallowing every sound and word. You come around his cock with a shuddering gasp again and Logan releases your legs to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into him.

Your hands move enough to grip his bare shoulders, scratching them.

“Ride it out. So good.” Logan pants while squeezing you by your waist, lying on his side and dragging you with him.

He guides your hip around him, letting his hand linger there as his cock softens within you.

“There she is.” Logan whispers, looking at you. Seeing you receiving pleasure is one thing but to witness your peaceful expression, looking so content and happy... How could Logan ever let go of that?

You grab a hold of the hand that caresses your thigh and bring it to your lips. Logan watches you as you kiss every space between and on top of his knuckles, eyes fluttering. Your gaze lingers and so does his.

“You know.” He states after a while, nose brushing against yours.

“I know.” You reply and his heart jumps a little; not knowing if it's good or bad that you've discovered his true nature. His mutant side.

You kiss him, slow and gentle.

“You’re beautiful.” Is the answer that slips out of your lips and Logan wants to take you all over again but he doesn't. It isn't his intention to break you in such little time — now is just the start.

His strong arms pull you close and he blindly reaches for something. A blanket. He covers you with it and when your eyes meet again, Logan nudges your nose with his.

“You’re so perfect.” He says, voice raspy per usual, and kisses your face. Your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. “Gonna fucking die for you. Kill too.”

Your heart fills with affection and love. Your worries and the demons keeping you away from him are long gone now — Logan is right there. He's chosen you like you've chosen him. There's only one thing left to do.

“You happen to have two spots open in your heart?” You ask him and Logan smiles — it's the widest smile you've ever seen from him.

He nods.

“Just two? We can make it more than that. If you want I'll make you a mama again right now—” He's blowing raspberries at your nape as you wiggle, supposedly trying to shake away from his grip. That hollow room is filled with laughter after years of dullness.

Like you've said.

There's only one thing left to do.

[ratective]

more of the fisherman au starring my oc whom i love dearly and garnets greying hair

[a0vy]

more designs yayy

[solarockk]

More dredge au (im getting consumet at the bottom of the ocean)

[1000dactyls]

httyd sketches I’ve compiled from the past couple of days v_v;;) I’ve been learning to draw the dragons and am studying a lot of nico marlet’s art for it…… barf& belch hold a special place in my heart so of course i also had to draw their silly humans. And their silly humans’ fave too. but no one told me the real struggle wld be drawing stoick the vast in all his glory. Omfg. His beard is awesome it’s shaped like a star.

and modern au………..!!!! have been debating this with a friend. toothless is a cat until he is a service dog. do you feel me? and hiccup wears his fishinf get up to his classes after getting up at 4am to help his dad draw in the fish that morning.snug little cozy coastal town that has more secrets than it should. Do you feel me?

[twinktor-frankenstein]

They find and torture each other in every timeline lmao

[hexcii]

Tosses these two into the void and scampers away

Is he a werewolf? Is he a werebear? Is he a human? Who knows! He’s just a dad

Semi-inspired by this post by @/paper-lilypie :]]

Not pictured is Gregory making fun of them (and maybe teasing Sun and Moon about a certain crush cough cough)

[apolaskiart]

Back on the A.U grind, amen!

[therekinperson]

5 - Peer into the Darkness - @/stych-stychu's Cotltober

[2] [4]

[rosaacicularis]

fisherman grian and mermaid scar

[eloquentlytired]

the urge to write a fisherman! logan smut ( I will !!! )

[ratective]

human sardonyx 🐸

[pyjamacryptid]

I want a silly au where Arthur’s return is just him being fished out of the lake by a fishing net, which is a surprise to both him AND the poor fisherman, who immediately lets go of the rope and dumps him back in the water. After he’s recovered from the shock, Arthur’s hauled back up again, looking like a drowned rat with a fish flopping about on his head. Merlin only finds out from a breaking news headline titled DROWNED MEDIEVAL COSPLAYER FISHED OUT OF LAKE BY HERO FISHERMAN, STILL IN CHARACTER

[marvelstoriesepic]

The ropes that bind me

Pairing: Fisherman!Bucky x Mermaid!Reader

Summary: Being a creature of the sea, you are bound to a life beyond the surface, always in sight of the human realm, yet forever out of grasp. But after centuries of this finned existence it’s a fisherman coming to the docks day after day that compels you to bridge the gap between your worlds, despite the warnings about humanity being ingrained into your kind your whole life. Will you meet the same tragic end as several of your sisters before?

Word Count: 13.4k

Warnings: mentions of murder; capture; death; a terrible father; slow burn

Author’s note: This is part one. I planned on writing this as a one-shot but I felt like it got a little too extensive, so I decided to split it up. I'm working on the second part but I can’t promise y'all anything about when I will publish it.

[Divider from @silkholland ]

Masterlist

It’s a risk. You know that.

Your kind rarely ventures out of your sacred sanctuary.

But there’s a curiosity you’ve kept guarded for so long, one that manifested, trembling in your soul for such a long time. And the time has come for it to reach the surface, urging you to do something.

It’s a reckless decision that would send your sisters into a chorus of disbelief, their voices sharp and laced with warning, if they only knew about your whereabouts.

If they only knew what pulled you to the green horizons, uncharted by your finned existence.

“Only a foolish heart dares to venture where the water’s touch has never extended.”

That’s what you’ve been told centuries ago. That’s what you’ve been told almost every day since the first. Because living on land meant living like a human. It meant dying like a human too, shortening the span of your life to the ones of the townsfolk.

And yet, here you stand, arms outstretched to feel the wind on your skin, the soil beneath your trembling feet like the softest moss kissed by the light of the sun. You haven’t used your legs in a while. After years and years of floating through jeweled depths, where silence cradles and the currents hum lullabies, your legs feel unfamiliar, unfurling from limps long forgotten, awakening with an overwhelming buzz of sensation.

The very earth breathes beneath your bare toes and the thrill that thrums to life in your belly elicits a laugh that slips free.

You had managed to steal a pair of trousers and a shirt from a man near the shore and you relish in the way the fabric brushes against your bare skin underneath.

At first, the feeling of standing on land is surreal, a strange rapture coursing through your body as you feel the ground’s warmth seep into you. And you do your best to recall the forgotten melody of walking, the sweet cadence of motion.

It’s like the earth has a heartbeat and you feel it in your toes, in the balls of your feet. The texture of the grass feels tantalizing, each blade teasing and tickling your senses as a slight breeze tangles with your long hair, making it sway and play with the wind.

The air is suffused with the sweet scent of flowers you don’t know the names of and you hear notes of music spilling from open windows of the cottages you get closer to with each timid step.

And as the uneven cobblestone of the streets meets your feet, you gasp at the new feeling. It’s hard and cold at your delicate skin and you let it sink in.

Your heart races with every, still slightly unsteady step as you get used to the headiness of gravity.

This moment feels so fragile, yet monumental and you don’t do much to try and suppress the wild exhilaration that keeps you going, reclaiming a new kind of freedom you only observed from your watery haven for so long.

The first time you made use of your legs, you were only able to half-crawl, half-rob to a canopy of trees where you hid behind, watching them in their community.

Humans.

One of your sisters, Zephyra, insisted you come with her and watch them.

Thus, you observed, hidden between thick trunks of trees and branches hanging above and beside you - surrounded by the forest at the edge of the village. You drank in the melodies of laughter, the tender exchanges, the innocence of life that beats through the streets of the town like a heart so deeply treasured.

You watched with wide eyes how children chased one another through fields, their giggles, and squeals carried over to you by a breeze you’ll only feel on land.

People walked hand in hand, words soft and sweet like the gentle cooing of doves not far off, picking at crumbs on the ground, and you never had been so in awe with anything before as in that moment, never felt a longing so implanted in your veins it actually made something squeeze in your chest. A stab tore through you.

It was their emotions that fascinated you most - the way a mother knelt to catch her child’s tears or the fervent embrace of two people in the shadows of the cottages. In every glance, every smile, you saw the depths of passion and sorrow, joy and despair, that you so longed to fathom.

