Archive of Our Own

Rhys stands near the shallow tide pool, watching the light ripple across the stone ceiling.

He peels a citrus fruit, the bright oil stinging his fingers as he thinks of the days that had become weeks. 

He hadn’t meant to stay. He hadn’t meant to end up here at all.

One moment he was a pirate captain with a cutlass in his teeth and a ship under his boots, the next, a prisoner of corsairs, a wounded man flung to the sea like rubbish, and now he’s a warm-bodied fixture in a cave by the sea.

It was hard to say what he’d become — a guest, a curiosity, a very well-fed hostage?

He’d felt like a man recovering from near-death, but nowadays he feels like a spoiled pet.

And Ilya doesn’t help with this.

The merman — large, graceful, and so clearly out of his depth with human customs — has a habit of declaring Rhys as his possession. 

Always. Without ceremony. Just a soft, definitive “mine” almost purred.

It made Rhys bristle. He isn’t anyone's belongings.

But Ilya would say it with such calm certainty — eyes unblinking, gills fluttering slightly in what looked like affection, like it was simply true…

Rhys doesn’t know if it’s a language thing. 

Ilya learned to speak mostly through mimicry, through guessing. He doesn’t seem to grasp nuance just yet.

Still, that is one word that he always uses. 

Mine.

And Rhys, despite himself, hadn’t thought of protesting.

Maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all. 

He doesn’t feel like a partner — not really. 

He thinks, at best, he’s a convenient body, warm and willing. At worst, a prize kept polished and tucked away. 

Ilya touched him often, sensually. Kissed him with softness, fed him, bathed him, adorned his hair with sea-glass and coral, all without asking what Rhys wanted. And yet, somehow, it never felt cruel. Instead, it felt lovely. It made Rhys aware of something soft inside himself, something a life-hardened man like himself never felt before.

He remembers being very wary at the beginning. Grateful, yes — the creature had saved his life — but wary still. Ilya is too big, too unreadable, too unbelievable. He looks like something dredged from a myth and stitched into flesh. Those strange, alien eyes, that endless patience, the sharp, beautiful lines of him. It was all just overwhelming.

When did he lower his defenses then? 

He wonders.

He knows.

At first, it had been the seduction — easy, physical. Rhys could give in to that. 

He'd had many lovers in the past and he’s not the kind of man who’d deny what would be the dream of many, if not all, sailors — fucking a mermaid. 

The way Ilya touched him was unlike any lover he’d had. That alone had been enough to keep him lingering. He’d easily let himself be wanted and easily indulge if something was pleasurable enough. He’s honest with himself in that.

But then came the small things.

The way Ilya would press fruit into his hands before Rhys even realized he was hungry. How he lined the rocky ledge of the cove with cloth, pelt and kelp to soften Rhys’s bed. How he managed to adjust the almost magical, mostly natural lighting of the cavern — making it dimmer or warmer — on the days Rhys felt most restless. The way he murmured quiet human words under his breath, like charms. How he listened, really listened, when Rhys spoke words and phrases that he still struggled to understand. The way he would reach for Rhys in sleep and settle close with one hand resting against his hip.

Little things. Gentle things. Sweet things.

And Rhys hates that he came to crave it.

He kept telling himself it didn’t mean anything — that Ilya didn’t know what he was doing. That this was just how mers treated their hoard, their pets, their playthings, that he was only staying because it was easier than bleeding out on some god-forsaken reef and that being with Ilya was just another pleasure in which he’d indulge for a while before leaving.

Because if he started to believe it was more than that, if he let himself admit that Ilya’s touch made him feel seen, wanted, even… safe, then what did that make him?

Certainly not THE Captain Rhys Vane. Not a captain at all. Maybe not even a pirate anymore.

He wasn’t meant to be coddled. He was meant to chase storms, carve paths through uncharted water, sleep with one eye open and a knife under the pillow. He wasn’t meant to stay. Not here, not anywhere.

Especially not in a merman's den. In a bed someone else had built for him. In the arms of someone who thought he could be owned, that he could belong.

So, no. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be real.

And the sooner he reminded himself of that, the better.

Rhys starts planning his escape.

He begins to avoid Ilya—subtly at first. Turning his head when kisses came too close. Claiming to be tired when hands stray. He resists the gifts, the warmth, the tenderness. Pushes back with silence instead of his usual teasing. He stops touching Ilya unless necessary. He will not lean into Ilya's embrace, will not smile when Ilya tries to braid sea-glass into his hair.

Ilya notices the change but instead of pulling away or getting angry, he only seems concerned.

He brings extra food. Cleans the whole den twice a day. Leaves enormous shells filled with fresh water within reach and circles Rhys like he is injured, like something has gone wrong inside him. When Rhys flinches away once from a casual brush of Ilya’s fingers, the merman recoils as if burned and watches Rhys for long minutes after, tail twitching, face unreadable.

