Omega!Reader, who remains unbonded, despite the years passing and the whispers that maybe something's wrong with her.
Omega!Reader, who tried with alphas who seemed decent enough. But every time felt empty. Like going through motions the body was supposed to crave, but her mind couldn't quite find the appeal.
Omega!Reader, who works in the back kitchen of the bakery, kneading dough and glazing pastries where the public can't see her. It's safer that way. Quieter.
Omega!Reader, who catches it some days, a scent barely there, threaded under the flour and caramel. Metal and leather, and beneath that something warm. Clean sweat and musk and something unnameable that makes her hands still mid-fold, her pupils blow wide.
Omega!Reader, whose instincts scream at her to walk outside. To follow it. To find the source.
Omega!Reader, who doesn't. Omegas going into alleys at night was how news headlines started.
Omega!Reader, who keeps working, keeps ignoring it, until one day the wind shifts. The scent that slips through the vent isn't subtle anymore. It's unmistakable. Alpha. Raw and dark and something that makes her knees buckle.
Omega!Reader, whose body reacts before her mind catches up. Slick, warm, and unwanted, sliding down her inner thighs while she stands frozen at the prep counter, flour dusting her trembling hands.
Omega!Reader, who has never felt this with any alpha she's actually touched. But some phantom in an alley makes her body weep for it.
Omega!Reader, who goes to clean herself up in the bathroom, her pulse throbbing between her thighs.
Omega!Reader, who doesn't hear the drag of metal fingers against brick outside. Doesn't notice the change in the alpha's scent, sharper now, edged with something feral. It smells her slick, and the world narrows to that vent.
HYDRA's greatest achievement: an alpha without instinct. A Weapon without want. Suppressed, obedient, useful. Oh, how pleased they are with their relentless fist.
Alpha!Soldat, who is chemically castrated through suppression injections that kill every bonding instinct, every protective urge, every mating drive.
Alpha!Soldat, who is left with nothing but the aggression, the territoriality, the raw endurance. An alpha stripped down to its most violent parts.
Alpha!Soldat, who associates omega pheromones with severe pain. Pavlovian conditioning at its cruelest.
Alpha!Soldat, whose ruts are chemically suppressed into non-existence. It doesn't remember what it feels like to want. HYDRA can't risk their asset going feral over an omega at the wrong moment.
Alpha!Soldat, who has never scented an omega outside of sterile facilities.
Alpha!Soldat, who is deployed on a routine extraction, catches your scent through the bakery vent and freezes mid-step for the first time in 70 years.
Alpha!Soldat, who short-circuits because you smell like brown sugar and yeast, not fear and antiseptic. Its brain doesn't know what to do with that.
Alpha!Soldat, who instantly tenses and braces for agony that doesn't come after scenting you.
Alpha!Soldat, who starts deviating from its routes to pass by the bakery's alley.
Alpha!Soldat, who had never seen you, but that vent two meters up breathes your scent into the dark, and it stands there like something waiting to be fed.
Alpha!Soldat, who never processed being an alpha in any healthy way, and now its instincts return chaotic, confused, starving.
Alpha!Soldat, whose perpetually limp cock starts to stir for the first time in decades, thick and insistent against the fabric of its tactical pants.
Alpha!Soldat, who paws clumsily at the unfamiliar bulge, chest heaving in the alley shadows.
Alpha!Soldat, whose suppressants are starting to fail.
You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easy— he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You don’t belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it can’t last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, you’ll both realize the same thing too late—enemies were never supposed to feel like this.
݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut.
part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v ᥫ᭡ part vi ᥫ᭡ part vii ᥫ᭡ final
Request: Idiots in Love idea for skinny Steve, if you're up for it. Steve knows he's too short, too scrawny, too sickly to ever be your type. Sure every time you've gone out with someone it's a punch to the gut, but he can't say anything. You're too good for him. You know you're too big, too tall for Steve to ever want you. Especially as all the dates you go on confirm you're not pretty enough. Sure every time Bucky sets Steve up on a date it's a punch to the gut, not you can't say anything. You're not good enough for him. - Zombie @thezombieprostitute
Summary: After so many dates being shoddy or uninteresting, you and Steve finally admit your feelings for each other much to the delight of Bucky. [WC 1.3K] [ao3]
Warnings: Skinny!Steve, Reader Idiots in Love
Steve notices first. He always does.
It’s not even intentional anymore—it’s just instinct. The way his eyes track you when you walk into a room, like something in him settles the second you’re there. Like oh, okay, everything’s where it’s supposed to be now.
And then, The guy beside you. Taller than Steve. Broader. Easy smile. The kind of guy who doesn’t look like he has to try to exist.
Steve’s stomach drops. He looks away fast, like he’s been burned.
“Don’t,” Bucky mutters beside him, not even looking up from his drink.
“Don’t what?” Steve says too quickly.
“Do that thing where you pretend you don’t care.”
Steve scoffs, but it’s weak. “I don’t— Buck, she’s just—she’s dating. That’s… normal.”
Normal. Yeah. Normal for someone like you. Not for someone like him. Across the room, you laugh at something your date says—and it’s not even a big laugh. Just a small one. Polite. Careful.
Steve knows your real laugh. That loud, unguarded one you try to hide behind your hand. The one that makes your shoulders shake. You’re not doing that now.
But the guy doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he look that closely?
Steve’s jaw tightens.
“Go talk to her,” Bucky says.
“No.”
“Stevie—”
“No,” he repeats, sharper this time. “She’s… she’s got someone.”
Someone better. Someone who doesn’t look like they might get knocked over by a strong breeze. Someone who doesn’t have to hide how winded they get from climbing stairs. Someone who doesn’t have everything wrong with them. Steve grips his glass a little tighter.
“She deserves…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Not me.”
You notice too. You always do. It’s stupid, really. The way your attention drifts no matter who you’re with, no matter what they’re saying. Like there’s a magnet in your chest and it’s always—always—pulling you back to him. Steve. Sitting across the room. Small in his chair, like he’s trying to take up less space. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around his drink like he’s not sure what else to do with them.
He looks… nice. He always looks nice. Soft. Gentle. Careful. The kind of person people overlook. The kind of person you notice too much.
“—and then I told him, I said, no way, man—hey, you listening?”
You blink, dragged back. “Yeah—sorry,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… long day.”
Your date chuckles. “Yeah? You seem kinda distracted.”
Because you are. Because every time you look over, Steve looks away like he’s not allowed to be caught staring. Because earlier, you saw the girl Bucky introduced him to.
Pretty. Small. Everything you’re not.
Your stomach twists.
“Do you… wanna get out of here?” your date asks, leaning in slightly.
You freeze. Because this is the part where you say yes. This is the part where you prove you’re normal, that you can do this, that you’re not— Your eyes flick up again.