The humans live under a sun that dips into the horizon, casting shadows you only ever watched hidden away from all of this.

You craved it. You wanted it.

But after Zephyra and you returned home, the stories you were told scared you off enough to never set foot on this land again. Humans could never understand, could never accept your essence. They would hunt you the second they lay eyes on you, kill you with a spear so quick there’s nothing you could do.

You’ve been told that’s what happened to your sisters Aella and Lirienne as they disappeared decades ago.

But oh, how you always yearned to touch their reality, to be a part of their existence, if only just for a fleeting instant. It was an intoxicating allure that called to the very core of your being.

So, you continued watching those men.

The men that steal the fish out of your waters. You would peek out of the surface and watch the boats bobbing, fishermen casting their nets and sharing conversations.

You always take great care to remain hidden, only your head peeking out of the water, cloaked with delicate seaweed and bubbles that would shimmer in the light of the sinking or rising sun, shadowed by the willows hanging over you from the land.

At dusk, when the fishermen would return, you'd delight in the warm glow of lanterns illuminating the harbor, casting a golden light over the water, as if honoring the creatures that live there.

But even in the countless years that followed, you kept your distance from the town. The allure of a home just out of reach kept resounding in your heart, but remained unacknowledged. It was a promise carved deep into your resolve, a tribute to your fallen sisters.

Even your beloved sister Zephyra disappeared one day, never returning to the waters again.

So, you stayed away, left with a solitude that cradled your pain. You lingered on the edges of the world, where your sisters’ memory lay, resting heavily upon the water’s surface.

Until him.

At first, he was a fleeting silhouette, unnoticed by your eyes. Just a boy with an impish grin and eyes that sparkled like the dappled sunlight that filters through the leaves of the trees whose shadows help you stay unseen by curious eyes. He was just a flicker of movement by the shore, a mere shadow dipping nets into the shallows.

But as the seasons turned and years rolled by, he transformed in a way that lured you in. And as he grew, so did your awareness of him. Brown strands - long, wild, and tempestuous in the summer breeze, then neatly cropped in the chill of winter - framed a face that was a canvas of boyish charm, deepening into the rugged handsomeness of manhood. Each summer blossomed him into a stranger you couldn’t help but behold, yet feared to know.

He now wears marks of the earth, the land you craved to wander. Sun on his skin, wind in the creases of his brow, roots by his eyes.

He seems to know the waters well - the waters you call your home - and it fills you with an emotion, a warmth, you can’t place. His eyes always hold a depth and you even found out their color after a reckless pursuit drove you to getting a little closer one day - a color so bright you only ever get to see it when looking up at the sky when the seas are at their calmest.

He always moves with an elegance that belied his trade, as if the sea itself had taught him the rhythm of the tides.

You watched him as one watches a season unfold, slowly, each detail revealing itself over time. His shoulders are broad and he bears a certain strength - a strength that speaks of patience, of waiting, of knowing what to do after so many years of doing it.

Each glance you steal at him, each morning you wait for him to show up like a living poem crafted from sunlight and shadow, you feel a rising anticipation for something you haven’t been sure what to make of.

His laughter often reaches you and it enthralls the very essence of your being, lifting you from the deepness where you had long chosen to dwell.

It made you question whether this man was the kind to put a spear through your chest at your first encounter.

He’s a quiet being. And yet a single look at him sets your skin aflame and everything within you bubbling in ways you never felt before.

It’s in the way he would linger by the water at dawn, his gaze distant, as though he, too, could sense a world just beyond his reach. And it was then, when he was alone and unguarded, that you could almost feel the beats of your different hearts aligning, as if he sensed you there, as if he might turn his head just once and meet your hidden gaze.

He never did. And so, you watched in silence, a lonely witness to his life. Until watching no longer felt enough, until the towns call and the pull of his shadow became a song that demanded to be answered.

Because in those stolen moments, you felt the tumult of a long-suppressed yearning. A yearning that whispered sweetly of possibility, beckoning you to reclaim what had been left behind.

A longing that both terrified and thrilled you, as it slowly chipped away at the fortress you had built around your heart. Every fiber of your being wished to reach out to him, yet the ghosts of your fallen sisters remained a haunting reminder, ever ready to dissolve the hope that rose anew.

“Hey, you.”

You had memorized the voice of this man, cataloged its nuances like a precious artifact, each inflection etched into the tapestry of your consciousness.

You’ve come to know it like you know the sound of the soft patter of raindrops landing on your watery home, each variation a note in a song you never asked to learn yet can’t unhear.

Sometimes it’s soft as a breeze rippling across the water, a gentle murmur that barely touches the air nor reaches your ears.

Other times it’s light, like the hush of wind through a grove of the willows that shadow you, gentle and easy, coaxing warmth from the marrow of your bones.

And then there were moments when it sharpened, an imperceptible blade glinting in the sunlight. It didn’t happen often. Rarely.

But you remembered the time when that little girl with the same chestnut hair moved perilously close to the water’s brink, stumbling and almost falling into the cold.

You held your breath as he acted, pulling her away swiftly with a reflex that was impressive to you. His voice had shifted then, tone arching with urgency and fear as he scolded the girl with authority and a warning in his tone.

You felt the force of his words ripple through the water, almost enough to draw you forward, enough to make you long to touch the shore.

But then she gazed up at him and he stopped, hanging his head and letting out a long breath before crouching down to her height meeting her eyes with his own burning cerulean. His voice had lowered to a gentle mumble, too soft for you to make out the words. But you could see the way his shoulders had slumped, saw the soft brush of his fingers as they tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear, coaxing reassurances and apologies from deep within.

You came to know his voice in all its colors - the rough, the tender, the ache of his untouched presence as it stretched across the sea, reaching without knowing, searching without seeking.

And now, that voice; the same you’ve traced in the chambers of your heart - this time, for the first time, it’s meant for you.

You don’t know what to do, so you simply stop, every part of you coming to an abrupt, swaying halt. It’s so sudden, your balance on limps that aren’t yet truly yours, teeters and your new-forged feet betray you with a faint, unsteady wobble. You falter, nearly tipping forward but somehow catching yourself before the moment could betray your clumsiness.

A low, hushed laugh floats across the space between you, perhaps carrying a hint of an apology. A chuckle you only ever were granted to hear with an ocean separating you. There’s a kindness in it that verges closer to your heart than you’ve ever let anything reach. You feel it curl around you, lingering like the air just before rainfall, filling every part of you with a building awareness.

Slowly, you turn, each movement deliberate as it dawns on you that this is the first time you’ll see him up close. And it’s earlier than you had expected.

His gaze is trained on you with a calm you can’t quite reconcile with the way it leaves you breathless. For the first time, you look into his face and watch him look at you in return. You really see him as you had only dared to from afar before, and the sight is somehow more vivid than anything the light and shadows of memory had ever sketched.

It takes everything in you to keep you from losing your footing, to hold yourself back from tumbling headlong into that gaze. Those eyes are even softer up close, quieter somehow as if they hold within them the deep, untroubled patience of still water.

They look at you in a way that sets your spirit ablaze, a look that feels like an invitation, an opening - a silent gesture drawing you into something vast and uncharted, like the dark waters that stretch out from the shore, the waters you now see from his point of view.

“Apologies if I startled you.” His voice is soft, a gentle curve of his lips and an apology in his tone. His smile feels like it is made for you, as if shaped by the kindness he carries.

His gaze settles on you, taking in details with an openness that lets you hold steady, your heart fluttering wildly.

His eyes drift, skimming over the loose folds of fabric draped awkwardly over your frame, too loose to be your own. You’re not even sure you put the clothes on correctly. There are so many holes and ends, it’s confusing, despite the fact that you watch them wear those kinds of things every day.

Still, it’s a strange weight that tugs at your shoulders and you feel each thread press against you. The fabric hangs from you in off places, sagging and bunching, like a poorly assembled cloak.

You watch him closely, like so many times before. Noticing the exact shirt he is wearing, the glint of something - a chain - around his neck that always catches the sunlight on the docks, the tousled strands of dark hair falling onto his forehead. Not as long as some years but not as short as others. Somewhere in between.