After that, Ilya hardly leaves his side. He only disappears to hunt, and even then, returns faster than before. 

And when he returns — hair dripping, chest rising fast with the effort — his eyes always sweep over Rhys in search of something unseen.

The attention is stifling. Rhys recognizes the tenderness in the merman's devotion. It is not cruel. It is soft. 

Too soft.

So he decides that that softness is the greater threat.

He gathers supplies. He stashes water into a flask, stashes kelp-wrapped fruit and salt-dried meat into one of the woven nets Ilya uses when collecting treasures, grabs the blanket Ilya had given him and folds it small, tucks in a sliver of flint, some seashells he’d sharpened into makeshift tools and a rusted compass that doesn’t quite point north anymore but feels necessary.

And he waits.

The opportunity comes with a distant call.

A sharp, guttural sound echoes from far beyond, carried through the water like a summons. Ilya freezes, eyes unfocused, listening. Then, with a soft click and hiss in his throat, he turns to Rhys, touches his shoulder briefly, and murmurs, “Stay. Safe.”

And then he is gone.

Rhys doesn’t hesitate. As soon as Ilya’s tail vanishes through the water tunnel, he moves.

He grabs the net, a knife and the flask. He avoids looking back at the mat or the cove. He focuses instead on the narrow, dark tunnel that is the only way in and out of Ilya’s den.

He slips into the tunnel, kicking through the current with strong, practiced strokes. The reef outside opens in bursts of light and motion. He pushes past them and bursts into open air with a gasp.

What he sees then stops him short.

The island itself stretches like a dream of colors too vivid to be real. 

The trees have no single shape, blending rainforest vines with alpine bark and blossoms from every season. Flowers the size of his face spilling down moss-covered cliffs. Below him the water glows in patches, kissed by bioluminescent plankton even in daylight. Above, animals fly overhead — not all of them birds. Some have feathers and too many wings, others shimmer like gems. A stag with antlers tangled in vines watches him from the edge of a grove, eyes glowing faintly blue.

The island pulses with magic. It is a place between.

And Rhys barks out a mocking of a laugh — not a joyous sound at all.

No wonder he hasn't seen a single ship since he got here… This whole place is barely real.

He hauls himself onto a flat stone ridge and lets the sun dry him. He eats half a fruit and watches the strange colorful clouds ripple overhead. He lies back and closes his eyes for a while, letting himself forget the confusion in Ilya’s gaze, the way his voice had softened, the gentleness in those clawed hands. He tries not to think about whether Ilya had returned to an empty home by now or whether he was looking for him already, but the thoughts come nonetheless.

So he moves deeper into the island, winding between trees whose trunks shimmer like pearls and leaves that whisper in a language he doesn’t know. Everything feels enchanted yet laced with danger. It reminds him of the open seas, calling for him to explore.

It is near the edge of a tidepool where he sees them.

The mermaids.

He’d caught a glimpse or two of them from afar before, but now he can really see them. 

Smaller than Ilya, delicate, pretty things with gorgeous manes and bare breasts. They sing softly as they twist in the sun-warmed water. 

One notices and swims up to him, breaching the surface of the water with a chirping giggle, eyes big and wide, tilting her head like a bird. Another follows her and lifts a hand in greeting, beckoning him closer.

Rhys steps forward.

They surround him—circling, humming almost curiously. Their touch is feather-light. One tangles her fingers in his hair, taking some of the prettiest stones that Ilya had woven into it for herself. Another trails wet claws over his chest.

The hum deepens. The smiles stretch wide. Their eyes gleam.

He should have known better. 

He did know better. 

It was the song.

Rhys turns to leave, heart stuttering, but he is stopped by a sudden, hard tug to his leg. He stumbles and collapses to one knee, thrown off-balance not just by the force but by the snap that echoed as something splintered.

His wooden leg. They’d cracked it.

Catching himself on instinct, he draws his blade. One mermaid shrieks and lunges, claws raking down his back. Another tears at his arm, forcing the knife from his grip.

Panic tightens his chest. Blood follows.

He shouts, stumbling forward, but they swarm him instantly. Needle-sharp teeth sink into his shoulder. Webbed hands claw at his clothes. One grabs his leg and drags him down into the deeper parts of the pool. Sharp nails catch his side. Teeth sink into his calf. He screams and tries to crawl back, but he is pulled under surrounded by laughing and singing.

Still, he fights. 

He tries to punch one, hard enough to send her reeling. Another he headbutts when she tries to claw at his throat. He reaches for his knife again, but it’s gone. Maybe floating, maybe sinking, maybe stuck to one of their spines.

Unarmed and outnumbered, he knows he cannot win. Despair starts to set in until…

…a force slams into the pool like a storm. 

