You've happened upon a tiny cecaelia! The quiet beige creature suddenly comes alive with pulsing blue eyes on a sea of glittering gold. It seem you've startled her! Best back away so she has a chance to calm down before you approach. You wouldn't want her to bite.
Cecaeliae are sentient mollusks, unrelated to mermaids, which are fish. Instead of being descended from them, cacaelia mimic the mermaid body plan, using their color-shifting chromatophors to form a pseudoface on what is actually the creature's main body. The mouth, nose, and eyes are all carefully controlled markings, while the eyes are set on the side of the head.
This Blue Ringed Octopus cacaelia has the same body plan as other octopus and cuttlefish "mermaids." Those cute shiny "cheeks" are actually her complex eyes, and the "eyes" on her face mere mimicry. Hopefully it works to warn you off of a surprise hug! That could end very badly for one of you. You see, those beautiful blue rings warn of a deadly tetrodotoxin venom she possesses, but would really rather not use. Why don't you get to know her first?
Tags: Established Relationship. Pregnancy. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Word Count: 5k
Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.
Note: Follow-up story to Tangled.
Masterlist
Two pink lines.
She stared at the test for the third time, as if the result might change if she blinked hard enough. But there they were, clear as day, stark against the white plastic.
How?
Her pills sat in its usual spot on the bathroom cabinet, the little compact case she opened every morning at eight-thirty. She'd been religious about it, never missed one, never threw up after taking one. Never even taken antibiotics that could interfere.
So how the hell...?
Sometimes it just happens, she thought, recalling what she'd read in articles, what doctors said in disclaimers. Even with perfect use, ninety-nine percent effective wasn't one hundred percent. That one percent had to happen to someone.
Apparently, it had happened to her. To them.
She was pregnant. With Bucky's child.
The child he'd said was possible, theoretically, if they were careful about timing and circumstances. And, also theoretically unlikely, because his kind had a very low birth rate.
She set the test down on the counter with shaking hands.
How was she supposed to tell him?
He didn't have a framework for this. His species didn't do pregnancy announcements or parenting counseling. Males mated and left.
And yet, Bucky had stayed. Learned to read and gotten a job. Built a life with her that had nothing to do with what his species expected of him.
But this was different. This was a baby.
And she had no idea if some deep, primal part of him would hear the news and feel that ancient pull to leave. To swim away and never come back, the way every male of his kind had done since the beginning of time.
Her hand drifted to her belly -still the same as yesterday, as last week- but knowing what was growing inside changed everything.
She needed time. Time to figure out how to say it. Time to brace herself for whatever his reaction might be.
Just... a little more time.
----
Three days later, he heard the retching from the kitchen.
He was at her side in an instant, finding her hunched over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching the edge of the bowl. When she looked up at him, the exhaustion was written plainly across her face, making his chest clench.
"Again?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, accepting the glass of water he pressed into her hands. "Just... give me a minute."
He crouched beside her, pressing one hand uncertainly against her back. Several days of watching her struggle to keep food down, of that strange new scent clinging to her skin. Not unpleasant, but different. Richer. Like her body was changing in ways he couldn't identify but his senses picked up anyway.
He was starting to panic.
"It was the chicken," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I undercooked it."
She blinked at him. "What?"
"Tuesday night. The chicken breast. I rushed it because you said you were hungry." His jaw clenched, the self-recrimination rolling off him in waves. "I poisoned you."
"Bucky, no-"
"I did." He stood abruptly, pacing the small bathroom like a caged animal. "Food poisoning. That's what this is."
She watched him wear a path across the tile, his hands flexing and clenching at his sides. The guilt he felt was almost palpable, and her heart twisted. He was so convinced he'd hurt her, so ready to shoulder the blame for something that wasn't even wrong.
"We need to take you to a healer," he said suddenly, stopping to face her. "One of those... what do you call them? Doctors."
"I'm fine-"
"You're not fine!" The words came out sharper than he intended, and he immediately softened his tone. "You're sick. You can barely eat. You look..." He gestured helplessly. "Exhausted. Weak."
She stood slowly, testing her balance. The nausea had passed, leaving behind only that fatigue that seemed to follow her everywhere these days.