Steve’s already looking. And for a split second, neither of you look away. It’s quiet. Just for a heartbeat. Something soft and aching passes between you.
Then he drops his gaze. Of course he does. He always does.
You swallow. “…Actually,” you say, pulling back slightly, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”
Your date frowns. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
You don’t wait for him to argue. You just grab your bag and turn—and walk straight toward Steve.
He doesn’t realize you’re coming until you’re there.
“Hey,” you say.
Steve looks up so fast he nearly knocks his glass over. “H—hey,” he stammers, scrambling to steady it. “I thought—you were—uh—”
“On a date?” you finish, a little wry.
“Yeah. That.”
You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t really feel like one.”
Something flickers across his face. Hope. Quick and fragile. “Oh.”
There’s a pause. Awkward. Thick. God, why is this always so hard?
You shift your weight. “How about you? Your… uh… setup?”
Steve lets out a small, humorless huff. “Left. While I was in the bathroom.”
Your heart drops. “What? Why?”
He shrugs, but it’s too casual, too practiced. “Guess I’m not exactly—” he cuts himself off. Don’t say it. Don’t. “—what people are looking for,” he finishes quietly.
Something sharp twists in your chest. “Steve—”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Really. I mean—look at me.”
And there it is. That self-deprecating little laugh. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.
You stare at him. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Look at you.”
Steve blinks, confused by your tone.
“You’re kind,” you continue. “And funny. And you remember stupid little things I say from weeks ago. You walk me home even when it’s out of your way. You—” your voice wobbles slightly, but you push through, “—you’re the only person who actually sees me.”
He goes very still.
“Why would anyone not be looking for that?” you ask softly.
Steve’s throat works. “Because,” he says, barely above a whisper, “that’s not enough.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”
His eyes snap up to yours. “What?”
You laugh, but it’s small. Not your real one. “Every guy I go out with makes it pretty clear,” you say. “Too tall. Too much. Not exactly what they had in mind.”
“Is it?” you shoot back, a little sharper than you meant. “Because it keeps happening, Stevie.”
Silence. Heavy.
Then, quieter he says, “You deserve better than them.”
You almost smile. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Steve frowns. “What?”
“You deserve someone who actually wants you,” you say, your voice softening again. “Someone who doesn’t walk out. Someone who—” You stop.
Because his expression has changed. Completely. “—someone who what?” he asks.
Your heart is pounding now. This is it. You can feel it. That edge you’ve both been circling forever. “Someone who doesn’t think they’re too good for you,” you finish, barely audible.
Steve stares at you. “You think that’s why I don’t—?” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t— I don’t think I’m too good for you.”
“Then why don’t you ever—?” you start, frustration slipping through.
“Because you are,” he blurts.
You freeze. “…what?”
“You’re too good for me,” Steve says, all at once, like it’s been trapped in his chest for too long. “You always have been. I mean—look at you. And look at me. I can barely— I’m not— I’m just—”
“Steve.”
He stops.
Your voice is steady now. “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” He flinches slightly. “I’ve spent months thinking I wasn’t good enough for you,” you continue. “That you’d never look at me like that. That you’d always want someone smaller, prettier—”
“Prettier?” he echoes, genuinely baffled. “Are you serious?”
“Yes!”
“You’re—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even process it. “You’re the most—” He stops again. Takes a breath. Tries again. “You’re it for me,” he says, simply.
The world goes very, very quiet.
“…what?” you whisper.
Steve swallows hard. “You’re it,” he repeats. “Have been. For a while now. I just… figured you’d never want—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—this.”
You step closer. Close enough that he forgets how to breathe. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur.
His lips twitch faintly. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”
“Good,” you say. “Because I’m apparently one too.”
And then—before you can overthink it, before he can talk himself out of it again— You kiss him. It’s soft. A little clumsy. Like neither of you quite believe it’s happening. Steve makes a small, startled sound against your lips, hands hovering awkwardly for half a second before settling—hesitant, careful—at your waist. Like he’s afraid you might disappear. You don’t. You lean in closer instead. And when you pull back, just barely— He’s looking at you like the world just rewrote itself.
“Hi,” you whisper.
Steve lets out a shaky breath. “…hi.”
Across the room, Bucky slams his hand on the table. “FINALLY.”
Neither of you even look at him. Because for once— You’re both exactly where you’re supposed to be.
My Headcanons/Thoughts of Bucky and his dislike of the cold.
one of Bucky's favorite things is how warm you feel. the man runs hot, he's got the serum afterall, but he feels cold, he always feels cold, and he hates it. the man craves warmth. he is always migrating to the warmest part of the room. always in the sunlight. he needs to feel it. but you, you're warm, you're comforting. he'll lie across you and soak every ounce of warmth you offer to him. he'll let you hold him or vice versa not just because he craves your touch and love but you're warmth too. He's spent too many years in cryo, too many years in Siberia; he can't handle the cold, he just can't.
of course it takes a while for him to feel comfortable with you. he hesitates touching you at first. actually, you're probably the one to initiate touch the first few times, and then when he feels comfortable and remembers he's allowed to touch, oh he clings.
Some weeks ago, someone asked me about my favorite dessert to make, and I said pastafrola. But today I made this and thought, how didn't I mention this? Maybe because I thought about something baked. So here we are. It doesn't have a direct English translation since it is called Turrón de Quaker (or Avena), which would be Oatmeal Nougat, but it is not a nougat; the word is used differently. It is a bomb made with oatmeal, butter, powder cacao, sugar, and crackers.
It is very easy to make, requires zero culinary skills, and I'm sharing it because I know it's still cold over there and you might be tempted:
Ingredients:
200g (7 oz) of butter
Two cups of powder cacao
One cup of sugar
Two cups of instant oatmeal
50ml of milk
Soda crackers -I think it is how water crackers are called abroad, I'm not sure, but the important thing is that they are not sweet-
Preparation:
Melt the butter in a small pot over minimum heat, and once it's liquid, add the two cups of cacao and the one cup of sugar -keep the heat on-. Once everything is combined, add the two cups of oatmeal, and finally, the milk. Once the mixture is ready, turn off the heat.
Now grab the container where you'll set it. I use an 18x26cm -7x10in- tupperware lined with plastic wrap so it doesn't stick. Place a layer of crackers on the base, then cover with a thin layer of the mixture, then another layer of crackers, another layer of mixture, crackers again, and a final layer of mixture.
Once done, refrigerate for at least two hours -the longer the better- and enjoy!