Pressure and sound vibrating through every rock, scattering the mermaids in a shrieking cloud. Through the haze, Rhys sees him.

Ilya.

He tears through the water like a weapon, all sleek muscle and fury, claws gleaming, eyes wide and wild. He catches the nearest mermaid mid-lunge and rips her open with a single strike. Another tries to flee—he slams his tail down, shattering coral and driving her back. The others scatter in panic.

It is a massacre. And when Ilya’s done, there are none of them left.

Rhys, barely conscious, stumbles to him—blood swirling in the water, one arm limp, the broken remains of his peg leg drifting a few feet away.

Ilya reaches him in a blink.

He wraps Rhys into his chest, holding him tight, one hand pressing over his wounds, the other cradling his head above water.

“No. No no no—” Ilya’s voice cracks, full of frantic breath and trembling grief. “Hurt. Stupid. Danger! Not understand!”

Rhys blinks slowly, breath hitching.

Ilya keeps touching him, helplessly trying to stop the bleeding. Rhys’s body is cut and bitten, trembling from shock, lips already tinged blue.

Ilya lets out a broken noise — a mix between a growl and a sob — and surges forward, wrapping Rhys in both arms.

Blood clouds the water. Ilya’s chest heaves with panic. He turns sharply, tail lashing, and propels them both away from the reef with terrifying speed. The ocean around them seems to shudder.

Rhys is limp in his hold. Too pale. Too quiet.

Ilya presses his face to Rhys’s throat, gills fluttering, and lets out a desperate, high-pitched cry. Then he dives, deeper and farther.

Rhys barely registers the movement before the world tips. Water rushes past, pressure rises in his ears. Ilya turns sharply, tail lashing, and shoots through the reef like a spear. The ocean becomes a blur of color and cold and speed.

Rhys tries to speak, to protest, but his chest seizes. Salt fills his lungs, sharp and burning. He coughs, or tries to, but the water presses in from all sides. Ilya does not slow. He holds Rhys tight, one arm locked across his back, the other under his knees, like a cage. The pain from his calf flares hot and jagged, then dulls into nothing. The light fades.

He claws weakly at Ilya’s shoulder.

Then, even the thought drowns.

Rhys’s eyes flutter open, heavy and unfocused. Darkness wraps around him like a thick shroud, yet the cavern pulses with a dim, otherworldly light that seeps from the walls. Great scallop shells hang like chandeliers above, catching and refracting the faint glow. He lies on the mat of wood, seaweed, and moss.

A sharp ache twists through his side. He inhales sharply. He can taste salt and iron.

He sees movement nearby and sees Ilya by his side.

The merman’s gaze is wide, shimmering with unnerving focus. His long fingers find Rhys' hand and hold on. The tremor in Ilya’s grip reminds Rhys of his own presence.

“Where am I?” Rhys croaks. His throat is raw, dry.

Ilya does not answer in human words. He raises a piece of a strange fruit to Rhys's lips. Rhys eats, tasting the sweet pulp and something green.

The merman’s attention shifts to Rhys’s lower body. A strip of waxed kelp covers the wound on his calf. Ilya carefully pulls the kelp back, revealing the torn flesh. The merman’s face twists, his gills fluttering fast with the effort of control. He gathers a handful of damp moss, green and rich with the smell of earth, and presses it gently to the bite marks.

“Hurt,” Ilya rasps.

Rhys nods slowly. 

He tries to sit up, but a pained groan escapes him and Ilya’s hand settles instantly on his chest, keeping him still. A low, desperate sound escapes the merman—not a word, but a plea.

Rhys watches him. He notices the damage now. Ilya’s vibrant tail is damaged. Patches of scales are missing, showing raw skin beneath. Fresh scratches stripe Ilya’s back, long gashes that speak of coral or claws. The merman is meticulous in his care of Rhys, but neglects his own wounds.

Rhys lifts a hand and reaches for Ilya’s shoulder. His fingers trace the line where soft skin meets rough, damaged scales. Ilya flinches, eyes snapping to Rhys’s face, but he does not pull away.

Ilya murmurs something in his own tongue. The sound has a rhythm to it, a pulse like water lapping against stone. He repeats a phrase, then points to Rhys, then himself, and then gestures toward the tunnel entrance. He tries to make his meaning clear “You left. Hurt. Why?”

Rhys hears the question in the cadence, not the words. He sees the effort of the wounds. Ilya gave everything he had to drag Rhys back.

He swallows. His throat tightens. He looks at Ilya — at the desperate hope in his eyes. Rhys reaches out, wraps his hand around Ilya’s wrist, and presses his thumb against the frantic flutter of the gills.

“I didn’t run from you,” Rhys says, his voice raspy. He holds the gaze. “I run from staying.”

Ilya blinks. He does not understand the words, but the sound of Rhys's voice holds him still.