"It's not food poisoning," she said gently.
"Then what?" His eyes were dark with worry, searching her face for answers she wasn't ready to give. "What's wrong with you?"
Everything and nothing, she thought. I'm growing your baby, and my body is going haywire, and I don't know how to tell you without terrifying you.
"I don't know," she lied, and hated herself a little for it.
----
She picked at her dinner, moving the pasta around her plate without really eating. The smell of the garlic bread that usually made her mouth water now made her stomach turn.
"Not hungry?" Bucky asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
She shook her head, pushing the plate away. "Sorry. I know you made it specially."
His jaw clenched. For the past week, he'd watched her grow more tired, more drawn. Watched her struggle to keep food down, to stay awake past eight in the evening. And now she wasn't eating at all.
His mate was wasting away, and he had no idea why.
"You need to eat something," he said quietly.
"I can't. I'm just... tired."
Tired. She was always tired now. Tired and sick, and every instinct in his body was screaming that something was desperately wrong with her.
He stood from his chair, the scrape of wood against the floor too loud in the quiet kitchen. Without a word, he moved to her side and gently pulled her up, guiding her toward the couch.
"Bucky, I'm fine-"
"No." His voice was firm but not harsh. "You're not."
He settled onto the couch and drew her into his lap, arranging her carefully so her back pressed against his chest. His arms came around her waist, holding her securely, and then he began to rock.
Slow, rhythmic movements that had nothing to do with comforting her and everything to do with calming the storm raging inside him. It was something he did when his mind was spinning too fast, when the world felt too chaotic to process. A self-soothing behavior left over from childhood, from the days when Steve was small and sick, and Bucky had been too young to know how to help.
She felt it immediately, the way his breathing had gone shallow, the tension in his muscles, the barely-controlled desperation in the way he held her.
He thought something was seriously wrong with her.
Her heart clenched. She could feel his fear, could sense how close he was to complete panic. And she was the cause of it, sitting here letting him think she was dying when the truth was the exact opposite.
"Bucky," she said softly.
He didn't respond, just continued that gentle rocking, his face buried in her hair like he was trying to memorize her scent.
"Bucky, I need to tell you something."
His arms tightened around her, and she could feel him brace for bad news.
"I'm not sick."
The rocking stopped. "You are. You're-"
"I'm pregnant."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
She felt the exact moment the words registered, felt his entire body go rigid behind her. His breathing stopped. His heart, pressed against her back, seemed to skip several beats.
"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible.
She turned in his arms so she could see his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, staring at her as she'd just told him the sky was falling.
"I'm pregnant," she repeated gently. "That's why I've been sick. It's... it's normal."
He blinked once. Twice. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then snapped back to her face.
"Pregnant," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word, trying to understand its weight.
"About six weeks, I think."
His hands moved without conscious thought, sliding down to rest against her belly. The same shape as always, but somehow transformed now that he knew what was growing beneath his palms.
"Our..." He swallowed hard. "Our pup?"
She nodded, watching his face carefully. "Are you okay?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just stared at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Shock, yes, but something else underneath it. Something that looked almost like reverence.
Then his eyes went distant, unfocused, and she watched something shift behind them. Not fear exactly, but... recognition. Like a door had opened in his mind to a room he didn't know existed.
His breathing changed -shorter, faster- and for a terrifying moment she thought he might bolt. Might stand up and walk out the door and never come back, just like his instincts said he should.
But he didn't move.
He just sat there, staring at nothing, trying to process.
----
The thought hit him like a riptide.
He did it.
The words formed slowly in his mind, primal and absolute.
His seed took root. He was fertile. He was worthy.
It was the first thought, the deepest one, rising from some ancient place in his biology that had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Every failed mating season, every time he'd returned to his cave alone and wondered if he'd ever achieve what every male was supposed to achieve-
He had.
With her.
The pride that flooded through his system was almost physical, a warmth that spread through his chest and down his limbs. He'd done it. Proven himself. Accomplished what had eluded him for decades.
He was a father.
