Top Posts Tagged with #roxto x reader

The whole ocean, for your laugh

pairing roxto x metkayina!artisan!reader

summary roxto finally gets a chance with his long time artistically talented crush, he has to prove himself while he can!

wc 5.6k

a/n now i wanna do everyone with an artisan!reader, what do yall think?? who next??

The marui of threads was a place where time didn’t move by the sun, but by the inch. Nestled high above the secondary lagoons of Awa’atlu, it was a sanctuary of rhythm.

The air here was always thick with the scent of sun-bleached sea-grass, the sharp tang of drying kelp, and the faint, sweet aroma of the oils used to preserve tidal-wood. It was a place for the patient, a place for those who could hear the songs of the ancestors in the clack of a loom.

You sat in your usual corner, the one where the light filtered through the thatched roof in long, golden needles. To the village, you were a bit of an enigma. You were Metkayina to your core—a skilled diver who could navigate the crushing pressure of the deep trenches and a swimmer whose stroke was as silent as a shadow.

But you were also the girl who preferred the company of wood and bone over the boisterous circles of the youth. You weren't unfriendly, exactly; you were simply elsewhere. Your mind was always occupied by the grain of a branch or the hidden curves within a piece of coral.

Around you, the "Grandmothers"—the elders of the weaving circle—worked with a steady, practiced ease. They treated you as one of their own, a quiet prodigy who understood that beauty required silence.

"Do not hold your breath so tightly, little reef," Saeyla murmured. She was the eldest of the group, her hands moving like lightning as she wove a heavy-duty net for the deep-sea fishers. "The wood only mimics your tension. Breathe with it."

You let out a soft huff of air, relaxing your shoulders. "It is just stubborn today, Sa’eyla. It wishes to stay a branch."

The elders laughed, a sound like shells clinking together. "Everything wants to stay what it is until it realizes what it can become," another woman, Tswaya, added. "Just like our young men. They want to stay boys until the sea demands they be warriors."

Sa’eyla paused before continuing: “You should be out at the reef. The schools of silver-fish are running. The youth are making a sport of it."

"The youth are making a noise of it," you corrected, your obsidian tool making a tiny, precise shave along the wood. "I find the reef much more peaceful when they are not trying to impress one another."

The elders laughed, a sound like dry palm fronds rustling. They knew your reputation. You were always on your own or with them— yes, you were beautiful, capable and a promising warrior, you were entirely disinterested in the posturing of the young hunters. You had a duty to your art, and you took it with a solemnity that would have made a warrior proud.

Below the marui, the village was a riot of sound—the cries of children, the low lowing of the tulkun in the distance, and the constant, rhythmic pulse of the ocean. But then, a new sound cut through the ambient noise: the frantic, heavy slapping of wet feet on the woven walkways, accompanied by a voice that was far too bright for the afternoon heat.

"Grandmother Saeyla! I have it! The net for the deep-sea haul! Tell me I am not too late, or my father will have me skinning eels until the next eclipse!"

Roxto burst into the entrance of the marui, a whirlwind of salt and unbridled energy. He was drenched, his teal skin glistening with seawater, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked exactly like what he was: a boy who lived for the thrill of the hunt and the warmth of the sun.

"Quiet, you noisy pup!" Sa’eyla scolded, though her face immediately softened. "You’ll knock the beads right off our strings. The net is by the pillar, exactly where it was this morning when you forgot it."

Roxto laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't forget it, I was... detained. The ilu were restless."

"The ilu were fine, you were racing Aonung," Saeyla countered.

Roxto grinned, his teeth bright against his skin. "Maybe. But I won."

He stepped further into the shaded hollow, heading toward the pillar. But as he moved, his gaze drifted away from the elders and landed on the quiet figure tucked away in the corner.

He stopped. His breath, which had been coming in short, jagged gasps, suddenly hitched in his throat.

Roxto knew who you were. In a village as tight-knit as Awa’atlu, it was impossible not to. He had seen you many times before—walking along the shore at dusk, your eyes fixed on the horizon, or diving from the high cliffs with a grace that made his heart stutter. He had seen you a thousand times, of course. Awa’atlu was a small community.

He knew your name, he knew your family, and he knew you were the one the elders praised for your "golden hands." But usually, you were something he deemed unapproachable. Your beauty to him was unparalleled, and no matter how friendly he was, or how everyone knew him— he could never find a way to talk you, let alone muster up the courage.