Rhys lifts his other hand, tracing the curve of Ilya’s wet jaw. He tests the word he heard so many times before. He gives it weight.

“Mine,” Rhys whispers.

Ilya’s pupils immediately dilate, becoming wide and dark. His tail gives a sharp, involuntary twitch. A low rumble sounds in the merman's chest.

Ilya raises his chin, his eyes unblinking. He speaks a word in his native tongue, the syllable a complex chord that resonates deep in Rhys’s ears, vibrating like the deep heart of the tide against the rock.

“꧁ঔৣ꧂”

Rhys stares, mesmerized by the sound. He pulls his hand from Ilya’s wrist and raises his own voice, testing the word on his dry tongue. He tries to form the same shape, the same internal thrum.

“Mm... ꧁ঔৣ꧂,” Rhys repeats.

The sound barely leaves his lips.

The instant he vocalizes it, the world tilts. The low chord of the sound hits the center of his skull, and the word floods his mind. It is not just a syllable. It is a wave, a crash of sensation, a thousand images of devotion, shared space, the scent of the same sea-salt, the warmth of a shared sun. The concept of the alien word is sharp and overwhelming and too lovely to describe or translate. It is the deep, fundamental knowledge of Ilya, of his past, of his needs, of his sacrifice and tenderness. It is his whole life, everything he lost given meaning through connection.

The pressure is immediate. Pain blooms behind his eyes. He is suddenly too full of knowledge, too conscious of the infinite weight of the merman’s word. The air catches in his throat.

Salt water rushes up, sharp and sudden, flooding his mouth and sinuses. He doubles over, coughing, sputtering as brine spills from his lips. The taste is everywhere, bitter and ocean-deep. 

The meaning is clear. This word is not for human mouths. 

The language is too profound for human understanding.

Ilya is alarmed. He darts forward, hands hovering, unsure how to fix this new physical pain.

Rhys holds up a hand, still coughing. He takes a shaky breath and wipes his mouth. His eyes water, tracking the merman's concerned movements. He sees the flush on Ilya’s cheeks, the way his tail is curled protectively around Rhys's body.

He reaches out, pulls the heavy merman close, and kisses him. Not a soft kiss, but one that has weight, that carries the pressure of the sea and the relief of being saved. It tastes of salt and sweetness.

Ilya's hands, in response, roam his back, carefully. 

Rhys pulls back, just enough for their breaths to mingle. He rests his forehead against Ilya's. The damp, cool surface of Ilya's skin settles the frantic pulse in Rhys's blood. He inhales the scent of kelp and freshness, something that’s just fundamentally Ilya.

Ilya murmurs, a sound like a low, satisfied vibration in his throat. He lowers his head, burying his face in the curve of Rhys's neck. His heavy tail shifts, slowly, possessive, yet gentle.

Rhys does not move away. He stays still, feeling the cool weight of the merman pressed against him. He raises his hand to Ilya’s damp hair, threading his fingers through the thick, wet strands, pulls the merman closer, offering the comfort of human warmth against the chill of the sea. 

He strokes the place where Ilya's gills flutter, trailing his thumb along the delicate, rippling edges and presses his mouth to the skin beneath Ilya’s ear, a place where the merman’s pulse hammers fast and exposed. 

He traces the line where Ilya's skin turns to scales, his fingers mapping the wounds and scars left by the attack. Each rough patch, a testament to the sacrifice, and the knowledge of it makes Rhys's grip tighten.

Rhys inhales deeply. Bracing himself for what he must tell Ilya now.

“I don’t remember my parents” he begins. “I was left at a port town when I was a baby. The woman who ran the port’s tavern raised me.”

He shifts against Ilya, tracing the curve of the merman’s heavy tail. “When she died, I lived rough for a while. Pickpocketing. Under boats. Whatever would feed me.”

Ilya is silent, his hand stroking Rhys’s damp hair through the tale.

“Then, I joined a crew. Pirates, yeah, outlaws. But I was lucky enough to land myself with decent ones.”

“Captain Selwin was the best. Laugh like thunder, he’d pretend to hate everyone,” Rhys' lips lift in a faint smile. “But he’d sneak food to the new recruits even when things got rough.” 

“Margo was the sharpest navigator, winning bets by drinking taverns under the table.”

“And Finn—gods, a terrible sailor, but he made the best cooked crab.”

Rhys pauses, the memories heavy in the quiet air. “They were the first people who made me feel like I belonged. They were my family.”

Ilya speaks, his voice a low, rough hum. “Family.” He repeats the new word, testing the sound.

Rhys nods. “I saved every coin. Bought my own ship eventually. The Sea Serpent. Smaller, but fast. She was mine, more than just shelter or passage. She was the only thing I really chose.”

Sorrow fills Rhys’ eyes and Ilya moves, lifting his hand to cradle Rhys’s face. 