Hello! This is Mina from @apricityandneed. I was thinking through some new projects of mine and trying to pinpoint what always resonates and draws me in with the writing of other authors for inspiration, and I realized that one of the things I appreciate most about your storytelling is that you don't shy away from the full heaviness of grief and trauma (either in Bucky or the reader). Even if the trauma/cause of grief occurs long before the actual story takes place, you never try to sweep away the associated lingering signs/symptoms/behaviors. It creates a depth to your characters that is genuinely captivating, without overloading the reader with exposition. Thank you for sharing your work! As both a reader and a writer it is greatly appreciated 🤗
Mina! This is such a thoughtful message, thank you. I'm honestly so touched that you see that depth in my writing. Exploring grief and trauma is something I care about, and sometimes I ask myself if it's "too much" when going there. So hearing it lands with you means the world, thank you so much for your lovely words❤️
I am in shambles after the last Wanted update. Sweet mercy I was SWEATING 😍 especially since I'm trying to figure out the best way to write intimacy with an inexperienced (and in my fics case traumatized) reader I was simultaneously 🥵 and 🤨🤓✍️
-Mina
Mina!! Thank you so much for your words. I'm happy you enjoyed it and that you find it inspiring. It is a challenge to write an inexperienced reader without falling in patronizing or 'grooming' patterns, also for some reason I'm struggling more with this case than with Prometheus🤔
https://www.tumblr.com/vunblr/784468768004997120/you-once-said-you-looked-at-fantasy-themed-dildos?source=share This is the shape I imagined, just in black and blue.
What did Bucky hunt to get his tattoo?
It's a colossal squid. In his cockiness, he didn't go for something easy as a shark, which, once subdued with strong limbs it can be put down without much effort, and went for something more versatile and dangerous instead. It's a great deed not only because of the nature of the prey, but also because that species is located in the Antarctic Ocean, or waters bordering it. -The story is now narrated in the prequel The Colossal Feat-
Did Bucky's matings lead to any pups?
No, não, nein, nyet. The Thal'kyr have a very low birth rate as a species, so this isn't uncommon. It's mentioned in the main fic, he tells reader he never had descendants, which was a source of shame for him.
He had mated several times before his confinement and a few times after, but nothing came of it. Sometimes a male will only sire one or two pups in his entire lifespan, and considering Bucky didn't even mate every year, that diminished his chances significantly.
Does he ever crave the rough and tumble of mating with another cecaelia after being with reader?
Nope. He wishes he didn't have to think about hurting her by "normal" manhandling? yes. But in the prequels, he always asked himself if what his kind did for mating was all that it was available; the fighting, the violence, he always felt empty afterward. He craved something else, and that something else is the connection with his partner, to feel good.
How would he react if she were on her period?
I think the first time Bucky realizes she's on her period, he'd absolutely freak out. His kind doesn't menstruate, so seeing blood would be shocking. He'd think he hurt her, just freeze and stare, spiraling hard until she explains. Even then, he'd still look unsure.
After that, he'd adjust, but the fussing wouldn't stop. The second she winces from a cramp, he's guiding her to bed; that is not negotiable. He wouldn't trust heating bottles, so he'd press his hands against her belly to warm her flesh.
And yeah, he'd probably feel a little disappointed, even if he'd never say it out loud. His kind sees cycles as something meaningful, so there's an instinctive ache when her body says there won't be a baby this time. Not that he expects one, but it is there in the background. He might hold her a little tighter, get broody, and need the reassurance that she's still his.
Does he have a preference for which form he takes during sex with reader?
Even though he has to be careful not to hurt her, he definitely prefers his true form. He can touch her everywhere at once, manhandle her exactly how he wants, and he loves knowing that it completely overwhelms her senses: all the different ways he can stimulate her while he's inside her, the combination of his limbs exploring her body, the suction cups pulling softly... It's an experience no human male could ever give her, and the possessive part of him loves that.
What are some things that the Reader does that turns Bucky on? Are there certain things/actions that we as humans deem completely normal, but somehow activates something deep within him and makes that need spike?
If you are wearing something red -it doesn't matter if it is a summer dress, or old sweatpants- you are asking for it. Females who can produce red pigment use it in the mating season to appeal to the males.
Offering him food from your plate, or feed him with your fingers. It is a very intimate act, and he feels like you are dotting him.
Obviously gestures that expose your throat/neck.
Silly little things where you need his "superior" build. "Can you help me carry this?" or "I can't reach that, could you-" bam. You are recognizing his strength, relying on him, and that feels like a positive evaluation of his body that goes straight to his groin.
How does he feel when his pup is finally school age and will have to leave the nest for hours on end? Like kindergarten age?
This would definitely be a conflicting moment for Bucky. His protective, possessive instincts are screaming at him that his pup shouldn't leave the den, shouldn't be out of his sight, where he can't protect him.
BUT -this is important- Bucky actually understands the concept of communal learning since in his culture, pups are left without a second look in communal settlements where they're taught by other caretakers. The knowledge and skills needed to survive aren't taught by parents.
So while his protectiveness resists, his logical mind recognizes that school serves a similar purpose; it's where human children learn the skills and knowledge they need to survive in their world.
The difference -and what would make it easier for him- is that human schooling is much gentler than the communal raising. The child comes home every day. He's not being abandoned or cast out. He still sleeps in his nest, still has his parents, still is protected and loved.
What is his favorite food that can't be found in the sea? Something he's never tired of before living on land with the reader.
Besides butter -which we constantly have to monitor or he'll eat half a stick in one sitting- Bucky's favorite human food involves crispy/crunchy textures: bacon, toast, potato chips, the crispy fried fish cones we usually buy him.
He does NOT understand vegetables, maybe because he is carnivorous. But enjoys eating fruits, since they're sweet.
So here's Steve's Q&A section; he deserved one -I think-
Tangled Q&A - Tangled Masterlist
Will Steve and Bucky reunite again?
Ol' Stevie passed away. He decided to spend his life as a full human and age as one with the person he chose. Bucky waited too long to go to him.
He never changed again, maybe for certain moments, but he chose to let it all go to be with his partner. He was more detached from his culture than Bucky. Being a weak link in their society marked him in a way that didn't get fixed with the body enhancement he received from the witch. He always dreamt of another life, and that is what he got. When he decided to age as a human, his lifespan shortened considerably.
How much did Steve’s lifespan shortened?
When Steve left, they were both 120 years old and looked like 30-something year-old humans. I estimate cecaelias have a lifespan of 300 years. So if he lived 60 human years on land, his life was about 120 years shorter than it would have been if he’d stayed at sea.
Steve and his enhancement:
He gave ten years of life and his fertility to the witch. He didn't hesitate; he was going to die anyway in the deep, given his weak build. Bucky couldn't be there for him forever.
Did he care about Bucky?
Yes, but Bucky couldn't see it the moment they parted. He was traumatized, and in pain, and the only bond he ever had told him he was going to leave him to go to mainland -a taboo, a disgrace for their kind- following a female of the same species who made his life a living hell. Over the years, Bucky came to understand that Steve's actions when freeing him came from a place of care, not just a desire to repay a debt for taking care of him when they were young.
