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zeestarfishalien · 6 months

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Lingering Souls

CW: Drugs (fear gas being referred to as a drug), Panic Attack (again it’s fear gas)

[Day 2 dpxdc week 2023; Danny Fenton // Full Hazmat AU // Fear Gas]

• MemeLords (Danny Fenton/Stephanie Brown) if you squint.

When the adrenaline hits, Stephanie prepares herself to face the visions of her failures, of people she cares about dying in her arms, or even visions of dying slowly somewhere cold and alone.

What she doesn’t expect is the odd warping of reality where all the shadows move. There’s people, so many people. Most of them have some sort of violent wound on them hanging open but not freshly bleeding. Her eyes can’t accurately judge distances any more as figures seem to loom closer or flick away with the barest hint of movement. There’s a glow from up on the roof ledge above her that attracts her attention even though moving her head makes her stomach turn.

There. Stretching in a blur of shadows and neon green glow, a figure moves. Suddenly all she can hear is heavy breathing filtered through a mask and the sound is so loud. She can’t hear her own breathing. Is she breathing? Panic rises further as she can’t hear her own breathing, feel her chest rise and fall and the breathing gets louder and louder, the figure hasn’t moved yet, watching Scarecrow monologue.

An ice cold hand grips her shoulder without warning but before she can scream, another is pressed against her mouth, silencing her. She can’t see them, but they’re so cold, like her hands that one time she got captured by Mr. Freeze.

“Shhhhh,” the raspy voice murmurs in her ear. “I need you to breathe with me.” Then she hears the exaggerated rattling breath through a filter that’s different from the overwhelming heavy breathing that’s still plaguing her ears.

They’re trying to get her to breathe. She really wasn’t breathing? That thought nearly sends her spiraling into panic all over and the heavy breathing picks up in speed once more.

“Hey, hey…” the raspy voice is soft, soothing even if it sounds like it must hurt its owner’s throat. “Close your eyes, I’ll put your hand on my shoulder so you can feel me breathe.”

She does it, she closes her eyes. She’s not usually one to listen to a stranger’s command but this is not a usual sort of situation. There’s the shifting of what sounds like rubber then her gloved hand is placed on Raspy Voice’s shoulder. She can feel them breathe and she finally drags in a shuddering breath to match their pace after a few moments of fumbling.

The strange breathing plaguing her matches her own shakily drawn breaths and slowly ever so slowly as her adrenaline plateaus, it dawns on her that the breathing matches hers because it is hers. The drugs are altering her sense of reality. She knows this.

She jolts as a crash and a human squawk cuts off Crane’s monologue. She almost opens her eyes, it’s habit. She needs to know what’s going on, but she knows she’ll lose her tenuous grip on her fear if she does.

“We’ve got him,” the voice reassures her. “Just breathe with me. I won’t leave you.”

And she believes them. Something about Cold Hand’s voice cuts through and draws away the drug induced fear. Which logically shouldn’t be possible but far be it from Stephanie to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Crane must have made this strain short acting. She can hear her heartbeat settling back into something resembling a normal pace. It helps that Cold Hands is murmuring reassurances and documenting what is going on so she can relax a little easier. Crane is caught. The material beneath her gloved fingers is odd. She can’t tell the details obviously but it doesn’t sit in her grip the way she’s used to.

“I’m gonna…let me take my hood off before you open your eyes,” Cold Hands says suddenly.

There’s a rustling and a hiss of air being released from closed circulation, more rustling and then a raspy “okay.”

It’s so quietly said that Stephanie almost doesn’t hear it. It still takes another few moments for her to gather the courage to open her eyes again.

She’s looking into a face spiderwebbed with glowing green lines. The lines reach up to their eyes which also glow in that same ominous color. She has to remind herself that it’s the same color as Kori’s eyes, panic is still easily bubbling up.

She notes the black and white hazmat suit, an odd color. Their companion also wears one in the same colors, their mask is still on but their back is turned as they keep watch over Crane and his goonies.