“Then we got a tip about a new passage. Riches beyond what anyone had seen. I told my crew and asked Captain Selwin to join me and he trusted me… but I was reckless and I lost them. I took them all to a trap and got them all killed. They were the first people who made me feel like I belonged and the corsairs killed them all…”

He swallows. 

“I remember the cold. The dark. The screaming...I thought I was dead. But then you saved me and I-”

Ilya presses his fingers gently to Rhys’ lips, silencing him. He looks into Rhys's eyes, and his own are wide and dark and pained.

“This island. Hidden. Magic keeps human eyes away.” He says in a low voice.

Rhys listens, his expression still.

Ilya continues, tracing the line of Rhys’s jaw. “Creatures like me. We guard.” He taps his own chest twice. “When human threatens island, we called. We sink ships. We drag men down to deep water.”

He pauses, the silence heavy with the implication. He looks away for a fraction of a second, then forces his gaze back to Rhys.

“That night... I go to destroy ships. Duty.”

Ilya leans closer, his breath warm against Rhys’s ear.

“Then I see you.” He presses his thumb gently into Rhys’s cheekbone. “You, different. Most beautiful and I not sink ships… My fault. Family killed. Corsairs get away.” Ilya’s eyes look sorrowful. “Rhys leave Ilya.”

Rhys’s throat tightens. He leans forward and kisses him — soft and slow.

Their hands stay tangled long after the kiss ends. Rhys lets his eyes drift over Ilya's face, the scars on his scales, the gentle rise of his chest, the sadness in his glassy eyes.

He looks at the place where his broken peg leg should have been, then at the strong, living calf Ilya saved.

“Forgive me. For trying to leave you like that.” Rhys says, taking Ilya’s hand and kissing his palm “I didn’t know what it was. What this was,” he added, motioning vaguely between them. “I thought you saw me as something to keep. A possession. I’m not used to being… looked after. It scared me. Not because it was bad — because it wasn’t — but...”

He pauses, remembering the word he could not speak.

“I also want you to be mine.”

Ilya’s next sound is a broken chirp-like thing. It’s something Rhys can’t comprehend, yet, still, he understands it fully.

“꧁ঔৣ꧂…” Ilya says, a promise of belonging and of a future together.

Maybe he doesn’t need to be the captain Rhys Vane after all. Maybe this warmth, this feeling of belonging was enough. And so…

He stays.

Weeks follow the attack. Rhys's wounds fade to pale scars against his skin, reminders of a danger Ilya eliminated. He still has no ship, no crew, and now his body relies entirely on the merman’s devotion. The identity of Captain Vane, the pirate, grows thin, but Rhys feels more like himself than ever before.

One morning, Ilya returns from a deep dive. His hands cradle a new gift, not of sea-glass, but of dark, dense wood, expertly carved. It is a new peg leg. Its form is familiar, solid, and clearly built for long wear.

Rhys takes it, turning it in his hands. He traces a tiny, intricate scratch near the base—a faded crest shaped like a broken anchor. A symbol he recognizes, one carved into the cannons of the corsair ship that took his life, his crew and his vessel.

Ilya looks proud. 

“Wait…The corsair…”

Ilya nods and opens a wide, sharp and bloody smile to Rhys.

Rhys lets out a barking laugh that startles Ilya. He laughs loud and bright, leaning forward. Ilya watches him, eyes wide and questioning.

Rhys sets the leg down. He reaches for the rope adorning Ilya's chest, pulling the merman close. He kisses him — a hard, joyous, hot and appreciative kiss.

Ilya responds instantly, the soft hum starting low in his chest and building to a thrumming vibration against Rhys’s mouth. Rhys moves his hands, pulling the merman down onto the softened kelp mat, passion boiling over.

Weeks turn to months. Rhys — now able to stand and move with his new sturdy leg — finds his hands craving work. He cannot sail, but he can build. 

Rhys dedicates himself to reforming the lighthouse transforming the cove into a home. Ilya dedicates himself to collecting.

Rhys works with the strong, magical wood and stones he finds scattered on the beaches and Ilya returns daily with multiple nets heavy with materials.

They also begin to explore the island together. Rhys walks the jungle trails and the shores while Ilya swims the surrounding lakes and reefs. 

They learn the fold of the land, the boundaries of the magic. 

They venture to the cold, deep side of the island where the powerful currents meet, and they meet the Sea Hag, the old keeper of the deep, who regards them with one vast, indifferent eye and a low, dismissive chuckle. 

They skirt strange, glowing ruins and discover hidden hot springs that they both make sure to enjoy to the fullest.

Months blend into seasons.

The original access hole to the cove is now a practical space. 

The widened stone opening now led to smooth planks of enchanted wood built into the rock wall, creating a sturdy small pier where Rhys likes to sit.

The cove itself is also unrecognizable.