Did Steve ever try to find Bucky again, or did he at least do anything to honor him?
He chose to live his life on the mainland, and that's what he did. He remembered Bucky time to time, but… that's it. About honoring him, since he gave his virility to the witch in exchange for his body enhancement, there wasn’t a little one to name after old Buck.
Warnings: PTSD. Graphic Violence. Mating Sex. Mentions of Steve -is it a warning? I don't know, it might trigger Endgame rant-
Sinopsis: Liberated but not free, Bucky survives but never quite lives. A story exploring how he ended up in the cave, long before he meets her.
Word Count: 6.6k
note: Prequel of Tangled.
Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold stone of the cave wall, trying to ground himself and breathe through the headache. The pressure had built behind his eyes until his vision whited out at the edges, until all he could do was coil tighter against the rock and wait for it to pass.
It always passed.
Eventually.
He didn't know how long he'd been here. Days, maybe. A week? Time moved strangely when every waking moment was either pain or the exhausted emptiness that came after.
The cave wasn't his. Wasn't anyone's, as far as he could tell. Just a pathetic hollow in the rock he'd found when swimming became too much, when his body had simply refused to go any farther. Dark. Cold. Deep enough that light didn't reach. Far enough from anything that no one would stumble across him by accident.
Which was good. He didn't want to be found.
His limbs drifted limp in the water, some coiled loosely against the rock floor, others floating weightless. He should move them. Stretch. Keep the muscles from atrophy. But the thought of moving -of doing anything- felt impossible.
Another wave of pain crashed through his head, and he hissed through his teeth, claws scraping against rock.
Was it the magic?
It had to be. What else could it be?
Steve had destroyed the collar, ripped it off with his bare hands in those first violent hours when Bucky hadn't known who he was, hadn't known anything except the screaming need to obey obey obey-
His breath hitched.
Don't think about Steve.
But the pain made it hard not to. Made everything blur together: past and present, memory and moment.
"You need to eat."
Steve's voice. Firm. Worried.
Bucky had turned his head away from the fish he offered, his stomach twisting with nausea that had nothing to do with hunger.
"You haven't eaten in three days."
The memory dissolved as another spike of pain lanced through his brain. Bucky's hand flew to his head, fingers digging into his scalp, his shorter, uneven hair catching between his claws.
Maybe this was hunger.
Or maybe it was the magic, still rooted in his nervous system like poisoned kelp, slowly consuming him from the inside out, eating away at whatever was left.
He'd felt it in those early days -weeks?- when Steve had kept him in that other place. The compulsions. The way his body would try to follow orders that no longer existed, and when it couldn't, when there was no voice commanding him, his muscles would seize and his mind would fracture and-
"Bucky. Look at me."
Hands on his face, forcing eye contact.
"You're safe. Do you hear me? No one's controlling you anymore."
But his body hadn't believed it. Had thrashed against the bindings Steve had used to keep him from hurting himself, from swimming back to-
Where?
He couldn't even remember where they'd kept him. Just glass. Cold glass walls. Chains. The bite of iron on his skin.
Bucky's eyes opened -when had he closed them?- and he stared into the darkness of the cave.
How long had Steve kept him there?
Long enough for the worst of it to pass, for him to stop attacking on sight, for the convulsions to space out from constant to occasional, from several times a day to once every few days.
Long enough for Steve to tell him-
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
But the memory came anyway, sharp and jagged:
"Now that you're better-"
"I'm not better."
Steve had paused, floating in the water across from him. The space had been bigger than this one. Lighter. Steve had chosen it carefully, close enough to his territory that he could hunt, far enough from others that no one would find them.
"Better enough," Steve amended quietly. "You're lucid now. You know who you are. Who I am."
"And that means you're leaving."
It wasn't a question.
Steve's expression had changed -guilt, relief, something Bucky couldn't name-and then nodded.
"Yeah."
Bucky's fingers dug harder into his scalp.
He should've known.
He had saved him because he owed him. All those winters Bucky had kept him alive when he'd been small, weak, struggling. This was just... repayment. Settling a debt.
And now the debt was paid.
"There's someone," Steve had said, and his voice had gone soft in a way that made Bucky's skin crawl. "I met her before I found you."
Bucky's brow furrowed. Someone?
Their kind didn't do that. Didn't pair off. Didn't wait for anyone.
"Someone?" he repeated slowly.
The blonde nodded, and he could see it... the guilt in his expression.
"She's waiting for me."
"She's-" Bucky stopped. "Who? We don't-”
"She's not one of us."
Something cold slithered down Bucky's spine. Every muscle in his body went tense.
Not one of them.
His mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. What else lived in these waters? What else could Steve possibly-
"What," Bucky said, his hard. "A siren? Ningyo?"
The disdain in his tone was sharp enough to cut.
Steve's jaw clenched. His eyes dropped for just a moment before meeting Bucky's again.
"Human."
The word landed like a stone in deep water.
Bucky stared at him, certain he'd misheard. Certain this was another trick of the magic still rotting in his brain, making him hear things that weren't real.
"You're mating with a human."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
Steve exhaled slowly. "It's not- it wasn't planned. I didn't mean for it to happen, it just-"
"Just what?"
"It just... did."
Bucky's eyes burned.
He'd said horrible things after that. Things he couldn't take back. Things that had made Steve flinch and then made his expression harden.
Things that were true.
Because humans were weak. Prey. The same creatures that had chained, tortured, and controlled him, turning him into a weapon against his own kind.
And Steve was going to-
His stomach lurched, and this time it wasn't from the pain in his head.
He forced himself to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out.
It didn't matter.
Steve was gone.
Had been gone for... how long now?
A week?
More?
He had left that cave as soon as Steve disappeared. Couldn't stay there. Couldn't stand the way it smelled like both of them, couldn't stand the fish left behind like Bucky was some kind of pathetic-
So he'd swum.
Didn't know where. Didn't care.
Just away.
And when his body had finally given out, when the pain in his head had become too much, and his muscles had stopped cooperating, he'd found this place.
This cold, dark, empty place.
Where he could-
What?
Recover?
He almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat.
There was nothing to recover to. Steve had made that clear enough before he left.
"You can't go back to the communal areas. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Why?"
But Bucky had known why. Had seen it in Steve's eyes.
"They-"
"Think I'm a traitor."
Steve hadn't denied it.
So.
Here he was.
Alone in a cave that wasn't his, in pain that wouldn't stop, with a body that was still trying to obey commands from a master who no longer can puppeteer him.
Starving, probably.
Or being eaten alive by residual magic.
Did it matter which?
The pain crested again, and he pressed himself harder against the stone, squeezing his eyes shut.
----
The first winters were hard.