“I’m Phantom, he/him,” Cold Hands, Phantom says obviously trying to pull her attention back to him. She lets him.

“Spoiler, any.”

“Even Neos?” She’s pretty sure he’s only asking to keep her talking, to keep the conversation going.

“Especially Neo-pronouns.”

Phantom’s grin is infectious. She firmly ignores that thought.

“Who’s your twin over there?”

Phantom pauses at that and not the human sort of pause, his entire body goes absolutely still. Stephanie thinks his heart might have even stopped but she’d have to move to check his pulse. After what feels like an eternity (it’s probably not been that long but time gets wiggy when you’re high on mind altering drugs), his gaze flicks away and she knows he’s either debating on whether or not to lie or about what lie to tell.

When he looks back, he meets her gaze steadily (so probably not lying).

“It’s just me,” he says in that low rasp. The other one, the other Phantom turns to look at them even though he shouldn’t have been able to hear the first one’s voice. Maybe they’re connected?

“An illusion?” She asks it just to eliminate unlikely theories.

“No,” Cold Hands Phantom says, confirming her theory. “He’s completely separate from me until we merge back together.”

Well that’s…got to be confusing.

“It is,” he replied.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah, you’re still pretty out of it.”

“That checks out. Why hazmat? Seems cumbersome and not for fighting villains.” She knows it’s probably rude but figures the guy might cut her some slack since she’s drugged up at the moment. She’s not one to miss an advantage where she can get one.

For his part, Cold Hands Phantom doesn’t look offended. If anything he looks a little bemused and she wonders how many other thoughts she might have said out loud instead of in the privacy of her own mind. That could get embarrassing real fast. It’s better not to think about it for too long or she’ll lose her nerve.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

The non sequitur throws her addled mind for a bit of a loop and then she has to think about it for a minute. Does she believe in ghosts? She certainly believes that some spirits linger after death and for people to return from the dead, their souls must have been somewhere.

“I believe that our souls can linger, yeah.”

He nods.

“I’m that; a lingering soul. I died in a hazmat suit so that’s what I’m stuck with. At least until I’m dead long enough to change it.”

“Is that why your hands are so flipping cold,” she bursts out.

He laughs. It’s a cracking horrid sounding laugh, but it’s genuine and filled with his amusement.

“Yeah,” he takes a breath to get the few lingering chuckles under control, “that’s part of the reason my hands are so cold.”

“Hmm…seems like it sucks.”

“Which part? The suit or the cold hands?”

“Both, but I was referring to the suit.”

“Sometimes it does but then again, I don’t have to deal with the stares or the patronizing adults nearly so often. The suit itself is just a part of me so it doesn’t get in my way.”

“You doing alright though?” She doesn’t know what makes her ask that. Possibly the drugs? She’s gonna blame the drugs. But even though she didn’t plan to say it, she finds that she really does mean it. Obviously he’s not gonna want sympathy or pity for his death. It’s something he has to deal with every day. But how many people ask him how he’s doing?

“I…” he fumbles. His face contorts, shifting the glowing lichtenburg figures into interesting shapes and contortions. His fingers come up to rake through his unruly white hair as he takes the time to truly think about her question.

“Some days are easier than others,” he finally settles on. “Being here, now? That’s good. I’m doing good.”

“Okay,” she says and sits back tipping her chin up as she closes her eyes. The nausea is getting worse, but also she doesn’t know what else to say or how to look Phantom in the eyes. So instead she focuses on her breathing.

B would want her to try to find out everything she can about Phantom. But respectfully, screw him. She’s still struggling with the drugs and Phantom did nothing but help her through it and tie up Scarecrow and his goons. While she might want to know how he managed to get her over the effects of the drug so fast and with no antidote, she’s just grateful he did it.

She’ll claim that she was too out of it. Alfred won’t let B get on her case over this.

And well…the dead deserve to rest.

Author’s Note: Steph absolutely was saying much of her thoughts aloud. Will we ever know how much? Who can say. Danny didn’t want her to feel embarrassed about it since she couldn’t really help it.