He had spent months wanting to speak to you. He’d practiced lines in his head while out on his ilu, imagining himself saying something clever that would make you smile— or even telling his spirit brother how he wished he could just walk up to you. But every time he got close, his resolve would evaporate like sea foam in the sun.

And seeing you now, bathed in the golden needles of light in a way that made time seem to liquefy.

You were leaning into your work, your chin tucked down, the line of your neck elegant and decorated with a fine necklace. A stray lock of dark hair had escaped your top-knot, hanging precariously over your eye.

You didn't brush it away; you were too far gone in your craft. Your tongue was caught between your teeth in a look of such intense, fierce concentration that Roxto felt a strange, sudden hitch in his lungs.

He had seen warriors look like that when facing an Akula. He had seen the Tsahìk look like that when interpreting the will of Eywa. But he had never seen a girl look like that over a piece of wood.

He watched, mesmerized, as your hand moved. It wasn't just carving; it was a dance. The obsidian blade shaved off a sliver of wood so thin it was translucent, drifting through the air like a fallen petal.

"Wow," he breathed. It was barely a whisper, a tiny exhale of pure admiration that he didn't even realize he’d let out.

Finally, Sa’eyla reached out with her foot and gave Roxto’s ankle a sharp poke.

"The net, boy! Unless you intend to stand there until you grow barnacles!"

Roxto jumped as if he’d been stung by a jellyfish, ears darting back. "I—yes! The net! I see it. I will get it."

He lunged for the net, his usual coordination failing him. He fumbled the bundle, nearly knocking over a basket of dyed fibers. His face was burning now, a deep, dark indigo flush spreading across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

The commotion finally broke your trance. You blinked, the world of spirals and wood-grain receding as you looked up.

Your eyes, still sharp with the intensity of your work, landed directly on Roxto.

He was staring at you, clutching a heap of netting to his chest like a shield. He looked breathless, as if he had just finished a sprint across the entire island.

"Oh," you said, your voice a little airy. You hadn't realized anyone else was there. "Hello, Roxto."

You gave him a small, polite smile— a smile he had yet to see until today. For Roxto, it felt like being hit by a sneak wave.

"I... uh... hello Y/N," he managed. He wanted to say something clever. He wanted to tell you that the carving looked incredible. He wanted to ask how you could sit so still when the whole world was spinning.

Instead, he said: "The wood is white."

The grandmothers erupted. Sa’eyla nearly fell off her mat laughing. "The wood is white! Truly, a scholar among us! A poet of the Metkayina!"

Roxto wanted the floor to open up and swallow him into the deepest of the trenches Eywa had blessed this land with. He squeezed the net tighter, his tail simply dropped in mortification.

You, however, didn't laugh— a little the shake of your head sure but you looked down at the piece in your lap and then back at him, your expression ever so slightly softening. You saw the way his eyes were darting around, the genuine embarrassment written in every line of his body.

"It is," you said gently, unintentionally coming to his rescue. "It’s tidal-wood. It takes the sun's light and keeps it."

Roxto felt his heart do a strange, clumsy flip. You had spoken to him. Not just a greeting, but a real thought. Your voice was like the calm water inside the reef’s own lagoon—smooth and cool.

"It looks like you," he blurted out, once again.

But this time room went dead silent, even your ears flickered forward at his words, lips parting with confusion. Even Sa’eyla stopped laughing.

Roxto’s eyes went wide. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't even planned the thought. It had just escaped. "I mean! The... the detail. It’s... strong. It looks strong. Like you... I mean, your work! Your work is strong!"

He was digging a hole so deep he might find the core of Pandora.

You felt a warmth creep up your own neck, ears darting back. No one usually talked to you like that. Most people admired your work, but they spoke to you as if you were only an extension of the tools you held.

"Thank you, Roxto," you whispered, eyes looking any direction but at him.

He stepped closer, drawn to your orbit like a moon to a planet. He forgot about the net as his hands dropped to his side, said net now dangling loosely. He forgot about his father. He forgot about the eels.

"That's, uhh— a lot of work for a branch," he said. He tried to sound casual, but his voice had a slight tremor to it, a crack in his usual bravado.

You hummed, looking back down into your lap. Your obsidian tool continued its slow, rhythmic journey along the wood. "It isn't a branch. It is a story."

It wasn't mean; it was just a statement of fact. You were trying to focus back on your craft, and he was becoming a distraction.