Not because of the ostracism, the Thal'kyr weren’t exactly social to begin with. The only reason to gather was mating, an occasional territorial dispute that required a council's intervention, or to seize weakened territory from other merfolk for the benefit of the pups’ colonies, and little else. Solitude was normal. Expected, even.
No, the hard part was the nights.
Or what passed for nights in the depths where he'd made his temporary territory. Time lost meaning when you avoided the surface, when you spent your days drifting between caves and rocky outcrops, never staying long enough to call any of them home.
The nightmares were relentless.
He'd close his eyes -or try to- and immediately he was back there. Chained. The narrow glass walls pressing around him. The cold bite of iron around his limbs and neck, hooks piercing his flesh to keep him suspended, on display.
Sometimes he dreamed of the commands. The voice -multiple voices, layered and wrong- worming into his head, wrapping around his thoughts until they weren't his anymore.
Kill.
Destroy.
Tear them apart.
And he had.
His eyes snapped open in the darkness. His limbs had closed tight around his body without him realizing, a defensive posture, like he could protect himself from memories.
He forced himself to uncoil. To breathe.
The magic was gone. The collar was destroyed. The commands were silent.
He was free.
Free.
But the word tasted like a lie.
He'd been so sure of himself before. Proud. Reckless. After killing that colossal squid, he'd felt invincible, like nothing in the ocean could touch him, like he was apex, untouchable.
What a fool he'd been.
Because there were other forces in this world. Forces that didn't need teeth or limbs or brute strength. Magic that could reach inside you and hollow you out, turn you into a puppet wearing your own skin.
He didn't sleep much after that. Couldn't. Every time he tried, the dreams pulled him back to that glass prison, to the weight of the chains, to the feeling of his will dissolving like salt in water.
So he swam instead.
Aimlessly. Endlessly.
He avoided the communal areas without Steve needing to tell him. Stayed away from the breeding grounds, the territorial waters where others of his kind might cross paths.
He didn't want to see the recognition in their eyes. Didn't want to hear what they'd call him.
The moons bled together. He hunted when hunger became impossible to ignore, ate without tasting, and kept moving.
Always moving.
The passing of winters blurred together like ink in water. Four, maybe five. He stopped counting after the first few seasons, stopped marking time in any way that mattered. The nightmares faded to a dull constant. Not gone, never gone, but manageable. Background noise he'd learned to function through.
Eventually, he claimed a territory in the northern reaches. Not a home -he wouldn't call it that- but a space that was his. Cold water, deep trenches, rocky outcrops that felt familiar after months of drifting past them.
The magic's grip loosened, degree by painful degree. The phantom compulsions grew quieter. His hands shook less. He learned to sleep again. Not well, but enough.
The pattern became routine: hunt, drift, avoid. And when the water warmed each spring, he swam farther north, following the cold until the season passed.
Again.
And again.
This year was no different. He felt it gradually, the shift in currents, the change in the way prey moved through the depths. His own body responded despite everything, that biological pull he couldn't ignore, no matter how much he wanted to.
He swam farther.
He pushed north, then east, following cold currents that tasted of ice and emptiness. The open ocean stretched endlessly around him, dark and vast and blessedly empty of anyone who might know his name.
Here, he could drift.
And if his body ached with the season's demands, if instinct pulled at him like a hook in his gut, he would ignored it.
He'd gotten good at ignoring things.
Pain. Hunger. The way his hands still shook sometimes when he woke from the dreams.
This was just one more thing to endure.
----
He might have kept enduring it if he hadn't noticed he was being followed. Two days now, nothing obvious. Just the faint disturbance in the water that meant someone was tracking him, staying just outside his sensory range but not quite careful enough to be completely invisible.
At first, he'd thought it was paranoia. The magic-induced hypervigilance that still hadn't fully left him, that made him startle at shadows and hear threats in every shift of current.
But no.
Someone was following him.
And if they wanted him dead, they were taking their time about it.
Fine.
If they wanted to play hunter, he'd give them prey.
He found a kelp forest -dense enough to hide in, open enough to maneuver- and made a show of settling there. Nested against a rocky outcrop, half-hidden in the swaying fronds, his skin shifting to match the mottled greens and browns around him.
Then he waited.
It didn't take long.
The water shifted. A presence moved through the kelp with predatory silence, approaching from behind.
Amateur mistake.
Bucky's limbs shot out fast, wrapping around tentacles and torso before his stalker could react. He yanked hard, dragging them forward, spinning them around, and pressing them against the rock face.
His forearm pressed across their throat. His clawed hand readied to pierce a vital point-
And stopped.
Wide female eyes stared back at him, more annoyed than afraid. Her limbs had shifted to a deep burgundy, dark and unmistakable even in the filtered light.
Oh.
He released her immediately, pushing back, putting space between them.
She straightened slowly, adjusting the shells and bone ornaments braided into her hair, her expression utterly unbothered by the fact that he'd just had her pinned with a crushing grip.
"Satisfied?" she asked, her tone dry.
Bucky's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
She tilted her head, regarding him like he was something mildly interesting she'd found abandoned on the ocean floor. Her gaze traveled deliberately down to his left arm, lingering on the dark patterns, the raised scars.
Then back to his face.
"I remember you being more intelligent than this," she said.
Her limbs rippled, that burgundy deepening, spreading up toward her torso.
Not all females could produce the red pigment, but among those who could, it had only one meaning.
Bucky's teeth clicked. "What, are you so desperate you're hunting down a pariah? No one else would have you?"
Her expression didn't change, but something sharp flickered in her eyes.
"The males I've seen lately don't surprise me," she said coolly. "Adequate marks. Mediocre strength. Nothing worth my time."
She drifted closer, and he forced himself not to move back.
"I don't consider you a traitor," she continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "Weak-minded for letting yourself be manipulated? Yes. But what I'm looking for is a strong mate, not mental fortitude."
The words landed like a slap.
Bucky's jaw clenched, his own limbs darkening reflexively, blacks and deep blues bleeding through his skin.
"How flattering," he bit out.
She shrugged, unbothered. "I'm not here to flatter you.” Her eyes dropped to his arm again. “I'm here because you're the only male in three territories with a mark worth considering." She said it like she was reciting facts, not praise. "That level of capability doesn't just disappear because humans broke your mind."
His hands flexed into fists. "Careful."
"Why?" She met his gaze evenly. "You going to tell me I'm wrong? That you weren't their puppet?"
The anger that surged through him was white-hot, immediate.
But she didn't flinch. Didn't back down.
Just watched him with those calculating eyes, waiting to see if he'd prove her right about the weak-minded part.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced the rage down into something cold and controlled.
"What makes you think I'm interested?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Your body is," she said bluntly, glancing down.
And damn it, she wasn't wrong. The season had him primed whether he wanted it or not, and the proximity to a receptive female was making that abundantly clear.
"A reaction doesn't mean interest," he growled.
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. "No. But it's honest."