The word felt strange. Foreign. His species didn't have a word that meant what the humans meant by "father." There was "sire" in the biological sense -the male who contributed seed- but nothing that implied presence. Nothing that implied an after.
Because there was no after.
You mated. You left. The seed either took or it didn't. Never cared to know, even if you always knew, because the female was absent from the mating grounds for the next three years, and other males would look at you with envy.
And that was where the pride began to crack.
His breathing was getting faster, shorter, and he forced himself to slow it down before she noticed. His fingers pressed a little harder against her abdomen, as if he could feel something, anything, some proof of what she'd just told him.
A pup.
No. Not a pup. A baby. That's what humans called them. A baby that would be born, that would exist, that he would see.
The panic started as a flutter in his chest, then grew.
What the hell was he supposed to do with a baby?
Male Thal'kaari didn't... do anything. The male's role ended the moment he swam away from the mating.
But he wasn't swimming away.
He was here. Sitting on a couch in a human house, holding his pregnant mate, and he had absolutely no idea what came next.
You're supposed to leave.
The thought wasn't even his own voice, it was older, deeper, like an echo of every male who'd come before him. You've done your part. Your seed is planted. There's nothing else for you here.
His jaw clenched.
No.
He wasn't leaving.
But then... what? What was he supposed to do?
He didn't know how to care for a pregnant female, human or Thal'kaari -even if the last one probably would have tried to stab him if he dared to wander too close to her after the mating-. Didn't know what she would need, what the pup would need, or how any of this worked beyond the most basic biological facts.
The females of his kind retreated during pregnancy, became solitary and territorial. Was she going to do that? Push him away? And if she did, was he supposed to let her, or was that a human thing he was supposed to fight against?
He didn't know.
And beneath all of that, quieter but more insidious, was another thought:
What if his entire biology, everything that made him him, was wired wrong for this? What if he woke up one day and the urge to leave was too strong to fight?
He'd never wanted to leave her before. Never even considered it.
But he'd also never been faced with this.
His hands were trembling slightly against her stomach. He closed his fingers, trying to still them, trying to keep his face neutral.
Don't let her see you are weak.
She was watching him. He could feel her gaze on his face, careful and worried, waiting for him to react the right way.
What was the right way?
Humans did... something. He'd seen it on the screen sometimes, when she watched her shows. The male smiled. Kissed the female. Said something reassuring and tender.
Bucky couldn't remember how to smile.
"Bucky?" Her voice was soft, cautious. "Say something."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
He had to say something. Anything.
"You're sure?" The words came out rougher than he intended, almost accusing. He winced internally. Wrong. That was wrong.
She nodded slowly. "I took two tests. All positive."
Two tests. Not just one. Not a mistake.
The panic ratcheted up another notch, but he shoved it down, buried it deep where she couldn't see it. He was good at that, had spent most of his life hiding what he felt, keeping his face carefully neutral, showing nothing.
He could do that now.
"Okay," he said, and his voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Okay."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Are you... happy?"
He didn't know. There was too much happening inside him to identify any single emotion. Pride, yes. Terror, absolutely. Confusion. Wonder. A desperate, clawing need to fix this, to figure it out, to know what the hell he was supposed to do.
But happy?
"I..." He swallowed hard. His hands hadn't moved from her stomach. "I don't know what I am."
The words came out before he could stop them, too honest, too raw.
He saw the exact moment they landed on her.
Her expression shifted, not quite falling, but... closing. The tentative hope in her eyes dimmed, and her body went tense against him. She didn't pull away, not quite, but he felt the change in her, the way she seemed to draw into herself.
"I see," she said quietly.
Two words. Flat. Careful.
Fuck.
She started to shift in his lap, as if preparing to stand, to put distance between them, and his arms tightened around her instinctively.
"Wait," he said quickly, and there was an edge of desperation in his voice he couldn't quite hide. "Wait, that's not-"
He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to fix what he'd just broken with his thoughtless honesty.
She stilled, but didn't settle back against him. Just sat there, rigid and waiting.
"I didn't mean..." He exhaled roughly, frustrated with himself, with his inability to find the right words. "I'm not... unhappy."
Still wrong. He could hear how wrong it sounded even as he said it.