Roxto felt a flush of dark indigo heat rise to the tips of his ears. He fighting his inner excitement as he spoke to you. "A story? It looks like a fish to me. A very... stiff fish."

You paused. The tool stopped moving. You didn't look up yet, but the air around you seemed to grow a little colder. "It is stiff because it is not finished. Movement is the hardest thing to capture in something that does not breathe."

"I know a thing or two about movement," Roxto said, regaining some of his footing. He leaned against a nearby support pillar, trying to look comfortable even though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I spend all day in the water. If you want to see how a fish moves, you should be out there, not in here with the dust."

Finally, you lifted your head.

Your eyes met his. They were once again clear, analytical, and devastatingly calm. You looked at him not as a peer, or a hunter, or even as a boy, but as an object of study. You noted the salt on his skin, the dampness of his hair, and the way he was leaning—measuring him the same way you measured a piece of timber.

"I am a skilled diver, Roxto," you said, your voice still calm. "I know how the water moves. I choose to be here because the current is fleeting. This," you gestured to the wood, "remains."

Roxto felt the weight of your gaze. It was like being submerged in a cold current—it took the breath right out of him once again.

He had always thought you were pretty, but up close, with that intense, focused fire in your eyes, you were breathtaking. He felt a sudden, desperate need to prove himself to you, to show you that he wasn't just a "noisy pup."

"I know who you are," he said softly, his playful tone dropping into something more honest. "I've seen you dive at the Spirit Tree. You stay down longer than anyone. I have always wondered why you didn't join the practice hunts."

You looked back down at your work, the brief connection severed. "The hunts are loud. They are for the stomach. This is for the soul. One does not need a crowd to speak to Eywa."

"I guess not," Roxto murmured. He stood there for a moment, watching the way the light played off your hands. He felt a strange ache in his chest—a mixture of awe and a sudden, sharp longing.

He had wanted to talk to you for so long, and now that he was here, he realized that a few clever words wouldn't be enough to bridge the gap between your world and his.

"Roxto!" Saeyla barked, breaking the spell. "The net! Or I will tell your father you spent the afternoon staring at the wall!"

Roxto jumped, his tail flicking in embarrassment. "I—yes! The net! I'm going!"

He grabbed the bundle of hemp, but he didn't move immediately. He took one last look at you—at the way you leaned back into your work, at the way the lock of hair fell over your eye. You hadn't looked back up. You were already gone, lost back into the grain of the wood.

As he walked out of the marui, his feet felt heavier than they had when he arrived. He felt like he had touched something rare and beautiful, and he wasn't ready to let go of the feeling.

Behind him, Sa’eyla watched him go with a knowing smirk. "The boy is hooked," she whispered to Tswaya. "I’ll bet you my finest sea glass he will be returning sooner than needed"

"I’d rather not lose my seaglass Sa’eyla," Tswaya chuckled before continuing "i know that scene from a mile away."

You didn't hear them. You were focused on the wood, but for the first time in a long time, the silence of the marui felt a little different. It felt like it was waiting for something. You made a cut, a perfect, curving line, and for a fleeting second, you thought of the boy with the salt on his skin and the way his eyes had widened when you looked at him.

He was noisy, yes. He was distracting. But for a hunter, he had a very quiet way of looking at things.

You pushed the thought away, returning to the wood.

The following morning, the marui of threads was bathed in a hazy, ethereal light. The sun was just beginning to climb over the distant cliffs of the archipelago, casting long, bruised shadows of indigo and violet across the woven floors. The air was cool, carrying the dewy scent of the jungle behind the village mixed with the sharp, waking tang of the salt spray.

You were in your alcove before the first hunters had even mounted their ilu. Your hands, usually so sure and steady, were currently resting idle on your knees. In front of you lay the tidal-wood fish—the one Roxto had so clumsily called "stiff." You hated that he was right.

No matter how many times you adjusted the angle of your blade or how carefully you mapped out the interlocking spirals of the fins, the wood remained wood. It lacked the spirit of the water. It lacked that sudden, violent snap of life that occurred when a fish turned on a dime to escape a predator.

You were stuck. For an artisan of your caliber, a mental block was more than a frustration; it was a crisis of identity. You stared at the wood until the grain began to blur, your brow furrowing into a deep, frustrated line.

The rhythmic thwack-clack of Sa’eyla’s loom began behind you. The elders were arriving, settling into their spots with the ease of ancient sea turtles.

"The fish still refuses to swim?" Sa’eyla asked, her voice dry but not unkind.