She circled him slowly, evaluating. He tracked her movement, tense, waiting for-what? An attack?
"You can deny me," she said after a moment. "I'm not desperate enough to force the issue. But I'll be in the kelp beds east of here for the next three days. If you change your mind."
She started to drift away.
Then paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
"For what it's worth," she said, and her tone lost some of its sharp edge. "What they did to you was... unfortunate. But you survived it. That counts for something."
Unfortunate.
Like it was bad weather. A minor inconvenience.
She disappeared into the kelp before he could respond, leaving him alone with the word echoing in his head.
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
Instead, he just floated there in the swaying kelp, staring at the space where she'd been, his traitorous cock pulsing in the open and his mind a tangled mess of anger and something that might have been temptation.
Three days.
She'd be there for three days.
----
He told himself he wouldn't go.
He told himself a lot of things over the winters.
Apparently, this was just another lie to add to the collection.
He found her in the kelp beds on the second day, because waiting three would've felt like proving a point he didn't care about anymore.
She didn't look surprised when he appeared. Just looked up from where she'd been running her fingers over a cluster of shells embedded in the rock, and tilted her head.
"Changed your mind?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
His presence was answer enough.
What followed was exactly what he should've expected. What he'd seen every time in the breeding grounds before his capture, before everything went wrong.
She initiated -baring her throat in that age-old invitation, her scent flooding the water between them- then went through all the courting steps, only to fight him in the end.
Hard.
Claws raking across his ribs. Limbs wrapping around his, trying to make him lose balance. Her teeth sank into his shoulder when he got too close, drawing blood that clouded the water darkly.
It wasn't playful or gentle.
It was a test. Pure and brutal.
Prove you're strong enough. Prove you can overpower me. Prove you're worthy of what I'm offering.
So he did.
He caught her wrists when she tried to claw his face. Pinned her against the rocks when she tried to twist away. Used his weight and his limbs to hold her still, to force compliance even as she thrashed and snarled beneath him.
And when he finally pushed inside her -when her body yielded- there was no tenderness in it.
Just friction. Pressure. The mechanical drive to satisfy the biological imperative screaming through both their bodies.
She stopped fighting completely. Went still beneath him, her pupils blown wide as her body responded even if her pride wouldn't let her acknowledge it.
He didn't stop.
Couldn't.
The season had him in its grip now, and his body knew what it needed even if his mind was somewhere else entirely.
----
They'd separate only for the briefest of times -resting, tending wounds- and then the need would rise again, sharp and undeniable, pulling them back together.
She'd initiate sometimes, other times he'd be the one to seek her out, his body overriding whatever reluctance his mind tried to maintain.
And every single time, it was the same. Fighting and fucking.
Sometimes she drew more blood than he did. Sometimes it was the other way around.
By the second week, they were both covered in healing bites and claw marks, their skin mottled with bruises that bloomed dark against flesh.
It didn't stop.
The season wouldn't let them stop.
And somewhere in the third week, when his body was buried deep inside hers and she'd finally gone still beneath him, her claws still dug into his shoulders but no longer trying to push him away-
He wondered again if there was more than this. If this was all their kind had. All they'd ever have.
Violence and release. Strength proven through domination. A connection that lasted only as long as their bodies demanded it.
She'd leave when the season ended. Would swim away without looking back, and if they crossed paths again next year, they might repeat this, or she might choose someone else, a male with a more impressive mark.
It didn't matter either way. That's what he told himself. Wishing for anything else would be weakness.
The word surfaced in his mind like something poisonous, and he shoved it down violently.
He thought of Steve. Of that soft tone in his voice when he'd talked about her. About choosing to leave the ocean, to deny their kind of strong offspring, to degrade himself-
He drove harder into the female beneath him, chasing away the idea with the familiar rhythm of taking and being taken.
This was right. This was natural.
This was all there could ever be.
----
Hours later, maybe longer, the desperate edge faded.
He spilled inside her one last time and pulled away, his body finally, temporarily satisfied.
They floated in the kelp, not touching, both breathing hard.
Blood drifted in lazy spirals between them, his and hers both, from the bites and scratches that came with mating.
Mating season wasn't over yet. There would be more of this.
But for now, the urgency had subsided into something manageable.
She examined a particularly deep set of claw marks on her hip, prodding at it with clinical detachment.
He watched her, this female he'd spent weeks inside, whose name he didn't know and hadn't asked for.
And felt nothing.
Nothing except that same hollow ache that never quite went away, no matter how many times he tried to fill it.
----
Eventually, near the end of the moon cycle, something changed.
He woke one morning -afternoon? time still moved strangely- and realized the pull wasn't there anymore.
The constant need that had driven him to her again and again had... faded. Not gone entirely, but dulled to something ignorable.
He floated in the kelp where he'd been resting, and the thought of seeking her out felt less like instinct and more like obligation.
And then, worse, almost repellent.
His skin crawled at the idea of it. Of the fighting, the biting, the feral rutting that his body had demanded.
She was nearby. He could sense her presence in the water, that familiar chemical signature he'd been attuned to for weeks.
But she didn't approach.
Usually by now -after a few hours had passed- one of them would've initiated. She'd appear with that burgundy flush, or he'd find himself drifting toward her without consciously deciding to.
He wondered if she felt it too. The sudden absence of need. The way instinct had simply... released them.
Hours passed.
Then a full day.
Neither of them sought the other out.
On the second day, he saw her in the distance, weaving through the kelp. Hunting, probably. Her movements were purposeful and completely unbothered by his presence.
She didn't acknowledge him.
He didn't acknowledge her.
It was like the past moon cycle had simply... ended. Whatever contract their bodies had made was fulfilled, dissolved, irrelevant now.
On the third day, she left.
He didn't see her go, but he felt the absence. The way her chemical signature faded from the water, growing distant and then disappearing entirely.
She hadn't said goodbye, hadn't said anything. As if those weeks had meant nothing.
Because they hadn't.
That was how it worked.
So why did the kelp forest -where he'd spent the entire mating season with her- suddenly feel too empty?
He told himself the hollowness would fade, that it always did, that this was just his body readjusting to the absence of the breeding chemical flood.
But as he swam through the open ocean, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Not with the mating itself, that had been exactly what it was supposed to be.
But with him.
Maybe the human magic had scrambled his brains for good. But… he had felt this before them. The emptiness.
He didn't have an answer about whether there was supposed to be more to all.
Didn't know if there even was one.
----
A week later, he felt them.
The water carried disturbances too deliberate to be natural: currents shifting in patterns that spoke of coordination, of intent. Multiple presences moving through the depths, not quite close enough to see but near enough that his skin prickled with awareness.
They were hunting him.
He'd been drifting through open water, no destination in mind, when the first telltale pressure changes reached him. Then another. And another.
Four, maybe five.