And the kindness on is face that doesn’t shift at the sight of your appearance. There’s nothing but warmth in the smile he gives you. Perhaps a hint of curiosity glints in his eyes and a little bit of sympathy, but his expression is devoid of the sour notes of judgment.

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t narrow his gaze into some cold scrutiny. Instead, his eyes linger softly, understanding, the kind of look that might calm your beloved waters in the midst of a storm.

“I have never seen you here before,” he quietly ponders and you’re not even sure if he even directed that your way. Though, human interactions are obviously not your forte, so you can’t be sure.

You don’t know what to say to that, yet it seems like his attention isn’t exactly fixed on a possible answer you might give him. He glances downward and something in his gaze pulls tight. You look down at yourself, only seeing your feet splayed against the damp, chilled stone, the skin bare and exposed against the rough and dirty ground.

His brow creases, a subtle furrow pulling at the lines of his face, shadows gathering where light once rested. His smile is replaced by a slight frown - a soft, thoughtful sorrow - and in that shift, you see a compassion as real as anything you’ve ever known.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks, voice gentle but confused and also blending in with something else. Is that concern, perhaps? You’re still trying to get a hold of human emotions. “You really should wear some! Or else, you will get sick.”

The words catch you off-guard, pulling you from whatever veil of composure you’d managed to hold. You meet his eyes then, startled again at the intensity you never were on the receiving end of before. He looks at you as if he’s seeing right through you, past this fragile disguise of human form.

You realize then, with the thickening air between you, that he indeed waits for you to say something.

You open your mouth, letting the air hold his question a little longer as you only manage to take a breath in. Your skin heats up and you feel exposed without the lap of water on your skin. A strange pulse quickens inside you.

What could you say?

You’re not wearing shoes because you’ve never needed them, because your feet have only known the touch of smooth stones and seaweed and cool, endless water in the form of fins.

But these words falter before they ever reach the air, answering the question that still lingers there, drowning somewhere in your throat.

You manage only a small, soft sound, a hesitant beginning of something - yet it withers almost as soon as it forms.

But he’s still watching you, still waiting. The kindness in his face shifts into something almost protective, as though he senses the way you shrink back, the unease that rises in you.

The air stills around you as he begins to lower himself to the ground, hands moving with intent and you watch him in shock as he fumbles with the laces of his own boots.

One by one, he slips out of them, his bare feet settling against the cold, unyielding stone with a casualness that leaves you bewildered.

You stand there, caught somewhere between astonishment and a strange, blooming curiosity. What is he doing? The question hangs on the tip of your tongue but it never quite forms.

Instead, you only stare, your eyes wide, your heart tripping over itself as you watch him in his crouched position before you. His head tilts upward, a faint smile gracing his lips at the sight of your confused and startled expression.

His hands are steady as he reaches toward you, his fingertips pausing just a breath away from your skin, so close it sends a shiver over you and he hasn’t even touched you yet. His eyes flicker to yours, asking without words, his gaze careful, as if giving you a chance to retreat if you wish.

But you don’t. You can’t. All you’re able to do is watch, motionless, as he gently lifts one of your feet, his touch feather-light and yet enough to send a shiver of heat through your body. Carefully he slips your foot into the empty space of his boot.

The leather envelopes your foot and it feels foreign and strange, but there’s an odd comfort. The warmth of his skin still lingers. He glances up at you every few seconds, his gaze still questioning, but also assuring, all blended in the same shade of blue.

You still don’t say a word. You’re simply frozen, gaping at this man in wonder and disbelief as he kneels before you. He slips the other boot onto your remaining foot, his touch leaving you, only hovering now, like the softest ripple across the surface of the sea.

And when he finally stands, he moves up slowly, looking at your now covered feet, wrapped in the warmth he left behind. Satisfaction enters his features, easing some of the lines on his forehead and he nods subtly.

For a moment, he simply looks at you, and you are captivated by the light that swims in his eyes, a light you never captured in a glance from this far away.

You watched this man for years from your hidden places, observing without ever being seen. But never would you have anticipated this kind of reaction. This kind act doesn’t seem to come from the same folk of people who murdered your sisters.

Humans have always been strange. Their motives elusive and tangled, but now, as you stare down at his boots on your own feet, something deeper drops in your stomach, like a stone thrown into the waters that marked your home for so long.

But never in the centuries living there, you had known this sensation.

You look down at your feet and it’s weird not to see the familiarity of your skin you come to expect. Feet so used to water, now wrapped in the leather of his world.

A faint shake of your head accompanies the slight crease of your brows, a wordless attempt to deny this generous strangeness. But before you can actually say anything, he speaks up.

“You should have them. Keep them,” he insists, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards his smile that seems to reach you, almost warming the air between you both.

You lift your eyes to him, gaze wide and unsure, searching his face as though it might hold the answer to a question you’re just now learning to ask.

He nods with his smile in place, reassuring eyes focused on you. He doesn’t seem to mind your lack of answers, doesn’t question the quiet you keep.

But your eyes drop to the cold stone beneath him, where his own bare feet now rest. Guilt picks at your chest and you tug your bottom lip between your teeth.

However, he catches your look and waves it away with a soft shake of his head, his voice low and soothing. “Don’t worry about me, yeah?” He gestures to the boots on your feet with a tilt of his dimpled chin. “I’ve got another pair of those back at home. You need them more than I do.”

That’s far from the truth but again you don’t manage to say it out loud.

You’ve waited for this moment - a moment with him - in the lonely spaces of longing for years that drifted by like currents, each one pulling you back to him. Watched him from the shadows of the willows, hoping for this closeness, wondering what it would feel like to stand before him in this strange new world of breath and heartbeat.

You had thought a thousand times what you might say, how you might reveal yourself, how you’d keep your hidden nature to yourself. But now, standing in front of him, with his kindness covering you like the borrowed warmth of his feet, you find that words slip from your grasp, elusive as the mist on morning water.

This outcome is something you’ve never envisioned.

He’s so unlike anything you’ve ever known or even seen in the years of observing. You thought you’ve come to understand this whole other world of living by simply watching, but it seems like you were wrong.

And now, with him so near, you feel an ache within you. It’s an urgency, to hold onto this moment, to gather it like water cupped in your hands without letting it seep through your fingers, slipping away and only leaving few drops of memories.

The thought of him turning, of watching him fade back into his life while you slip back into the waiting depths, unsettles you in a way that feels almost as if it could be human.

Before he can drift from this shared quiet, you open your mouth, desperate to get an answer to a question you’ve been craving to know for so long. Words rise up in a fragile rush, each one carrying the weight of years without knowing.

“What’s your name?”

The question comes out soft, hesitant, unused to forming sound above the water’s edge, especially not in the presence of a human.

Your voice is so unfamiliar in the open air, it feels like something fragile and newly-formed, like your human legs, still feeling slightly foreign and unstable.

The words feel small, tentative, yet they seem to reach him with a firm presence, judging the wide grin that splits his face. You’re blinded for a moment, despite the sun having set already.

There’s a flash in the brightness of his eyes, like a spark in the deep blue dusk.

“James,” he drawls, and his voice drapes over the name like a soft weave of warmth, rolling off with ease and a hint of satisfaction at your question that sends a shiver trailing up your spine.

It’s strange to put a name to the face of your dreams. He feels almost different now. He feels closer. And every soft whistle of wind even far off in the distance seems to echo his name back to you. Every lap of the water against the shore seems to repeat it for you. As if you could ever forget.

“But,” he adds, his grin deepening, voice dropping to a softer, more intimate note, “you can call me Bucky.”

The words lap at your skin like the water has so long. You only heard it now, but it feels so familiar already, despite it sounding like something so foreign. Bucky. You repeat it in your mind. You will repeat it until the day you die.

It sits strange but soothing in your mind, something he handed to you, something he gave for you to keep. He stands before you now, not as the man you’d glimpsed from afar, but as James - Bucky - a person with a story, with a name that now belongs to your memory just as surely as he belongs to this moment.