"This-" He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, suddenly unable to look at her face. "This is new. For me. My kind, we don't... we don't do this. Don't stay. Don't know what comes after. And I-"
He stopped, jaw clenching.
And he had nothing.
No knowledge. No instinct. No model for how to be what she needed him to be.
But he couldn't tell her that. Couldn't let her see how lost he was, how terrified. She was already scared, he could see it in the way she watched him, the tension in her body, the careful way she'd said pregnant like she thought the word might make him bolt.
He wouldn't bolt.
He couldn't bolt.
Even if every cell in his body didn't know what the hell it was supposed to do now.
He pulled her closer, trying to keep her here with him even though he'd just said the wrong thing, even though he'd hurt her with his honesty.
"I was scared to tell you," she said quietly, and her voice was smaller now, more fragile.
The words slapped him like a physical blow.
"Why?" he asked, though he already knew. He'd just proven exactly why.
"I didn't know how you'd react. If you'd... if you'd want this."
Did he want this?
He didn't know. Wanted her, desperately, always. Wanted to stay with her, build a life with her, keep waking up in their nest and falling asleep with her scent in his nose. And the thought of being anywhere else, of not being here for this, made something in his chest twist painfully.
"I want you," he said finally, and that much he knew was true. "I want... whatever comes with you."
It wasn't eloquent. It wasn't what she probably wanted to hear.
But it was all he had.
She shifted slightly in his lap, turning just enough to look up at him. Her eyes searched his face for a long moment. Looking for what, he wasn't sure. Certainty, maybe. Reassurance. Something he didn't know how to give.
Whatever she found there, it was enough.
She leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat before settling back against him.
But when she pulled away, she wasn't smiling.
Not frowning either, just... thoughtful. Like she was processing his words, accepting them for what they were rather than what she'd hoped they'd be.
"Okay," she said softly.
Just that. Okay.
Not we're having a baby with excitement. Not relief or joy.
Just... okay.
His arms tightened around her, and he pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in.
And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the fear and confusion and absolute terror, there was something else.
Something that felt almost like... purpose.
He just had no fucking idea what to do with it.
----
The first few days after that were... strange.
Not bad, exactly. Just different in ways neither of them seemed to know how to navigate.
She still went to work, even though the nausea hit her most mornings like clockwork. She'd lean over the toilet, retch until there was nothing left, then drag herself upright and get dressed. Bucky would watch from the doorway, silent and tense, hands fisting and unfisting at his sides like he wanted to do something but didn't know what.
"You should stay home," he'd say.
"I can't," she'd reply. "We need the money. Babies are expensive."
The word *babies* still made him flinch slightly, like he hadn't quite accepted it as real yet.
He never argued. Just watched her leave with that same tight expression, jaw clenched, eyes tracking her movements until she disappeared from view.
But now he was there every single day when she got off work.
Before, he'd come sometimes, when he felt like it. But now? Every day. Without fail.
She'd step out of the Shipyard Supply Office, exhausted and queasy, and there he'd be. Leaning against the side of the building, arms crossed, eyes scanning the area like he was expecting a threat to emerge from the shadows.
"You didn't have to come," she'd say.
"I know," he'd answer, and take her bag without asking.
The ride home was always quiet. She was too tired to talk much, and he... well, he was thinking. Always thinking now. She could see it in the way his gaze would drift to her, then away, then back again. Like he was trying to solve a problem he didn't have the tools for.
----
He started doing strange things.
Small things, subtle enough that she almost didn't notice at first.
Like the way he'd smell her food before she ate it.
Not obviously but she'd catch him watching her cook, or hovering near the table when she sat down to eat, nostrils flaring slightly. Testing the air.
"What are you doing?" she asked one night, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.
He blinked, caught. "Nothing."
"You're smelling my dinner."
"No, I'm not."
"Bucky."
He shifted his weight, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Just... making sure it's good."
"Good?"
"Not spoiled. Or... wrong."
She set her fork down. "Wrong how?"
He frowned, struggling to explain. "I don't know. You're carrying a pup. Your body's different. Maybe some foods are... dangerous now."