Circling.
Bucky stopped swimming and let himself float, limbs spreading slightly in the water. His eyes tracked the movements he couldn't quite see yet, cataloging positions, calculating angles of approach.
They wanted him to know they were there.
Wanted him to feel trapped.
Eventually, they materialized from the gloom. Four males, each one positioning themselves to cut off an escape route. Larger than average, their marks visible even in the filtered light. Not exceptional, but competent enough to think they had a chance if they worked together.
His gaze moved slowly from one to the next, his expression neutral.
"Didn't realize there was a council scheduled," he said, his tone dry.
None of them acknowledged the comment. Their faces remained hard, cold.
One of them -the largest, with mottled gray limbs and a mark that crawled up his right arm in angular patterns toward his elbow- drifted slightly forward.
"I knew it was your mating mark I smelled on Miriel when I crossed paths with her," he said, his voice carrying equal parts disgust and disbelief. "Still can't believe she lowered herself that much."
Bucky's lips pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
“Maybe you should ask yourself what it says about the rest of you, if lowering herself to me was still an upgrade.”
The words landed exactly as intended. He watched the way their limbs darkened, colors bleeding through in aggressive displays of pigments.
The one who'd spoken about Miriel bristled, his tentacles coiling tight.
But before he could respond, another male cut in, this one with rust-colored limbs that had already flushed nearly black with aggression.
"You killed our kind on human orders," he snarled, drifting closer. "And you dare speak without shame. Dare to mate like you have any right-"
"Strength gives me the right," Bucky interrupted, his voice cold and even. His eyes moved deliberately from one male to the next, making sure they all felt the weight of his gaze. "And it's the reason there are four of you, and one of me."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
He'd just called them cowards. Called them weak. Told them to their faces that they knew -knew- they couldn't take him alone.
The water between them practically vibrated with tension.
Bucky kept his expression neutral and unbothered, but inside…
Inside, he was so fucking tired of this.
He didn't want to fight. Didn't want to prove anything. Didn't want to add more violence to the endless catalogue already burned into his memory.
But they were going to make him.
He could see it in the way their bodies tensed, in the way their claws flexed, in the way they exchanged those brief glances that meant they were coordinating.
They were going to attack.
And he was going to have to put them down.
----
They attacked as one.
No warning. No posturing. Just coordinated violence.
The first came from above, limbs reaching to grapple. The second from below, trying to pin his tentacles. The other two flanked, claws extended, aiming for vulnerable points: throat, sides, anywhere that would bleed profusely.
Bucky moved.
He'd fought like this before. Multiple opponents. Coordinated attacks. His body remembered even when his mind wanted to forget.
He caught the one coming from above by two of his limbs and twisted, using the momentum to swing him directly into the path of another. They collided in a tangle of limbs and curses.
The third raked claws across his ribs, painful but shallow. Bucky's elbow cracked into his face in response, and he felt bone give way beneath the impact.
They regrouped fast. He'd give them that.
Came at him again, learning, adjusting.
One wrapped around his limbs, trying to immobilize him. Another lunged for his throat. Bucky twisted aside and drove his claws into the one holding him, felt flesh tear and the grip loosen.
He was stronger. Faster. Better.
But they knew that.
They were counting on attrition. On exhaustion. On the fact that even he couldn't fight four at once forever without taking damage.
And they were right.
Claws found purchase on his shoulder. Teeth sank into his forearm. A limb wrapped around his throat from behind, squeezing.
Bucky drove himself backward into the rock face, crushing whoever had him against the stone. The grip loosened. He turned sharply, claws flashing through the water, and opened a deep gash across someone's chest.
Blood clouded the water between them.
They didn't stop.
The one with the mottled gray skin -the largest- came at him again, and this time Bucky saw the glint of metal too late.
A blade.
Human-made. Old but sharp, the edge catching what little light filtered down.
It pierced into his side, just below his ribs.
Not too deep -Bucky twisted away before it could sink fully- but deep enough.
Pain flared hot and immediate.
The male pulled back, brandishing the dagger, and Bucky saw the satisfaction in his eyes. Thought he'd just gained the advantage. Thought the weapon made him dangerous.
His hand shot out, fast as a striking eel, and closed around the male's wrist. Then squeezed.
Bones ground together. The male's eyes went wide, his grip spasming open.
The dagger tumbled free.
Bucky caught it.
And smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The water around them went very, very still.
Then they'd just armed him.
And they all knew -knew- what he'd been trained to do with weapons.
The first one lunged at him again, stupid with aggression.
Bucky moved as one with the water and slipped under the attack, bringing the blade up and dragging it across the male's torso. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough that blood poured freely into the water, enough that the pain would take him out of the fight.
One down.
The others came at him together, trying to use numbers to overwhelm him before he could pick them apart one by one.
He didn't give them the chance.
The second got close -too close- and Bucky reversed his grip on the dagger, driving the metal pommel into his temple with precision.
The attacker’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp before beginning to sink.
Two down.
The third wrapped around him from behind, trying to restrain his arms, keep him from using the weapon.
And he let him think he had control for just a second.
Then he drove his head back, felt the bone shatter beneath the impact, and when the grip loosened, he twisted and slashed. The blade caught limbs, opened flesh, carved through muscle and cartilage with the ease of something made for exactly this purpose.
The male recoiled, clutching at the stumps where tentacles had been severed halfway down their length.
Not gone. Not dead.
But out of the fight.
The last one -the one with rust-colored limbs, now flushed almost black- hesitated.
Bucky could see the calculation in his eyes. The moment of doubt.
He was the only one left standing. The others were bleeding, wounded, one of them drifting unconscious.
And Bucky was standing there with a human blade in his hand, barely fatigued, and most of the blood in the water wasn't his.
"You want to keep going?" he asked, his voice quiet and cold.
The male's limbs coiled tight. His claws flexed.
For a moment, Bucky thought he might actually be stupid enough to try. Then his eyes dropped -just slightly, just enough- and Bucky recognized it for what it was: Submission.
He didn't lower the blade.
"Leave," he muttered.
The male didn't need to be told twice.
He turned and disappeared into the gloom without a word, or looking back at the others he was abandoning.
No loyalty. No sentiment.
Bucky's gaze focused on the three that remained. The one with the gash across his chest, still bleeding freely. The one missing half his limbs, curled around himself in pain. The unconscious one, drifting slowly with the current.
They were helpless.
Pathetic.
"If you ever try to come for me again," he said, his voice low and cold, "you'll get more than scars and shame."
None of them responded.
He watched them for another moment -broken, defeated- and left them there to figure out their own survival.
As it had always worked.
----
The adrenaline was fading.
That's when he felt it: the sharp, burning pain in his side where the blade had pierced him. Deep enough that blood was seeping steadily into the water around him.