Also Steph using any pronouns is something you won’t even be able to pry out of my cold dead hands. Thank you for coming to my ted talk

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dpxdc week 2023 #potential memelords ship #hurt/comfort #mostly comfort

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scarefox · 4 months

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#god they could be such a good hurt / comfort ship #if there wasn't that constant underlying threat of Nuth losing it / being a potential murderer #playboyy #playboyy the series #ep6 #nuth x phop

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yaoiperonista · 1 year

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Scarahida is such a based ship because they have a girlboss x boyfailure dynamic

#scarahida #scaramouche #nahida #actually they are a great ship bc of the angst and hurt comfort potential #but i had to make a funny post #proship

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unknownarmageddon · 4 months

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Whattabout

Blackcoffee for the bingo?

#i just think they’re neat cackles #there’s definitely angst potential there but i think mostly they’d just be really soft. long term hurt comfort mayhaps #answering asks #justanidiotartist asks #jaa!!#blackcoffee is such a good ship name actually holy shit #they’re not like. very high up in my list of favorite ships but i do like them #ask game

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ava-ships · 2 months

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Father Figure-Daughter type beat

(Reblogs are encouraged, Pr0ship/C0mshippers DNI)

#THEY HAVE LOTS OF HURT COMFORT POTENTIAL PEOPLE #ava’s art #not self ship #skullgirls #annie skullgirls #beowulf skullgirls

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beatenxnotxbroken · 7 months

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Rebecca adjusted her position and pulled on the sleeves of her sweater. She bit her trembling lower lip and swallowed hard, feeling a lump in her throat. The sound of distant thunder made her glance towards the window in her living room. "The truth? It scares-- no, it terrifies me to get that close again... I've been burned bad by it." Her voice broke as she spoke. "So bad, that I lost everything I was to it..." Salt filled the air as she continued to speak, her head dropping slightly in an attempt to hide her face. "And here I am, doing the same thing again... Getting too close. I don't ever learn."

#open starter!#welcome to all mutuals #hurt/comfort anyone?#any fluff?#potential ship?

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revvywevvy · 2 years

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Sore Topic [context under cut]

Okay so upon first glance this ends up looking really confusing and I'm only just now realizing the next day that I should've put context for anyone who doesnt know the SCV story and pre-story stuff right off the bat >_>;;

ANYWAYS-

Pre-SCV, Pyrrha was... basically human trafficked? by this guy named Dampierre, hate him, but he doesn't matter rn. But yeah she was put into the slave trade, and a nobleman named Jurgis lead a raid on said trade. He ended up taking Pyrrha in because she had nowhere to go, they fell in love, and one night he proposed to her. Unfortunately, mere hours later, Tira broke into the house and murdered Jurgis: gouging his eyes and carving 'I Love Pyrrha' into his chest, perhaps to make a statement. Pyrrha was subsequently blamed for this murder and set to be executed, but... well, Tira barged in again and basically set off the SCV story, at least on Pyrrha's side of things.

But yeah, because of Jurgis's murder, Pyrrha has an.... unpleasant association between marriage, proposals and death. It's still hard to believe that things aren't going to hell in a handbasket at every moment anymore, so the concept of marriage is... scary, to say the least. But, considering the cause of most of her problems is gone, she can somewhat calm herself down and remind herself that everything's going to be fine, its safe, the people she loves aren't going to just die at any moment anymore.

#913's art #ok to rb #cw body horror #cw blood #cw gore #cw slavery mention #potentially triggering #<- last two only apply under the cut #digital art #comic #medibang pro #♡ pyrrha alexandra #Pyrrha Ω #Pyrrha Alexandra #hurt/comfort #f/o art #romantic f/o #wlw selfship #self shipping community #self insert #self insert community #ask to tag #//haha bet y'all didn't expect the whole getting engaged thing to turn out angsty huh? >:3c #//wellllll this ship is kinda a hurt/comfort ship anyway soooooooo it wouldve been off to NOT make this angsty in some manner LOL #//but ye #//even if she didn't uh..... specify what 'it' was to caelina??? I mean they'll talk about it in detail eventually #//whether that ends up being written or just in my head >_>;;#//but yeah anyways you heard it here folks soon me calling pyrrha my wife will be serious and not just a term of endearment!!!!!!!