"Bucky, I'm not going to spontaneously develop an allergy to pasta."
"You don't know that."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He looked so serious, so genuinely concerned, that she didn't have the heart to push back.
"Okay," she said gently. "If it makes you feel better, you can... smell-test my food."
He nodded, visibly relieved, and sat down across from her.
She took a bite of her pasta, and he watched her chew like he was waiting for her to keel over.
----
He started watching her sleep, too.
Not in a creepy way -at least, she didn't think so- but she'd wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and find him propped up on one elbow, just... staring at her.
"What?" she mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
"You're watching me."
"No."
"Bucky."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Your breathing changes sometimes. Gets shallow. I'm just making sure you're still..."
"Alive?"
He didn't answer, which was answer enough.
She reached out, found his hand in the dark, and squeezed it. "I'm fine. The baby's fine. You don't have to keep vigil over me like I'm going to disappear."
His fingers tightened around hers. "I know."
But he kept doing it anyway.
----
"There's a doctor's appointment next week," she said one evening, nestled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "First prenatal checkup."
Bucky looked up from where he was washing dishes. "Prenatal?"
"To make sure everything's developing okay."
He set the dish down carefully, drying his hands on a towel.
She hesitated. Didn't want to pressure him into something he wasn't ready for, but the way he was looking at her -intent, focused, almost hopeful-made her change her mind.
"Do you want to come?" she found herself asking.
"Yes."
No hesitation. Not even a pause to think about it.
"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "We are going together."
----
The clinic was small, placed between a pharmacy and a bakery on Main Street. The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and old magazines, with motivational posters about breastfeeding and infant care plastered on the walls.
Bucky sat rigid in one of the plastic chairs, hands on his knees, scanning the room like he was cataloging exits.
She filled out paperwork at the reception desk, answering questions about her medical history, her last period, and whether this was her first pregnancy. The receptionist was friendly, chatty, and asked if the "father" was here with her today.
She glanced back at Bucky, who was now staring intensely at a poster about the stages of labor.
"Yeah," she said. "He's here."
----
A nurse appeared in the doorway, calling her name, clipboard in hand. "Dr. Connors will see you now."
She stood, and Bucky was on his feet immediately, following close behind as they were led down a narrow hallway to a small examination room.
She settled onto the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath her, while Bucky remained standing. He'd moved closer now, positioned between her and the door, and she could feel him tense.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine."
"You look like you're about to fight someone."
"I'm not."
"Bucky-"
The door opened, and Dr. Connors walked in.
He was older, sixty-something, with grey hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the calm, weathered demeanor of someone who'd been doing this job for decades. He smiled warmly at her, then glanced at Bucky.
"And you must be Dad," he said, extending a hand.
Bucky stared at the hand for a beat too long before shaking it, his grip probably a little too firm.
"James," he said flatly.
Dr. Connors didn't seem fazed. He'd probably seen all types over the years. He turned his attention back to her, flipping through her chart.
"So, first pregnancy," he said. "How are you feeling? Any concerns?"
"Morning sickness," she said. "Pretty bad."
"That's normal. Should ease up around the second trimester." He set the chart down and washed his hands at the small sink. "Let's take a look, shall we? If you could lie back and lift your shirt just above your belly."
She did, and the doctor moved to her side, preparing the ultrasound equipment.
And that's when Bucky spoke.
"You're touching her?" His voice was carefully controlled, but there was an edge to it.
The man paused, glancing up. "Yes, that's generally how these appointments work."
"You're a male."
The room went very still.
She turned her head sharply toward him.
He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on Dr. Connors, and there was something dangerous in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
The older man, to his credit, just raised an eyebrow. "I am. I'm also a board-certified obstetrician who's been delivering babies in this town for thirty years."
Bucky narrowed his eyes.
She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard. He finally looked at her, and she gave him the sternest look she could muster.
Don't.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, and she watched him forcibly swallow whatever territorial instinct was trying to claw its way out of his throat.
"Fine," he muttered, stepping back slightly.
Dr. Connors exchanged a brief glance with her -one that clearly said I've seen worse- and continued setting up the ultrasound.