He pressed his hand against the wound and felt the torn flesh beneath his palm.
There were other injuries, too. Claw marks across his shoulder, still bleeding. A gash on his forearm where teeth had found purchase. Bruises blooming across his ribs where he'd been squeezed.
The water carried the scent of his blood outward, broadcasting his injury to anything with the sense to smell it.
He needed to get away from here before something else decided he was easy prey. Or before more of his kind showed up, drawn by the promise of finishing what the others had started.
His limbs coiled beneath him, and he pushed off from the rock face.
He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care. Just needed distance from this place, from the blood in the water, from the reminder of how easy it had been to tear them apart.
The pain in his side flared with each movement, but he ignored it. North. West. Wherever the currents took him, as long as it was away.
The water around him grew colder. Darker.
Good.
He dove deeper, following the pull of the abyss, letting the pressure build around him until his ears ached and his vision narrowed.
Hours passed. Maybe days.
Time blurred together the way it always did when he pushed himself like this, injured, exhausted, running on nothing but the desperate need to be somewhere else.
The wound in his side had stopped bleeding, finally, but it throbbed with every movement. His shoulder ached, and his head-
The headache was back.
But stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant acknowledging what he'd just done. How easily he'd dismantled them. How comfortable the blade had felt in his hand.
Eventually -he didn't know how long- his body simply gave out.
His muscles seized, and his limbs stopped responding. The pain in his head crested into something unbearable, and his vision went completely dark.
He was sinking.
Distantly, he knew he should care about that, do something.
But his body had nothing left to give.
The current caught him and dragged him sideways, carrying him through water that tasted different somehow. Colder. Emptier. And carried him wherever it wanted.
----
He didn't remember finding it.
One moment, he was drifting, half-conscious, and the next, he was aware of shallow water beneath him. Rock. The scrape of stone against his skin as the tide pulled him forward and then back, like the ocean couldn't decide whether to keep him or spit him out.
His limbs dragged across a rocky floor. Not sand, though there was some scattered between the larger stones. Boulders, some of them. Big enough to break the surf, to create tidal pools that never fully drained.
He forced his eyes open.
Darkness. But not complete.
Pale light filtered down from somewhere above, shafts of silvery illumination cutting through gaps in the stone ceiling. Moonlight, he realized distantly. Chimneys in the rock, natural vents that let it through.
A cave.
He'd washed into a cave.
His body had wedged itself into one of the deeper pools near the back, away from the mouth where the waves still crashed against rock. The water here was calmer. Still. Cold.
He tried to move, and his side screamed in protest.
Right.
The wound.
He should tend to it. Clean it. Make sure it didn't fester.
But he just lay there in the pool, half-submerged, staring up at the thin streams of moonlight filtering through the stone above.
The cave was big. He could sense that much even through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Deep. Multiple exits leading back out to open ocean through the darker depths. The kind of place that would be easy to defend, easy to escape from if needed.
And completely empty.
No scent of other cecaelia or merfolk. No territorial markers. Nothing.
Abandoned, probably. Or just... unwanted.
----
He didn't leave. Not that day, or the next.
The wound in his side needed time to heal, and moving was a task he didn’t want to perform.
So he stayed.
By the third day, he dragged himself toward the mouth of the cave.
Just to see. Just to know where he'd ended up.
The opening was wide, facing out toward the water. Waves crashed against the rocks outside, spray misting the air. He moved onto one of the larger boulders near the entrance, his limbs splayed across stone still warm from the day's sun.
And that's when he saw them.
Lights.
Distant. Scattered across the darkness like stars had fallen to earth.
A human settlement.
Not close but visible. Undeniable.
He stared at those pinpricks of light for a long time, his jaw tight.
A settlement meant fishermen. Boats. Nets. People who would come and go from these waters, who might notice things they shouldn't.
No one in their right mind would claim territory this close to these creatures. His kind avoided the surface, avoided anything that might draw human attention, except to hunt them.
This place was worthless.
Unwanted.
His gaze moved from the distant lights back to the dark mouth of the cave behind him.
Perfect.
----
He claimed one of the deeper pools. The one farthest from the cave mouth, where the moonlight barely reached even when it streamed through the chimneys above.
And he stayed.
Because, where would he go?
Back to the open ocean, where others might find him? Where there was always a fight?
This place was exactly what he needed.
A tomb that still let him breathe.
Close enough to humans that no cecaelia would ever willingly come here. Deep enough, dark enough, isolated enough that he could simply... stop.
Stop running. Stop fighting.
He didn't know how long he'd stay, or if "stay" was even the right word for what he was going to do.
Existing, maybe.
His thoughts drifted back to Steve. To that conversation he'd tried so hard not to think about.
He had chosen a human over their kind.
Bucky's sharp teeth clenched in the darkness.
He wondered, distantly, if that human had given him something their kind never could.
That "more" he craved but never understood.
His fingers traced idle patterns against the stone floor, claws scraping quietly.
Maybe it existed. Maybe Steve had found it.
But if there was, it wasn't meant for him. This cave, this darkness, this was what he deserved. For his pride. For his weakness.
He let himself sink deeper into the pool, his body settling against the rocky bottom, his limbs coiling loosely around ancient stone.
I'm fascinated (as always) by the thoughtfulness of your worldbuilding. Because in less than 7k words you've fleshed out such an intricate social structure and rituals that create rich implications of why Buckys characterization ended up the way it did. I am obsessed with the way you're able to use very short exchanges, like the conversation with the female Bucky mated for a season, to not only tell us more about their society's norms and attitudes surrounding essential biological needs but how Buckys perspective doesn't align with the majority. I love this prequel and genuinely can't get enough of this au. 😍😍
Oh this looks fun 💖🥺 use this picrew maker to make yourself and tag your moots
No Pressure Tags: @steelandvibranium @rednnedy @mel0-dy @rositxespinosa @leavemealoneplzs @millimeraki @wallflowerwrites @ladyrebeccacoen @sanatavadd and anyone who wants to join!
i literally look EXACTLY the same it feels like I'm doxxing myself😭😭😭😭
Thank you so much for tagging me Suzyyyyy, i had so much fun creating this!!!!💖💖💖
No pressure tags (i don't know who else has done this soooo, ignore this if that's the case) : @sassandscribbles @pinksplace @heldbybarnes @juniebjonesin @sheriff-bodecker @eterna1reverie @erina00 @stargazingfangirl18 @thezombieprostitute @alpinebarnesworld @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll
tyy @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two !! u & @quantumbarnes look SO CUTE UUAAAHHH
i tried to js make my persona instead lol . i should probably draw him more huh ? i do need a new pfp
non obligatory tags <3 @abit-mega @askthesonnellin0s @buckybsdoll @crimsoncanon @encodedcrimson @heldbybarnes @haiyis lmk if u want me to stop tagging u in these ^^