And though you have only just spoken to him and his actions did surprise you, somehow, in a way you can’t explain, it feels as though you’ve known him all along.

****

Your sisters hadn’t noticed your absence that day.

But they did notice the way you lingered with your head out of the water, watching these fishermen until the sky darkened day after day. You only retreated to the depths, once Bucky’s back disappeared down the cobblestone streets.

Because since you got the chance to meet and talk to Bucky, you neglected subtlety.

You just wanted to see him again.

“Be careful,” Thalassa had murmured, her voice a whispering tide as she glided to the surface next to you, also watching the human figures along the docks. Her emerald tail brushed against your turquoise one for a moment, as if conveying the importance of her words.

But you didn’t offer a response. And after a short while she retreated into the depths with a reluctant flick of her tail, leaving you alone to the swell of emotions you only thought humans to have for a long time.

Your heart was alight with a strange duality, torn between the allure of the surface world and the dark abyss of your home. The lapping of the soft waves against your skin tenderly reminds you of the boundary you danced along.

Your sisters could not know of Bucky. Could not know of his attachment to your heart, because revealing him would be to unleash the tempest that lay between the realms of man and mermaid.

So you ignored their probing gazes, the burn of their suspicions. Rather, you watched another day come to an end, dusk velveting the horizon, painting it with strokes of amber and indigo as he vanished between the silhouettes of aged buildings.

It had been weeks since your encounter. Weeks that mean nothing to your endless life, mere moments devoured by the deep vastness of time. But perhaps it feels longer for Bucky and his human life.

He’s been a little different at one point. He looks around more, takes pauses to watch the people walk down the streets with shadows across his brows.

With every sun that dips below the horizon, every glow of light flickering on across the docks, you watch him in interest as he lingers.

His gaze sweeps more, taking in everything around him - the bustling streets that lay deserted at night, the infinite expanse of water that holds you. It’s as if he’s looking for something - or perhaps someone.

Each glance holds a flicker of hope, but it gets dimmed as day after day passes.

The disappointment weighing on his shoulders almost persuaded you to reach out from the abyss, to slip through the veil that separates your world. The sight pulls at you as strong as any current, urging you to bridge the distance between you.

There were moments you almost did - almost let yourself glide toward him and let your fingertips brush the fabric of the surface where his distant gaze lingered.

But each time, just as your heart crested with resolve, you’d stop, some inner instinct tugging you back down. With tendrils of kelp tangling around your tail, a benevolent force pulling you under, as if the ocean itself were binding you, holding you fast in the memory of your lost sisters.

It kept you from making a possible mistake.

Perhaps the same one your sisters did before you.

You crave his attention once more, the way his eyes met yours, the way they traveled over your human form. So gentle. So intrigued.

Yet, each time, you quelled the urge.

What if the world above bears little resemblance to the dreams you harbored beneath the waves?

What if Bucky is the only man - the only human soul tender enough, strange enough to pull the boots from his own feet and place them on yours, bare and unaccustomed to the earth’s cold bite?

A fisherman like many others, working in an air full of salt and sun, roughened by the chores it entails, yet soft in a way that lured you in, creeping into the imaginations of a world that’s cruel to your kind.

But he looked at you with a gentleness, so unbidden and unassuming, so freely given.

He gave you his boots and didn’t expect anything in return.

The boots, sturdy and worn, carrying the scent of the shoreline and the faintest trace of him, as if they still carry his warmth.

You hid them. Hopefully well enough away from your sisters to find.

They’re tucked deep in the hollow of a great rock crevice beneath the ocean floor, enveloped with kelp, nestled between beds of soft sand.

They lay there in waiting, concealed from the curious eyes of your kin, camouflaged among the seaweed and driftwood that crowds the small cavern.

When you visit them you let your fingers brush across the leather, feeling the texture of the old fabric, the rough weave that had known the weight of his footsteps.

There has to be a reason why he alone has caught your attention. Why his face moves like a movie in your mind. Why his voice sounds in your ears even when you’re diving deep through the water.

You had watched the men at the docks for centuries. Watched their faces hardened by work, their voices loud and grating, their laughter rough as stones grinding together.

They are everything that Bucky isn’t.

He became your project, your indulgence, the one spark that lit through your endless existence in an undiscovered world.

And with each passing week, the waters of your mind seem to grow murkier, filled with the haze of a foolish infatuation. You found yourself growing bolder, your curiosity morphing into a reckless ache that defied the cautious distance you were never meant to cross.

So, right now, you drift closer to his boat, close enough to feel the whisper of his oars cutting through the water, to catch the careful pull of his hands as he gathers his nets.

The urge to help him sneaks up on you, a strange, insistent pull that makes no sense. But you stay near, watching, waiting, wishing somehow to ease his work as if you might soften the weight of his nets or guide the fish into his reach.

There was a time when the very sight of a fisherman stirred only bitterness in your chest. You remember the way you used to despise them, the men who intruded upon your world, robbing it of life with no thought to the dynamic of the sea.

The fish are companions. Creatures who share your water, belonging to the ocean as much as you do.

These men would come, nets spread wide, taking what was not theirs to take, disturbing the balance you and your sisters held so dear.

You remember watching with a cold, simmering anger, feeling the injustice sharp like the end of the spears that slice through the surface of the calm waters to hit their mark.

They would descend upon your waters - eyes cold, features grim, hands rough, determination in their rowdy voices - as if they owned the very nature of life that swam right beside you.

How you loathed the way they dredged your domains, the waters bared of their bounty, the fish that once had danced freely in the ebb and blow of the tide. Their insatiable greed felt like murder in your heart.

In those times, you and your sisters lurked near their boats, hiding beneath the water’s shadow. With a thrill of mischief, you made the waters churn and swell, coaxing the fish to retreat, your shared laughter a sweet counterpoint to the gruff curses hurled by the men.

You hummed the call that kept the fish away, a high and reverberating sound that sent the scales darting to safer depths.

It left the men bewildered and you sent them home with empty nets and a frail temper.

It was a game of sorts. A contest that played out in silence. A protest raised by the scorn that lived in your heart.

But Thalassa, the eldest and sharpest, had lectured you and your sisters. She watched you from the shadow of the rocks and willows, her eyes stern and unsympathetic as she spoke of caution, of balance, of the risks of tempting human wrath.

“Leave them be. They are dangerous,” she would warn, “we cannot disturb their world without consequence.”

You listened with half an ear, always eager to return to the surface and defy them once more.

Yet now, you find yourself drifting even closer to Bucky’s boat with none of that bitterness. He works in a way that seems careful and respectful, his voice low as he murmurs into the open air. Sometimes to himself, sometimes to a companion, sometimes to the sea.

He never shouts or lashes out at the water, doesn’t hold the same harshness as most of the others. There is something in him you want to protect, to ease, to give him some small reprieve from the toil of his days.

So, something calls you to help him, to slip through the currents unseen, guiding fish toward his nets. Perhaps he might even feel the abundance, sensing something unusual in the generosity in his catch, as though, he, too, were being seen, were being cared for.

You know his boat well by now. Know the way it cuts through the waves. You had watched it from afar, drifting close enough to feel the subtle pull of its wake, but never daring to let it come too close.

But you crave details. The sun-cracked lines that spider across the surface. The exact color that marks the wood.

Deliberately, you reach a hand up, fingertips weaving through the water until they brush against the boat. It is rough to the touch. Rougher than most of the things in the smooth underwater life.

Your eyes focus on the flecks of rust around the nails, and thin cords of rope frayed at the ends where his hands must have held them countless times.

You move around the net that innocently floats in the water beside you. It brushes against your scales. A teasing brush, as if it’s alive, curious just as you are.

But you’re too caught up with the way he’s so close to you, right above you, that you don’t give the net much of your acknowledgment.

Foolish. That’s what your sisters would call it.

It twists, rough weave pressing against your waist, looping around you and you notice it too late before it tightens. It’s almost aggressive in the way it scrapes at your scales, clinging, pulling tighter still until you realize, you’re bound.