"This might be a little cold," he warned, squeezing gel onto her abdomen.
She flinched at the temperature, and Bucky's hand tightened around hers.
The doctor pressed the transducer against her stomach, moving it slowly, eyes on the small monitor beside the bed.
For a moment, there was only static. Grey and black shadows shifting on the screen, meaningless to her untrained eye.
Then-
"There we are."
He turned the monitor slightly so they could both see.
On the screen, barely visible, was a small, blurry shape. Tiny. Almost nothing.
But something.
"That's your baby," he said, pointing at the screen. "About eight weeks along, by the looks of it."
She stared at the screen, her breath catching.
That was... that was real.
She'd known it intellectually, of course. She'd taken the tests, felt the nausea, the ache in her breasts. But seeing it -seeing that tiny blob of life on the screen- it was different.
Beside her, Bucky had gone completely still.
She glanced at him and found him staring at the monitor like he'd been struck by lightning. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. His hand in hers had gone rigid.
"And here," Dr. Connors said, adjusting something on the machine, "is the heartbeat."
A sound filled the room.
Rapid. Rhythmic. A steady *thump-thump-thump-thump* that seemed impossibly fast.
Bucky made a sound. Low, choked, almost inaudible.
His gaze was locked on the screen, unblinking, and his hand trembled slightly in hers.
"That's..." His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "That's its heart?"
"That's right," Dr. Connors said. "Strong and steady. Everything looks good so far."
Bucky didn't respond. Just kept staring at the monitor, at that tiny flickering shape, listening to the impossibly fast heartbeat.
She squeezed his hand gently. "Bucky?"
He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and finally looked at her.
There was something raw in his eyes. Something she'd never seen before.
Wonder. Awe.
"That's our child," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question.
"Yeah," she whispered. "That's our baby."
He looked back at the screen, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.
Then, suddenly, he turned to Dr. Connors.
"What does she need?" The words came out fast, urgent. "For the pup. What should she eat? How much rest? Can she still work? What about-"
"Bucky-“
"-water? Should she be in water? what if the sickness doesn't stop, what if-"
"Mr.... James," Dr. Connors interrupted gently, clearly taken aback.
But Bucky didn't slow down.
"She's exhausted all the time. And she can't keep food down. How long does it last-"
"Bucky," she said again, tugging his hand.
He looked at her, and she saw the barely-restrained panic in his eyes. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to keep her safe, to keep the pup safe.
To have answers he didn't have.
Dr. Connors, to his credit, had recovered from his surprise and now looked almost... amused.
"You know," he said, pulling up a chair, "in all my years doing this, I don't think I've ever had a father ask this many questions." He smiled. "But I'm happy to answer them."
And he did.
For the next twenty minutes, he patiently explained everything: nutrition, rest, safe activities, warning signs to watch for, what was normal, and what wasn't.
Bucky absorbed every word like his life depended on it.
She sat there, watching him, her heart doing something complicated in her chest.
This was the man who'd said I don't know what I am just days ago.
The one who'd looked at her like he didn't know if he wanted this.
And now he was interrogating her obstetrician, desperate to understand everything, to get it right.
When they finally left the clinic, he was silent.
He held her hand as they walked to the car, his grip firm but gentle, and she could feel him thinking. Processing.
"That was..." he started, then stopped.
"A lot?" she offered.
"Real," he finished quietly.
She squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back, then pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her in the middle of the parking lot.
His face pressed into her hair, and she felt him take a deep breath.
"I'll do better," he murmured into her hair.
She held him back, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You don't have to be perfect, Bucky. Just... be with me."
He exhaled slowly, then pulled back just enough to look at her.
A small nod. An unspoken promise.
They got in the car and drove home in silence, his hand resting soothingly on her thigh the entire way.
I did it- I finished the illustration series of the sirens-
I won’t lie I feel like horror wassss the hardest to draw since octopus don’t have smooth skin like orca or sharks- not to mention having to draw all the little suckers
Make sure to go check out the other sirens
Orca Sans
Tiger Shark Red
And once again this lovely little series is inspired by @llamagoddessofficial !! Make sure to go read their siren fic- it’s great