The dry areas and floors of the previously decrepit lighthouse are now partitioned into rooms. The bottom floor now holds a real bed — a giant heavy wooden frame carved with subtle marine motifs, topped with a mattress of soft moss, woven cloth, and thick blankets. Next to it stands a small desk with the many tools that Rhys uses to build new stuff for them and a few stools.

On the very top of the lighthouse, Rhys built a kitchen. A massive, restored, cast-iron stove sits against the back wall, fueled by small pieces of everfire wood that glow red and steady, eternally warm while many baskets with everfrost wood preserve a lot of food by keeping them frozen. The smell of many weird spices often hangs over the cavern air.

The walls are not bare stone but draped with netting holding many crystals and shiny trinkets. Lanterns made of salvaged colored glass bottles hang from the ceiling, their pieces refracting the bioluminescence into dancing prisms of blue and gold light. A comfortable sofa — stitched together from salvaged cushions and draped with fine silk — sits near the pier.

On the pier, a small, elegant sailboat rests. Ilya recovered the hull from a sunken vessel he’d previously destroyed, and Rhys spent weeks restoring it, rigging it with new, vibrant sails — a small vessel for shallow-water trips.

They find human survivors — fishermen lost in the reefs, sailors flung from their vessels.

They bring them to the pier.

They never stay.

Rhys and Ilya feed them, rest them, and, working together, using the small sailboat to take them to the boundaries of the magical veil, they send them off the reef, back toward the charted waters of the human world.

The seasons turn one last time.

Rhys does not track the calendar so he barely realizes a full year has gone by when Ilya presents him with a gift.

Ilya returns from a short, pre-dawn absence. He carries nothing in his hands but a single object. He places it on their bed proudly.

It is a compass.

Not a rusted instrument from a wreck, but a heavy, brass housing set perfectly into a block of smooth, dark wood. This wood is clearly magical, pulsing with a deep, steady blue light, providing a constant, soft illumination over the needle. The compass works, the needle quivers, pointing north with uncanny accuracy. On its base, carved deep into the wood by claw, is a miniature rendition of their pier.

Ilya watches Rhys’s face, gills fluttering slightly. He takes a deep breath and speaks. His voice is still low and rough, but the words are linked now, a small victory of language: “This is for you, my Rhys.”

He points to the compass. “Always know the way. You choose the direction.” He then points to the restored pier. “You can go anywhere.”

Rhys stares at the compass, then at the proud, hopeful curve of Ilya’s mouth. He finally understands that Ilya had been watching, absorbing the nuance he’d once doubted the merman understood.

Rhys takes the merman’s hand and lifts it, pressing the clawed palm to his lips.

Rhys looks at the compass, at the piercing blue light of the wood, and back into Ilya’s dark eyes. The word he needs is too big, too exposed, but it is the truth of the last year.

“I love you,” Rhys whispers, the human phrase sounds almost foreign and fragile in the magical air of the cove.

Ilya does not respond immediately with words. His eyes widen, the dark pupils engulfing the gold irises. He reaches out, his large hand cupping Rhys’s jaw. He looks at Rhys with an intensity that seems to absorb the sound and the meaning entirely.

Ilya understands. He now recognizes the word as the closest Rhys’ simple language can come to describing the deep, binding connection — the profound sense of belonging that the complex language of the ocean calls their true word.

Ilya lets out a low, guttural hum, a sound that vibrates deep in his chest, a sound that Rhys knows belongs only to the sea. 

“꧁ঔৣ꧂”

Ilya pulls Rhys forward, kissing him with a fervent passion that consumes the space between them. Rhys clutches the merman’s heavy shoulders.

“Let me give you my gift, lover” Rhys murmurs against Ilya's lips.

Rhys presses their foreheads together. Their breath mingles, their hearts thump in sync.

Ilya's hands roam his back, his waist, his jaw. They are tentative, as if relearning the terrain of him. Rhys answers with touch. He strokes the place where Ilya's gills flutter. He traces the line where his skin turns to scales. He watches the way Ilya shivers under the attention.

There is no rush. Just heat building in waves. Kisses grow deeper, hungrier. Hands wander without hesitation.

When Rhys begins trailing kisses down Ilya's neck, he feels the way the merman tenses — not with fear, but with anticipation.

Rhys lowers himself slowly, his lips brushing over Ilya's chest, down the firm line of his abdomen, until his mouth meets the smooth skin just above Ilya's slit.

Rhys kisses it, his heart hammering and Ilya gasps, his fingers tangled in Rhys's hair.

Rhys presses another kiss, then licks along the edge. The entrance twitches beneath him and then opens.

From within, the tip of Ilya's cock emerges. It is smoother, sheathed at first, then unfurling in a gentle spiral, firm and slick, ridged in places like a creature built for underwater rhythm.

Rhys does not rush to take him in. He pauses, watching it swell. He reaches up instead and lets his fingers brush around the outer slit, feeling the sensitive skin twitch under his touch.