Every knot - perhaps handmade by Bucky himself - presses into you, pinching at the soft places that had never known the feel of something so abrasive, so coarse.

Panic rose sharply in your chest. An emotion you hadn’t felt in this expanse. An emotion you hadn’t felt at all. A silent scream holds you back as you struggle, feeling the ropes bite into your skin, its fibers digging like tiny claws.

Each movement makes it worse, the net swallowing you with each panicked twist and turn, until your fins lay trapped, folded painfully against your body, your long hair caught between strands.

You tug, hiss, pull, in a desperate attempt to escape. But it only digs deeper with each effort.

Your tail is twisted agonizingly, arms bound by your sides. You understand now, what Thalassa had meant. What she had warned you about. The stories of your sisters who strayed too close to the human world and found themselves ensnared.

The stories that ended in a tragedy you might experience yourself. Caught in the same cage that claimed so many lives from the sea, that captured breath and flesh without mercy.

Every inch of the net presses into you, relentlessly, a weave too tight for escape with a brutality that forces every inhale to catch, every exhale to strain. You feel your own heartbeat thundering beneath your skin. A sensation that’s so new and overwhelming, you lose all sense of direction for a second.

You’re trapped as surely as the fish you once pitied.

You hiss, fangs bared in desperation, mixed with a sliver of fury that coils as tight in your gut as the ropes around your body.

A shadow falls long across the water, over your form, and you still. Your breath quivers but another hiss sounds from your body as the water shivers around you and the net begins to rise. The net you’re caught in.

You are lifted, inch by inch from the depths that are your sanctuary but feel so far away in this moment. So unreachable. You miss it already.

Water slips away from you, flowing past your limbs, leaving you heavier in the net’s trap. You wonder, in those painful, breathless moments, if this is what the others had felt. If this is what Zephyra had to endure alone all those years ago.

Did she too feel her body pressed into the harsh fibers of this human snare, her breath coming shallow as her world receded, giving way to theirs? Your mind whispers a silent prayer in loss and sorrow, a prayer that sounds like her name. You know she won’t be able to answer.

The net holds you mercilessly, a tangle that knows nothing of you, knows nothing of the life it’s entrapping. It just takes it.

Fragments of thought flash through your head - images of your sisters who’d be filled with grief if you too wouldn’t come home again; the sea caves that hold Bucky’s boots with the secret of your infatuation with the man; the drifting kelp you passed countless times; the soft beds of sand where you once lay undisturbed.

You’re bound like any other fish of the sea, the dignity of your form crumpled into the harsh weave of the net as it lifts you even higher, into a world you begin to realize you were never meant to enter.

You wonder if this is to be the end.

If Bucky will draw you up from the water and look upon you with the same indifferent gaze he might give a dying fish, a thing captured and condemned. Or if his face will fill with hatred and disgust, driving his spear through your delicate body faster than you can react.

It would be almost poetic, wouldn’t it?

To die by his hands, those hands that gifted you warmth, that smiled upon you with kindness, that once held you in a gaze so soft it stole your resolve.

The man you’d spent countless hours watching, the one who captivated you beyond reason, the one who drew you closer despite every warning. James. Bucky. His name echoes through you as the net drags you upward. A bittersweet irony that cuts deeper than the thin ropes around you.

You break the surface, the water’s last drops slipping from your arms as the harsh bite of air claims you. Its chill presses close, where the net presses closer. The cold seeps fast, faster than you thought air could reach, sinking sharp teeth into you.

The thundering of your pulse rushes through your veins and spreads through your entire body until it sounds in your ears. It’s both, desperate and fierce. Your bound and bruised body awakens to the fire that flickers with each throb, and you tug and twist with a new fury, igniting against the woven lines that dig and press, refusing to relent.

The sun cuts down in a blinding blaze, harsh and painful in your eyes, and it strikes you like a glare from another world. You squint, hissing through your teeth, fangs exposed; scales, skin, and face pressed to the net’s unforgiving roughness. It takes several heartbeats - long, dragging seconds - before the light dims enough to reveal the world above, the world you’ve glimpsed but never known.

And then your eyes adjust, widening as you take in the shape before you, hovering over you, leaned over the edge of his boat.

Your hissing stills. Fangs pull back. The fight in your body slows.

Bucky’s hands are steady and sure on the net, gripping it and holding you with a kind of strength that is impressive for humankind. But they are frozen. Neither pulling nor loosening his grip, holding you just so - poised between worlds. Caught where the water clings but air consumes, where your tail flickers on the edge of transformation, not quite yet splitting into separate, human limbs.

You are held, suspended, both in body and gaze and in the stillness even the ocean seems to hold onto.

Bucky’s face is wide open, slacked, features drawn in a way that lets you see it all - shock, utter disbelief, something deep and vulnerable you cannot name.

His mouth is parted as he stares, silent and struck, and there is a tremble in his grip now as if he himself has become the one who is captured. Spellbound.

There is no cruelty in his face, none of the hardened indifference you’d feared to find in a fisherman’s eyes.

But your breaths are still shallow, each one strained as you cling to the scratchy lines of the net, fingers wrapping tightly around its strands, your chest heaving in dragging motions.

You’re caught in the pull of his gaze, the vehemence in his blue eyes, wide and wild, locked onto yours with an intensity that burrows deeper than you’d have thought a human’s eye could reach.

You feel exposed, more naked than the sea has ever left you, as though he sees through the scales, the sharpness in your gaze and fangs, right down to the pulse of fear that flutters beneath your skin. He stares and, impossibly, you stare back.

But then, after what feels like an endless, drowning silence, something shifts. His gaze softens, something curling at the brink of his stare as he takes you in with something beyond shock.

His shoulders ease, the rigidity in his body smoothing as his breathing starts again. His grip remains firm on the ropes that hold you. But there is no malice in his touch, only a steady hand, a gaze that pulls you in even if you strain to resist it.

The fear within you thrashes wildly like you’re just a wounded creature sensing its end. You feel yourself trembling, breath coming faster, more desperate, betraying the dread that swims in your eyes the longer you are held half above, half in the water.

Bucky notices, his brows drawing together, a crease deepening between them, concern coloring his expression in a way you do not understand.

His gaze slips away from you for a moment, surveying the open water. He glances around, looking at the stretch of horizon where boats might appear, where more of his kind could descend upon you if he called out, if he raised his voice to summon help.

Your chest tightens, breath catching in a strangled gasp as terror flares anew, your eyes widening. Would he actually call for help? Would he actually hand you over like every other day’s catch and watch your execution?

Another hiss builds up, but it leaves your lips faint and broken, the sound weak with fear. Not of warning but of helplessness.

It echoes soft and strained over the water, barely more than a whisper against the waves. As if your voice is held captive just like your body.

He hears it, the small note of despair hidden in your voice, and his head jerks back. His gaze finds you once more.

There is something in his eyes that speaks of an apology. A remorse that settles deeper as the water below. His hold on the net loosens, his grip easing so that more of the water can reach you again, its familiar caress lapping at your form. As if trying to pull you back toward the safety you called your home for so long. As if desperate to help you escape this cage.

He recognizes you. You see it in his eyes. You basically watch the gears turning, the way realization washes over his features. But there is so much more. Wonder. Inquiry. Awe. Astonishment. One that seems to draw him closer, as if he is not simply looking at a creature of the sea but at something miraculous, something precious.

One of his hands slips free from the net, and you feel its absence like a weight lifted, the net sagging slightly around you, allowing you to feel more of the water.

He turns his shoulder, his movements slow, careful not to startle you further. He searches behind him, brushing over the clutter of his boat. But his gaze remains softly tethered to yours.

Then, a glint catches your eye, a flash of steel in his hand. A knife. Sudden tension bolts through your limbs. Instinctively, your body tries to recoil but is still unable to do so.

Alarm shoots through his eyes at the subtle tremor rippling down your form.

“Easy,” he soothes, “it’s alright.” He says it with a whisper, a softness you only ever watched his lips form from afar but the sound never reached your ears before. Your body stills with the ease that sinks into your bones.