"It is a stone in the shape of a fish," you muttered, your voice tight. "It has no soul."

"Perhaps you are looking for the soul in the wrong place," Tswaya added, setting down a basket of dyed fibers. "You look at the wood as a master looks at a servant. Maybe you should look at it as a partner."

You didn't answer. You felt too irritated to decipher her elder knowledge, instead youou picked up your obsidian blade, turning it over in your hand, but you didn't make a cut. You didn't want to ruin the piece with a movement born of irritation.

The peaceful atmosphere was suddenly altered—not by a loud crash this time, but by a presence. The air in the marui seemed to shift, a subtle change in pressure that made the fine hairs on your neck stand up.

A low, melodic whistle drifted through the air. You didn't have to look up to know it was Sa’eyla. She had seen him first.

Roxto entered the marui. This time, there was no splashing, no shouting, and no frantic excuses. He moved with a quiet, deliberate grace that felt entirely out of character for the boy who had fumbled a net only twenty-four hours prior.

He was still damp from the morning surf, his teal skin glowing with a healthy, vibrant sheen, but his energy was contained. He looked like a hunter stalking something fragile.

He paused at the entrance, offering a respectful, silent nod to the grandmothers. He didn't say a word to them, his gaze already sweeping the room until it locked onto your corner.

He began to walk toward you. Every footfall on the woven floor was muffled, yet to your ears, they sounded like drumbeats. He stopped a respectful distance away, kneeling on the mat with a slow, controlled movement.

"Good morning, Grandmothers," he finally said, his voice surprisingly soft. Then, his eyes shifted to you, and that familiar, wide-eyed wonder returned, though it was tempered by a new, focused shyness. "Hello, Y/N."

"Hello, Roxto," you replied. You kept your voice as even as possible, but you could feel the elders watching you like hawks. You didn't look at him directly, instead focusing on the way the light caught the water droplets still clinging to his collarbone. "You are quiet today. Did the waves finally tire you out?"

Roxto gave a small, lopsided smile—one that didn't reach for a joke, but seemed to settle for a shared secret. "Not the waves. Aonung. We were practicing close-quarters defense near the reef pillars. That skxawng... he’s as stubborn as a shark-glider."

He reached for his belt and pulled out a hunting knife. It was a sturdy piece, but the blade was slightly misaligned from the hilt, and a jagged, ugly crack ran through the bone where it met the grip.

"He hit it against a rock during a parry," Roxto explained, holding the weapon out toward you. He looked genuinely saddened by the damage. "He says I should just carve a new one, but this was my father’s before it was mine. I thought... well, I hoped you might be able to heal it."

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his as you took the knife. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cool morning air. You inspected the damage with a professional eye, feeling the weight and the balance.

"He hit it with a great deal of force," you noted, your artisan’s brain beginning to calculate the repair. "The bone is deep-sea marrow. It’s strong, but brittle under high impact. I can fix it, but it will require resin and a steady hand."

"I trust your hands more than any in the village," Roxto said. The honesty in his voice was disarming. He didn't say it like a flirtation; he said it as a simple, undeniable truth.

You felt a warmth creep up your neck, and you quickly reached for your kit to hide it. "Sit," you commanded softly. "It will take time for the resin to set."

Roxto didn't need to be told twice. He settled into a cross-legged position across from you, his tail curled neatly behind him. For a long time, the only sound was the scraping of your tool as you cleaned the crack in the bone. Roxto didn't speak. He just watched.

Usually, the presence of others while you worked felt like an intrusion, a layer of static that interfered with your connection to the material.

But Roxto’s presence was different. He was like the tide—constant, rhythmic, and strangely grounding. He sat with a wide curiosity in his eyes, his head tilted slightly as he watched you mix the thick, translucent resin with ground shell powder.

"Does it hurt the wood?" he asked suddenly.

You paused, a dollop of resin on the end of a fine needle. "What?"

"The wood. The bone. When you cut into it," he clarified, gesturing to your tools. "You talk about them like they’re stories. I wondered if they feel you changing them."

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw that he wasn't joking. "They don't feel pain, Roxto. But they have a will. If you fight that will, they break. If you listen to it, they transform. I am just... the interpreter."

Roxto nodded slowly, as if processing a profound piece of philosophy. "I think I do that with the ilu. If I try to force them to turn, they buck. But if I just... think the turn, and let them feel it, we move together."