He takes his time. He touches Ilya slowly, carefully. He runs his fingertips around the opening, learning the textures, the heat. He dips one finger just inside and feels the way Ilya's muscles flutter around it.

Ilya groans, deep and desperate, his hips canting forward as his slit opens further.

Rhys leans in, licks again then presses a kiss just to the edge before letting his tongue trace around it. Ilya makes a noise that is more like a whimper.

Only then does Rhys take him in his mouth.

It is unlike anything he had ever done — the taste, the texture, the way Ilya moves with every flick of Rhys's tongue. It feels alive. Responsive. Ilya’s cock shifts subtly in his mouth, curling around his tongue just slightly with each stroke of his lips. The nimble cock presses against his tongue.

Blowing him feels like a deep kiss.

When he pulls back, panting, he uses his hand instead — stroking Ilya's cock while pressing kisses to the slit, even dipping a finger back inside. Ilya writhes, gasping his name, gasping for his lover.

Rhys raises himself and wraps a hand around both of them, aligning their cocks together, stroking in tandem. Ilya's cock curls around his, slick and hot, pressing tight as Rhys moves.

Then, gently, Rhys slides his finger lower and presses it inside Ilya’s wet hole. The reaction is immediate: Ilya arches, moans, his muscles clench around the intrusion.

Rhys adds another finger, working him open while still stroking their cocks. The rhythm builds, wet and hot and unrelenting. Ilya’s whole body shudders, the flush of his chest spreading down his neck.

Ilya comes with a cry, his cock twitching around Rhys’, his slit spasming around his lover’s fingers. Rhys feels the hot spill between them and it arouses him even more.

He groans and coats his fingers with Ilya's release.

Still achingly hard, he straddles Ilya's tail and begins to finger himself. He leans back and brings his knees up letting his lover see all of him while he uses his fingers to work himself open.

Ilya, still dazed, watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. But the moment he registers what Rhys is doing, his eyes turn hungry all over again.

He surges forward, his hands sliding up Rhys's thighs, steadying him as if he will fall apart otherwise. His lips find Rhys' chest, his neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses between panting breaths.

"I want you," Ilya murmurs, his voice hoarse with want.

Rhys nods, his eyes dark. "Yes," he whispers. "You can have me."

And, with that, Ilya lifts Rhys with ease and shifts beneath him, guiding Rhys' hips with careful hands.

Rhys braces himself, his heart thudding. The moment Ilya presses in — flexible, ridged, tapered — Rhys gasps. The stretch starts easier but grows deep. Every inch makes him tremble.

Ilya groans beneath him, clutching his hips, trying to hold back.

Rhys sinks down until he is filled, his chest heaving. Ilya's cock pulses inside him, moving with subtle undulations. Rhys cannot help but rock his hips in tandem.

They move together — drawn into each other with every thrust, every moan, every slick sound of skin on skin.

Rhys shudders as Ilya shifts beneath him, each roll of his hips stroking something deep and sensitive inside, the ridges along Ilya's cock dragging with friction, hitting every right spot.

He grabs at Ilya's shoulders, digging his nails in, his head thrown back with a cry as pleasure blooms sharp and fast. Sweat slicks his skin despite the cool oceanic air.

Ilya bends forward, catching Rhys's bottom lip with his teeth, kissing him through the next thrust. Their mouths clash, messy and open, all breath and hunger and need.

Rhys clenches around him, trembling violently with each push inside. He is on the edge — gasping, shaking, begging without words — when Ilya whispers something in his own idiom, his voice cracked and aroused. And Ilya’s true voice affects him more than he’d like to admit.

Ilya notices and moves one of his hands to stroke Rhys’s cock with sure, slippery fingers. Rhys cries out. The sensation is too much. The pressure inside him is molten. It builds like a tidal wave.

And he breaks.

Rhys comes with a guttural moan, spilling over Ilya’s chest and hand. His body clamps tight around the cock inside him, the tremors wracking through his thighs and belly. He trembles through it, every nerve alight, every muscle taut and then melting.

Ilya follows with a shudder, thrusting deep one final time, teeth scraping Rhys's shoulder as he groans his name.

The panting and soft moaning take the whole cave now. Their bodies are pressed together, slick and exhausted, hearts racing in sync. Rhys lays sprawled across Ilya’s chest, catching his breath. Ilya’s tail shifts beneath them with lazy undulations — a current still rolling after the wave has broken.

Ilya’s hand skims down Rhys’s back again, then lower, then traces between his thighs with deliberate softness. Rhys stirs, his hips twitching involuntarily.

“Again?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

Ilya’s response is a soft, eager hum. Then he reaches down his own body, his fingers finding his slit. With a slow breath, he parts it, holding the lips open for Rhys to see. A silent request.