His mouth lifts into a faint, reassuring smile, quieting the last stirrings of panic.

With slow hands he presses the blade to the lines of rope, wielding it with a care that feels sacred. His brow furrows in concentration as he cuts through the knotted fibers, slicing where they press too tightly against you, but never letting the blade get too near to your skin.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t pause a second to consider the effort it probably took to craft this net, nor the care in each knot that now falls loose under his hand.

Every movement of his hands are deliberate. His gaze flickers from the net to your face, to your trapped form, careful not to linger anywhere that might unsettle you, cautious not to graze the skin and scales stretched vulnerable against the bindings.

You watch him as you did when he slipped those heavy boots onto your bare feet those many weeks ago. That same startled disbelief makes itself some space within you, spreading like the cold dawn light always filtering through the water’s surface, that usually shimmers on your scales.

Your eyes linger on him, trying to understand, to piece together this contradiction in the form of a fisherman. A human, as gentle as he is foreign.

Again and again, you were told of their harshness, of the relentless cruelty they carry, their disregard for the life coursing through the sea.

So how is this man real? How is he here with his soft eyes, hands working with such care, brows drawn into a crease of concern? Instead of malice, there is a kindness in the lines around his eyes, deeply ingrained in his irises and it startles you all the same, like it has the first time.

This man - James - Bucky - is no villain of your sister’s stories.

He is not the faceless terror of the human shore.

He is something else entirely. An exception, perhaps. The one who is gentle where others might be harsh, who frees instead of binds.

Somehow, that exception is enough for you.

Enough to loosen the warnings of your sisters they etched into your memory, the caution they expect you to keep, the dread they drape over the very mention of men and nets and sharp steel.

Because you’re not looking at a murderer. You’re looking at your savior.

And he is working for your freedom, movements leisurely and measured, until the last binding of rope has fallen away, each woven knot surrendering beneath his blade.

You feel the grip of it loosen, and with it, a strange new lightness fills the parts of you that had been pinned down, captured.

There are bruises now, dark and tender, littering your skin, and small cuts where the net bit into you. But the pain is an afterthought, dissolving as you stretch, the water rushing around your fins in a cool balm, as if trying to soothe you.

Bucky’s gaze does not lift from you. His eyes drift over the marks, those dark welts and stinging cuts, and something painful shivers across his face.

His hands tighten on the final piece of rope as he pulls it away from you like it might continue hurting you with just a brush at your skin.

His lips press into a hard line, his jaw working in tension. His brows furrow deeper as he studies those lines against your skin, a look that holds none of the satisfaction of a hunter admiring his catch.

No, it’s an expression of someone caught in the grip of remorse, a guilt so heavy it seems to tug at his shoulders.

You realize then, that he’s holding the rope like something unholy, an object of disdain. His knuckles whiten around the last severe piece, and his eyes narrow on it.

The disgust is there, but not for you - not for the creature freed from his net. The disgust is for the remnants of the trap. For the scars it left on your skin. For the way it squeezed your fins to a painful angle. For the role he unwillingly played in it.

He seems to soften though as he watches you glide into the water gracefully, breathing deeply, reverently, as though the sea itself is an extension of your soul. As if it’s greeting you, happily taking you back into its arms.

He pulls the remaining lines of rope from the water with a certain hesitation, as if you’re having a moment he doesn’t want to interrupt. The torn and useless remnants of his net slip from his hand into his small boat. He won’t be able to redo the net with those ropes but his eyes hold no regret.

You could have disappeared already. Could have slipped down beneath the surface, beyond the reach of his eyes, back to the quiet depth that cradles your secrets.

Safety is waiting only a single dive away, already touching your tail, yet something is holding you here. You linger, your head just above the waves, suspended in that fragile space where your world touches his.

And in the stillness that forms between you, you see him truly looking. Not with the distance of a man glimpsing a mystery but with a reverence that seems to slow his every breath.

His gaze is not hurried. He takes his time, as if each second reveals another layer, another detail. As if he is memorizing the curve of your cheek, the foreign power in your eyes, the salt-laced droplets sliding down your skin.

Wonder fills his features, curiosity softens the angles of his jaw. He’s admiring you.

Admiring the way the sunlight catches on your scales, painting his face with the shimmer of your being. Shades glimmering turquoise, veined with trails of silver that follow along your translucent threaded fins, blurring into rivulets of cerulean and jade.

His lips are parted, but you watch the faint whisper of a word forming, the trace of something fragile and bare. Perhaps he doesn’t even realize he’s spoken, the words drifting to you like a half-breathed sigh.

“It’s you.”

It’s a murmur, more to himself than to you, the sound barely louder than the lapping of the waves against his boat.

It sounds like an answer. An answer to some unspoken question he must have asked himself, again and again, as he scanned the shoreline, the streets of his town, in the dawning light.

His voice clings to those words, as though he has been searching, always searching, for a glimpse of you amidst the townsfolk.

Though he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

****

You’re no longer the only one observing.

Seeking a glimpse into a life so different and out of reach, yet always in line of sight.

The day after he rescued you, he returned to the docks early, hours before he would normally start.

The docks were silent, wrapped in the pale blue serenity of dawn.

You watched him intrigued, covered by the tall willow trees leaning over the water. The long branches heavy with dew, draped down to veil you in their green gloom.

You could see him clearly. More than ever. Perhaps because, deep down, you knew he came here for you. Came here because he wanted to catch a glimpse of the creature he caught like a fish the day before.

His gaze drifted over the water’s surface, searching. He was close enough for you to make out the lines easing from his brow. You weren’t quite sure what they meant but it had been one of the same looks he gave you yesterday.

The glint of the early light caught in his eyes as he looked across the innocent waves, perhaps feeling that you were close by.

You held yourself still, heart pounding and soul pondering whether to show yourself. Nervous, you pressed yourself further against the knotted roots of the trees, feeling the solid earth interlaced with the touch of water.

You studied him as you always have. Safe, shrouded, and yet, feeling so near like you never had before, as though a single soft lap of the water could give you away. This was a spot you hid in all the time with Bucky standing on the docks. Same distance as always. But he never felt so close.

Still, you held back, watching the line of his shoulders, how he stayed and watched, silent and waiting.

And just before you could catch a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes, another fisherman strolled over to him, voice loud and angry, a brash disturbance in the quiet morning.

You saw the older man shake the remnants of Bucky’s net in his hand, the shredded ropes still damp and torn. His words rose in harsh waves, berating, biting, blaming.

They rose with your anger. You felt it heat your skin, curling your fingers, snipping your tail.

The waves around you stirred, a flash of dark blue swelling as the currents twisted at your will, the sea restless beneath the fishermen’s feet.

The desire to rise and cast the old man back with the tides pulsed through your veins in a dangerous urge. But you felt Thalassa's resignation at your actions in the back of your mind and reined it in. So, you forced the currents back to calm, just enough that they would think it was only the morning breeze pushing at the water’s surface

Nobody seemed to have noticed. Well, nobody but one person. Because he didn’t take his eyes off the sea.

Bucky did not turn way, did not shrink into himself, standing rooted on the wooden planks. He seemed to ignore the older man’s harsh words, not bothering to defend himself.

A light ran over his eyes, a relief flickering like the soft glow of sunrise breaking over the water.

His lips curved ever so slightly, a subtle tug at the corners, as though the fisherman’s anger mattered as little as the waves lapping beneath them.

He came earlier the following days as well.

He would step up to the edge of the planks, where his gaze would drift over the soft ripples of your world.

There was patience in his silence every time, like he understood. Like he seemed to get that you weren’t going to show yourself. Still, he came every day. Came, stood, and watched.

It stunned you.

Softened eyes filled with wonder at what lay beneath the unseen. Beneath the innocent stir of the currents. It was as though he had uncovered a hidden treasure, and rather than clutch it, he merely held the idea of it, savoring the knowledge of something beautiful and rare close by, unrevealed by the rest of the world.

It became a ritual of sorts, something he seemed to relish. His own little secret with the sea and with something - someone - he knew lived just out of sight, as if he’d finally found the invisible pulse of the waters he’d crossed all his life without ever realizing.