"Exactly," you whispered, returning to the knife.

The conversation drifted into the small, quiet spaces between your movements. You found yourself telling him about the different types of resin—which ones were for strength and which were for flexibility.

He told you about the way he tracked game in the sea, and how the bioluminescence of the coral was usually a big indicator of how powerful of a creature lived there.

He was a good listener. He didn't interrupt; he just absorbed everything you said with that same intense focus you usually reserved for your carvings. It was a strange feeling—being the object of someone’s absolute attention.

As you began the delicate process of binding the hilt with fresh aquatic fiber, Roxto’s eyes wandered to the side, landing on the unfinished tidal-wood fish resting on your mat.

His expression shifted from curiosity to concern. He looked at the fish, then at you, noting the tension in your jaw that you hadn't even realized you were holding.

"What's up with that one?" he asked, nodding toward the carving. "It’s been in the same spot since yesterday. Usually, your hands don't stop moving."

You sighed, the frustration of the morning rushing back. You set the knife down for a moment, the resin still tacky.

"It’s a commission for the tsahik in her teachings. But it’s wrong. It’s exactly what you said it was—stiff. I want it to look like it’s darting through the currents, but every time I try to carve the motion, the wood stays flat. It’s a mental block. I can see the fish in my head, but my hands... they’ve forgotten how the water feels."

You looked down at your palms, feeling a sudden, rare sense of vulnerability. "I spend so much time in here, Roxto. I think I’ve started to treat the ocean as a memory instead of a living thing."

Roxto didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke about you being "Ice." He looked at the carving with a deep, contemplative frown, his tail giving a slow, thoughtful flick.

"You're trying to carve the fish," he said finally.

"Of course I am," you replied, a bit of your old coolness returning. "What else would I be carving?"

"No," Roxto said, his eyes brightening as a thought took hold. He leaned forward, his energy beginning to bubble up again, though he kept his voice low so as not to disturb the grandmothers. "That's the problem. You're trying to carve the shape of a fish. But a fish isn't just a shape. It’s a reaction. It’s the way the water pushes against the scales and the way the fins fight the current."

He looked at you, his grin growing wider, more confident. He looked like he had just discovered a new island.

"You need to see it," he said. "Not as a memory. You need to feel the push and the pull. You need to see how the light breaks over the fins when they’re actually moving, not just when you’re thinking about them."

He stood up, his excitement now too great to keep him seated. He looked down at you, his teal skin practically vibrating with a new mission.

"I have an idea," he said, his voice full of a sudden, infectious certainty. "Actually... I have the perfect idea."

You looked up at him, the unfinished knife in your lap and the "stiff" fish at your side, feeling a sudden, fluttering anticipation in your chest that you couldn't quite explain.

"Roxto?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He just beamed at you and threw a “thumbs” up— a quick movement that made your heart skip a beat. "Just finish my knife, Y/N. I'll be back. And tomorrow... tomorrow, I’m going to show you how to make that wood breathe."

The moment Roxto vanished, the marui of threads seemed to lose half its light. You sat perfectly still, your obsidian tool hovering inches above the tidal-wood, staring at the empty triangular doorway where he had been just seconds before.

The confused expression on your face must have been quite the sight, because a sharp, rhythmic sh-sh-sh sound started up behind you—the sound of the grandmothers trying to hide their snickering behind their weaving shuttles.

"Confused, little fin?" Sa’eyla asked, not even bothering to look up. "He is a boy of the tides. When they get an idea, it is best to simply hold on to your ilu."

You didn't answer. You looked down at his father’s knife, the resin now beginning to bond the bone hilt back into its rightful place. It felt heavier than it had before.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, the "mental block" on your fish carving still firmly in place, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the way his eyes had brightened when he said he had a plan.

The next morning, the sun hadn't even fully cleared the horizon before a shadow fell across the entrance of your family’s pod.

"Y/N! Are you awake? The tide is waiting!"

You emerged, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, to find Roxto practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink, his teal skin glowing with an almost manic level of excitement.

"Do you have it? The fish? And the knife?" he asked breathlessly.

You nodded, holding up your satchel. You hadn't even had time to tie your hair up, the curly locks falling over your shoulders. Without another word, he grabbed your wrist—his hand warm and rough—and led you away from the village.

He took you to the eastern spit, a place where the reef met the open sea in a series of shallow, crystal-clear tide pools protected by towering limestone pillars. The water here was so still it looked like a sheet of turquoise glass.