Rhys sits up slightly, his breath catching. The view before him is obscene — beautifully so. 

The inner tissue is flushed, slick and delicate. Ilya's cock, already emerging again, pulses from within the opening, more swollen now, glistening and wet. Below it, nestled deeper, is the soft, pink ring that is so familiar to Rhys now, framed openly, vulnerably.

"There is a tingling. Inside. Please," Ilya says, his voice thick and low with arousal.

Rhys’s mouth goes dry. His cock, soft from the last release, stirs back to life with humiliating speed. His hands hover, his fingers aching to touch, to explore, to sink back into that heat.

He leans down, unable to help himself, and runs a slow finger along the edges of the slit — watching the way the flesh trembles and flutters under his touch. 

He circles the opening, then presses the pads of his fingers gently to the rim of the exposed tissue, feeling the warmth, the wetness, the twitching invitation.

Ilya’s whole tail trembles. His cock twitches up, the tip showing through the parted lips and curling slightly toward Rhys' belly.

“You’re beautiful,” Rhys whispers, before leaning down to kiss the exposed slit. A groan vibrates through Ilya’s chest in answer.

Rhys drags his tongue slowly across the sensitive fold, then laps gently at the rim of Ilya’s entrance. The taste is like fresh and seawater, strange and intoxicating. He feels Ilya shake beneath him.

Then, he presses a thumb to Ilya’s cockhead, stroking him slowly while he presses two fingers inside the slick entrance he’d learned so well. Ilya gasps, his hips jerking up, his body clenching greedily.

Rhys reaches down with his other hand, stroking himself to hardness, his breath shallow, his mind blurred by want.

“Inside, lover” Ilya says again, need sharp in his voice. "Please! Rhys!"

Rhys doesn’t need to be told again.

He lines himself up, his gaze flicking once more from the parted slit held open by Ilya’s own trembling hands to his lover’s undone face. The image is burned into his brain forever. The flushed folds, the pulsing cock, the twitching, pink ring waiting for him, Ilya’s wanton expression flushed red and panting with barely restrained desire.

Lust pulses hot through his gut.

He pushes in slowly, groaning as he feels the heat wrap around him. 

Ilya cries out, high and broken, his back arching as Rhys fills him inch by inch.

The pace starts slow. Controlled. But it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Not with the way Ilya moans. Not with the way Rhys’ name spills from his lips after every gasp. Not with how their bodies know each other — fit each other.

Ilya hisses through his teeth, then gasps through fluttering gills. "Rhys... so good. So good for me… So perfect. So beautiful..."

Rhys grips Ilya’s hips tighter, his fingers sinking into soft scales, trying to drag the enormous creature back onto each of his thrusts. 

The friction builds fast — hot and slick and relentless — sweat clings to his skin, his breath comes in pants.

Every time he pulls back, Ilya clenches around him, and it feels like drowning in heat. Pleasure sparks up Rhys’s spine, spills into every muscle.

“More,” Ilya gasps. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Rhys pants. “I won’t.”

He drives in harder, feeling the way Ilya opens for him, welcomes him. The tapered head of Ilya’s cock brushes between them, leaking. Rhys reaches between them and strokes it again, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

Ilya throws his head back, his hair fanning like a halo. His eyes flutter shut. His hands claw at the bedding beneath them, then reach for Rhys again, pulling him down for a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and desperation.

They move together with wild rhythm. Rhys buries his face against Ilya’s neck, gasping against his skin. He can feel himself getting close again, pleasure wrapping around his spine, building behind his eyes.

“Rhys,” Ilya moans, his voice shaking. “Lover… mine…”

Rhys slams into him one last time, and everything shatters. He comes with a cry, biting down on Ilya’s shoulder, stars dancing behind his eyes.

Ilya follows a heartbeat later, his slit clenching as he spills between them.

They stay like that, trembling, tangled for a few minutes. Soaked in each other’s heat.

They lay together in quiet.

The cove had grown dim again, the sun trailing behind the sea. A hush lingered, the ocean herself was catching her breath. 

Rhys rested with his head on Ilya’s chest, the salt-sticky air clung to their skin. Ilya’s tail hung off the ledge, the fin drifting in the gentle tide like a banner. One arm curled around Rhys, his hand tracing idle patterns down his spine.

No urgency now.

He turned his face toward the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest and murmured, "Thank you for your many gifts, for saving me many times and for this.” he presses his lips to his lover’s skin softly “I will stay. I will always choose to stay with you."

Ilya’s tail shifts beneath them, a lazy, contented coil. He brings one hand up to gently smooth the wet hair back from Rhys’s forehead.

“My Rhys,” Ilya murmurs, his voice thick with possession, but impossibly soft with devotion.

Rhys doesn't try to answer. He just nuzzles his cheek against the curve of Ilya’s neck, letting himself be held. 

He is home.