He always seemed so relaxed in those morning hours. Just him and his secret. Simply watching in contentment, as if not wanting to disturb the calm that held you in its depths.

He traced the waves with a soft smile, admired the way the early morning rays glistened on the water.

As if only now realizing the beauty that lay just outside his door his entire life.

He is currently out on the water again.

You’re always aware when he is. Always know when he sails along your home. He basically becomes a part of it in those moments.

But it’s not his ship that cuts through the waves.

Its form is harsher, its hull thicker, forged more for might than the gentle trawl of his simple craft. It's built like a wall against the waves, not gliding with them like Bucky’s boat normally does.

No, this ship slices through the blue with a purpose that doesn’t belong here.

And he is not alone on deck. There’s that same man that had yelled at him the day after he tore his net to save you.

That’s the reason you followed it out in the open sea - a tinge of protectiveness over the man who saved you. Even years before he laid an eye on you.

Voices ring out above, warped and muted by the water surrounding you, yet they pulse in jagged waves that pierce the quiet.

You narrow your eyes, feeling tension build.

There is an argument happening, rough and sharp, and you wouldn’t bother with it, if his voice wasn’t a part of it.

There is a strain in it. Frustration. Defensiveness, that tugs at something inside your chest.

It pulls you upwards slightly, despite the instinct to sink back into safety.

You linger close enough to feel the force of the anger that tears through the air, even as the water dulls the hardness.

His voice is smaller, caged in by a louder tone, cut down even as he tries to speak. There is something drained in it, something almost defeated and it coils in your chest like a knot, winding tighter with each second you remain just below the surface.

The boat rocks more roughly, as though the weight of their frustration puckers down into the sea itself.

The reckless part of you, the one that caused you to get tangled with the human world before already, again makes a decision for you.

Carefully you move higher, the blur of the voices clearing out the closer you get. The closer you are to exposing yourself to the same air that breathes their argument. Your head is out of the water before you can think, hands holding you steady on the rough wood of this intimidating vessel.

The first voice is one you have heard plenty of times. Older, rough-edged and hard, like waves crashing over jagged rock. It’s the same raised voice Bucky had stood on the receiving end before.

“You’re telling me you cut through a net because you couldn’t be bothered to reel it out right? It would have lasted another season, James!” You flinch at a thud that makes the ship groan. Perhaps a first meeting wood. “Just carelessness - plain carelessness.”

Your fins flutter as the swell of your anger moves in the water with you. Your gaze shifts to the dark outline of the larger vessel above you, hiding your exposed head, not to be seen by the people moving along.

There is no trace of Bucky’s care in this ship, only an imposing sort of power that presses on the water below in all the wrong ways.

You hear Bucky’s strained breath. See his hand grip tightly to the worn wood of the rail.

“It was tangled. I wasn’t going to bring it back all ripped and knotted, without fixing it myself. I know how to mend it.”

He sounds done with this conversation. A tiredness in his voice that never makes it to his eyes when he comes relishing in your tranquil presence in the mornings.

There is a scoff. “You know how to mend it?” A bitter laugh sounds in the air. But it holds no joy. It’s dark. “Well, son, do you also know how to catch fish with it? Half the time you’re out here, you’re thinking about something else. What do you think your mother would say, watching you waste time and gear like this?”

The coldness of the words washes down into the depths, an accusation that somehow bears down on you, too. The water around you shivers and it's then that you realize that’s your doing. You don’t do much to stop it.

Bucky doesn’t reply right away. But you can feel the weight of his silence.

And you’re surprised for a second at the lack of fear inside you. Fear, because he still could be telling this man, who seems to be his father, about you. About how you - a creature of the sea - were the reason he came home with a torn net. Lines of rope all frayed and in pieces.

He could. He could tell him. But, somehow, deep down, deeper than the ocean floor, you knew he wouldn’t.

You basically feel Bucky shift on deck. Feel his gaze roam over the vastness of your home. As if it could give him comfort. As if it composed him enough to speak.

“The net’s on me. I'll have it replaced,” he then says, voice low, flat. “But don’t act like I haven’t pulled in my share of catches.”

A dark, disappointed groan drones in your ears. “You keep saying you’re here, that you’re focused, but I don’t see it, James. I don’t know what it is you’re chasing after, but it certainly is not in these waters. So, you better figure it out, son, before you waste any more of my time.”

He seems to step closer to Bucky. The thumping of footsteps reverberates around you, sending shivers through your skin, making you instinctively recoil. Your head stays above water but you’re tense. Ready to sink back down at any second.

A shadow nears the edge. Closer, closer, until a figure looms right above the railing. You catch a glint of a big hand gripping the side, knuckles sharp and bloodless.

He seems to lean in, dark hair entering your vision and you dive beneath the surface. But not before hearing the commanding tone of his voice again.

“Now, give me that. You should not have it any longer.”

You’re poised, back in the water, but your heart thrums wildly against the pulse of the sea. The timbre of his authority makes your skin prickle, sounding in your ears as sharp as you’d heard it moments before although it is muffled again.

You keep diving a little deeper. The cold water is bracing you, rushing around you as you sink. You’re low enough to feel safe. To feel the familiar comfort. But you don’t.

You’re restless, nerves tingling.

You can still hear him up there. Bucky. But his voice is tinged with a weariness that’s almost painful to hold inside yourself. The words themselves are lost in the currents, swept away before they can reach you, but you feel them all the same.

It’s worn, like driftwood tossed by a thousand waves. Softened by the relentlessness of it.

You hear his surrender. The long battle that he seems to fight against himself, its breath barely hanging on. Each word carries a heaviness that seems to drift through the sea as though seeking a place to settle but always getting pulled with the stream.

Your heart clenches painfully at the guilt inside. He cut that net, sacrificed it for your freedom, and now here he is, caught in a tangle of it all, left without a defense. And he lets it weave around himself, lets it bind him like his ropes had bound you. But now, he doesn’t reach for a knife. He simply lets it squeeze. Lets it suffocate him.

Before you can get lost in your mind, there is a soft sound coming from above. A plink. It’s delicate, as a raindrop over calm water.

You glance upward, startled at first, your heart doing a jump in synchrony with the rush that disturbs the surface.

Something glimmers, silvered, tumbling in slow motion, catching fragments of light as it drifts through the blue toward you.

It spins and glints, looking like such a fragile thing as it nears you.

Entranced, you reach out, letting it settle into your palm, where it rests cold against your skin, weighty and exquisite all at once.

It’s a chain. Slender, woven like river reeds into an elegant braid, its polished links softened by wear. At its center, a small pendant hangs, swaying gently in the currents that surround you both, learning the cadence of the sea for perhaps the first time.

The pendant is engraved with fine lines, winding into elegant patterns that glint faintly, illuminated by the underwater light.

You don’t known what it means but you run your fingers over it, tracing the grooves and smooth imprints. It’s beautiful and you find yourself admiring the little details. The weight is a comfort in its smallness, like something that belongs close to the heart.

A realization halts your thumb that’s been swiping over it.

Your pulse stirs anew.

You have seen this before - watched it sway against a familiar chest, catching flecks of sunlight as it moved in time with each breath. You’ve watched it rise and fall with every step, tucked close, held as something treasured. Sometimes atop his shirt, sometimes beneath it, where it touched the skin over his heart.

It is Bucky’s.

You have noticed it often enough to recognize it. Saw the flash of it when he leaned forward, the light of it dancing against his skin.

But you never saw the details before. The intricate pattern that makes it so unique.

A surge tugs at your memories. The way his hand would reach up, seemingly on its own, fingers softly grasping it, brushing over its surface like you just had. As if it holds something for him. Something valuable. Something of a price no coin in the world could ever reach. And it grants him access to it by a simple touch.

And now, it rests in your palm with a weight of importance so irreplaceable, doomed to drown and sink into a pit of darkness where it would lay unattainable but never forgotten.

You can’t let that happen.

There’s no way to find out what happened for it to fall where sky meets water but you won’t let it get dragged to its watery grave.