"Look," Roxto whispered, his voice dropping as if he were showing you a secret grotto of Eywa herself.

In the center of the largest pool, Roxto had staked several fine-mesh nets into the sandy floor, creating a series of underwater pens. And inside? It was a riot of motion.

He had caught dozens of fish—iridescent fan-tails, needle-fish with their sharp, silver snouts, and even a few of the rare glow-fins that usually stayed in the deeper channels.

He stood at the edge of the water, his chest puffed out just a little, his tail giving a proud, rhythmic sweep behind him. He looked at the nets, then back at you, his eyes wide and searching, practically begging for your reaction. He looked so incredibly proud of himself—like a young hunter bringing home his first catch.

You stepped onto a flat, sun-warmed rock that sat barely an inch above the surface of the pool. As you looked down, the "Ice" didn't just melt; it shattered. The fish were darting, weaving, and snapping in the exact way you had been trying to imagine.

"Roxto..." you breathed, your voice soft with genuine wonder. You looked up at him, and for the first time, a full, radiant smile spread across your face—not the polite, distant one from the marui, but a warm, brilliant expression that made your eyes crinkle. "You did all this? Since I saw you yesterday?"

"I went out before the eclipse," he admitted, his grin turning sheepish but staying just as wide. "I wanted you to see the real snap of the tail. Not a memory."

"Thank you," you said, and the sincerity in your voice made his ears give a happy, frantic twitch. "Truly, Roxto. This is... it's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for my work."

Roxto looked like he might actually float away. "Well, you know. I couldn't have the village's best artisan stuck on a 'stiff' fish. It would be a tragedy."

"Sit! Sit here," he commanded, gesturing to the rock.

The rest of the morning was a kind of new peace you hadn't known you were missing. You sat on your rock, your carving tools spread out and feet swishing in the cool water while Roxto stayed in the pools. He didn't just watch; he became your live-action reference library.

"Okay, look at this one!" Roxto laughed, plunging his hands into a net and emerging with a vibrant fan-tail.

The fish wriggled frantically, its fins flapping like wet silk. Roxto waded closer, his knees bumping against your rock, holding his cupped hands up so they were level with your face.

"See how the spine curves right at the base of the tail?" he pointed out, his wet finger tracing a line in the air. "It’s not a straight line, Y/N. It’s like a spring!"

You leaned forward, your face inches from his hands—and his chest. You could smell the salt on him, the scent of the deep ocean mixed with the warmth of the sun. You watched the fish, then immediately made a sharp, aggressive cut into your wood.

"Yes, I see it now Roxto" you chirped, your usual clinical tone replaced by more a bubbly excitement.

Every few minutes, Roxto would find a new species to show you. He was in his element—splashing, laughing, and constantly checking to see if you were watching. When a needle-fish managed to slip through his fingers and slap him across the nose with its tail before disappearing back into the net, you let out a genuine, melodic laugh that made Roxto freeze in the water.

He stood there, dripping wet, a look of absolute doting adoration on his face as he watched you laugh.

"What?" you asked, wiping a stray drop of water from your cheek.

"Nothing," he said, his voice unusually soft, his smile turning into something tender. "I just like that sound. I think the fish like it too."

You felt the blush return, but this time you didn't look away. You reached for the bone knife—his father’s knife—which was now perfectly fixed, the resin clear and the hilt stronger than ever.

"Here," you said, handing it to him over the water. "It is healed."

He took it, his wet fingers lingering against yours. He didn't even look at the knife; he kept his eyes on you. "Thanks, Y/N. For everything."

You turned back to your carving, the wood finally beginning to "breathe" under your hands. Roxto stayed in the pool, leaning his arms against the edge of your rock, watching you work with a quiet, happy sigh. But you paused, and his ears swivels forward as he straightened himself— no longer leaning against the rock.

“Is something the matter?” He asked with a tilt of his head, his wet curls falling with the movement. But his lips parted when you looked at him and placed your hand on his own—bringing it closer to your chest.

“I see you, Roxto.” You spoke, tilting your own head to look up at him— causing the sunlight to perfectly hit your irises and your loose hair falling around your shoulders. stealing the breath from his lungs once again.

“I see you, Y/N.” He replied, squeezing your hand as he smiled down at you.

The distance you kept everyone at was replaced by the warmth of a morning spent between the sun, the sea, and a boy who had decided to bring the whole ocean to your feet just to see you smile.

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#roxto x reader