And something tells you it wasn’t Bucky’s decision to let go of it in such a way.

****

Bucky seems different this morning.

He was even earlier today. Sitting there already when you came up from the deep, shadows clinging to his frame, pooling in the curve of his shoulders. They are slumped in a way that makes him almost look unfamiliar, as though he’s been folded inward.

He would have caught you the moment your head met the first air of the day but with his eyes tipped downward you were able to retreat to the shadows of the willows without him noticing.

He drags a hand over his face, a sigh in his chest.

When he finally looks out across the water, there is a longing heavily dripping from his gaze like the water droplets from your lashes. His sadness seeps into the air, causing your breath to hitch.

Fingers tighten around the pendant that basically fell into your hand yesterday. It digs into the soft skin of your palm, pressingly reminding you who it belongs to.

There was no good time to give it back to him the day before but now there is.

But there is no way he won’t see you placing it on the wooden planks near enough for him to find.

Your heart hammers.

You wish for the pendant to give you that something it seems to grant Bucky so many times. Perhaps a bit of courage.

A deep breath fills your lungs. It wobbles on the way out but it’ll have to do.

Slowly, you submerge, sliding back beneath the water where silence engulfs you once again. Maybe that’s all you need to calm down.

You glide forward with the grace that comes naturally. Fish flit past, a scatter of silver that parts seamlessly around you. The water yields to you, always knowing your intentions before you do. Algae sway with your passing, green tendrils blending softly as you slip through.

You near the dock, near Bucky, and draw in another centering breath before pushing yourself to rise. The pendant is still tightly gripped in your palm, fingers almost aching.

The water responds, curving away for you to swim through. You emerge, inch by inch, already seeing his blurred form, a soft tether pulling you upward.

And when you break through, lifting your head into the open air, your eyes meet his.

Bucky’s breath catches, and he stills completely, eyes widening with that flicker of disbelief you remember from the first time. His face is struck by surprise. But it melts. Softening. Faster than the first time.

The shock in his gaze is fleeting now, submitting to something else, something that lingers, far lighter and deeper.

His mouth is open, caught mid-breath, and then his lips curve. A faint exhalation slips past his lips - half gasp, half laugh - an unguarded sound that leaves him like he’s been holding it, too fragile to release but too powerful to contain.

He holds himself still. Each muscle in his body restrained, as though he’s afraid the slightest shift might scare you away, making you sink down to the bottom of the ocean where he could not follow. He doesn’t even blink. As though he’s afraid that you might be a figment of his imagination and vanish the second his eyes open again.

But there’s a tremor in his hands. And the sudden rise and fall of his chest with the curling fists betray his desire to draw near.

His gaze trails over your features, each line of your face, lingering as if he tries to convince himself that you are real, despite him having seen you already.

The way he looks at you feels almost too much - so full of amazement that you feel your heart stutter, feel heat rise in your cheeks as his unabashed gaze rests so intensely on you.

You drop your gaze from him, rather keep it on the wooden planks as you slowly lift your hand out of the water. The one with his lost treasure in it.

Quietly, with a shyness you haven’t expected, you move closer. Carefully. Purposeful.

His eyes follow. Darting from your face to your hand, back and forth. His gaze softens with every passing second as you approach.

You stop beside the outside of his thigh, and with a breath that almost stuck in your throat, you unclench your fist while lowering it to the dock, setting it down as if even the wood beneath should bear its weight with care.

Taking your hand away, you reveal the chain and pendant that gleam like a secret laid bare between you both.

You draw back slightly, giving him space to process what lay before his eyes.

Bucky remains motionless. Suspended between reality and a cruel fantasy that plays tricks on him. His gaze is glued to the pendant as if it’s something sacred.

The bewilderment painted across his face that slackens his features and lets his mouth hang open is almost comical. A childlike miracle that softens his features to something so unexpectedly vulnerable. Your chest feels light and you can’t help the smile that softly tugs at your lips.

One of his hands reaches toward it as if on its own accord, callous fingers brushing over it with a slow tenderness, as though he is rediscovering a lost part of himself.

He lifts it in his palm, the chain glinting faintly in the dim morning light, and he stares at it like he’s seeing it for the first time.

The breath he releases is shaky, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, breaking from him with the relief of something heavy lifted.

He closes his hand around it, pressing it close to him as if it’s something to be treasured, as if he’s able to draw warmth from its metal. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment and his fingers tremble around the newfound relict.

You avert your eyes. This feels like a moment you shouldn’t take part in. It feels like you’re intruding into something private with him so unguarded.

So you prepare to return to your hidden shadows, to leave him with his thoughts, to let the moment be his alone.

“Wait!”

The word is barely more than a croak, a rasp of something unsaid that was out before he could gather his strength.

You turn your head up to him again, meeting his gaze as his hand scrubs over his face, eyes wide and shining with something he can barely hold back.

He tries again, voice steadier but no less quiet. “I- I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

His gratitude floats between you both, the sincerity making your breath catch. His eyes search your face with something akin to incredulity. As if he’s still not sure if you’re really floating in the water before him. As if you still could be something his mind just made up. Even though the evidence of your presence is clutched tightly in his hand.

You don’t understand how he sees this as a debt. He was the one to gift you back your freedom. Your life. So why would he believe the debt could ever belong to him and not to you?

You watch him searching for language, his mouth shaping words that never quite leave his lips, his hand pressing the pendant to his chest.

He breathes deeply, almost as if bracing himself. And when he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet.

“Thank you,” he whispers, softer than before, his voice thick with gratitude that runs deeper than you will ever understand.

Something warm rises from some deep place within you and you feel it light up your face like the morning sun upon the water you’re floating in. Your mouth curves into a soft smile.

In response, his eyes brighten, a glimmer finding its way back into the blue depths as if he, too, is warmed by some inner sunrise.

His lips twitch upwards, hesitant yet honest, corners of his mouth tugging until it spreads into something whole, something radiant.

He holds you in his gaze as if he’s made a room there for you already. Something for you to stay. Something to keep you.

His eyes hold the kind of devotion that moments ago he had reserved for the pendant alone. But now it’s turned to you as if you’ve become the rare treasure placed back into his open palm.

He looks at you as if you’re the one who saved him today.

And before you can even so think about slinking back under, he speaks up again.

“May I-” He studies you for a heartbeat longer, contemplative. “Do you have a name?”

It’s intimate. A question only meant for you. Only uttered for your ears and not for the listening sea around you. The note is stronger, clearer, as though a surge of determination forced him to ask, not letting him leave until he gets an answer.

You can’t stop your smile from widening. Heat creeps up along your neck to the tips of your ears and the impulse arises to dive away, hiding from this emotion, resisting it. But you can’t let his question hover above you like that. Not when he answered you after it was you asking for his name those weeks ago.

A flicker of something crosses his eyes. Something you might interpret as an endearment. He seems to cherish this moment, eyes so fully fixed on the way your cheeks redden under his attention.

“Y/n.”

He beams. Face lighting up with a smile so pure it renders the sun climbing behind him rather useless.

He repeats your name - breathes it, really. He couldn’t help himself. Each syllable drips off his tongue like he’s tasting it, savoring it as if the sound itself holds some secret sweetness he never knew he craved.

Your tail flicks, cutting a gentle line through the water, a motion so out of your control like the sudden thrill in your chest.

He seems to engrave each note, each cadence of your name into the deepest folds of his mind.

As if he might hold onto it forever.

As if he can’t bear to let it fade.

“I am in love with the impossibility of us.”

- Lauren Eden

[missallanious]

😔 he had to be donut’d eventually, even in my own au

(But he survives this one!! And Jotaro goes berserk lmao)

Still playing w the specifics, and the sketches are kinda sorta connected, but def gets hit with an arrow (shot from Dio’s longbow, the bastard), tbd on whether or not he’s with Jotaro or if his (unconscious) body is found later, both suck in different ways >:)

Also peep Jotaro giving Kakyoin the stink-eye in the first one,,,, he’s still just studying his eye color lmao but Kakyoin is STRESSIN