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imogenkol · 1 year

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Pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen Word Count: 3,005 Rating: Mature (18+) Warnings: death mention, trauma Tags: hurt/comfort, still repressing those feelings but we're getting there Read it on Ao3! / Previous Chapter

Summary: after the traumatic death of Timm and a less than warm goodbye with Cassian, Bix seeks out an unlikely source of comfort

The yacht’s comms crackled with a distorted voice. “ – you copy?”

Imogen almost ignored it, but she thought familiarity might’ve caught her attention. She adjusted the frequency and listened.

“Imogen?” Bix’s voice came through, sounding clearer. “Are you there?”

Profound shock caused Imogen’s body to freeze. Even if they hadn’t agreed to part ways for good, Bix never contacted her through such obvious means. Imogen always received coded messages for the safety of them both, but Bix didn’t seem to care about that anymore. Perhaps she felt more scorned than Imogen previously thought.

At first, she felt a strong burst of anger. Imogen’s hand hovered over the control panel with the intention to switch her comms off, but something made her hesitate. Just as her mind pinpointed the source of her body’s betrayal, Bix tried to reach her again.

“I know you’re there, just –” the mechanic’s weathered sigh hissed through the speaker. Something caused her tone to waver just enough for Imogen to notice. “Please answer.”

Imogen’s outstretched hand became a tight fist and, with a clenched jaw, she placed her headset on. “What do you want?”

“Look, I know we ended things, but… I just need to see you.”

Imogen scoffed. “Why?”

“Timm is dead.”

Loud silence filled the cabin of the ship. Imogen couldn’t really fathom how the idiot got himself killed in such a short amount of time, but it was clear that Bix had been shaken up by his demise. Her distress pulled at Imogen’s impulses no matter how hard she tried to ignore the defeat in her tone.

After the silence dragged on, Bix continued. “There’s more. The Empire has taken control of Ferrix.”

Utter exasperation caused Imogen to shake her head. All those people had to do was carry on exactly like they have been. Now they’ve managed to sentence their entire planet to eventual doom. “How did this happen?”

“I’ll explain everything in person. Are you coming?” There wasn’t a single shred of hope in the question like Bix knew that Imogen would refuse. Her request had been desperate.

The presence of the Empire was enough to ward the former Inquisitor off of Ferrix for good. Bix understood that. Yet, Imogen couldn’t think of anything else besides the grief stricken sound of her voice over the comms. Another long pause passed between them before Imogen’s resolve drove a stake into her chest. “I’m setting a course now.”

Ferrix wasn’t too far from the system Imogen had been orbiting. Her bounties weren’t going anywhere, though she did take a moment after landing to check on their vitals. Carbonite could be a fickle thing on occasion. Confident that she would still receive full payment for their living condition, she pulled her hood up and stepped off the ship.

Dawn had barely begun to tear through the gray painted sky. While Ferrix had never been a busy planet at this hour, Imogen sensed a shift in the air immediately. Things were too quiet. As if the entire community were muzzled. Imogen was once a harbinger of the very subjugation she recognized as she walked the streets. A certain power used to course through her veins during those moments where others had no choice but to bend to her will – an unstoppable, addictive rush in what her rage had wrought. Now all she felt was nothing. A cold, haunting nothing.

A glimpse of white armor in the distance signaled an oncoming patrol and Imogen darted into an alleyway.

I shouldn’t bother with this, her mind fretted. Stormtroopers were little challenge on their best day, but if it came to a fight, that would only mean more trouble for herself. This isn’t worth it. An odd creak came from her leg as she hurried to keep out of sight. Even more reason not to be here. But of course, Imogen continued towards the Caleen Salyard, slinking her way through the shadows to avoid the Imperials.

The salvage yard was empty, but Bix’s lights were on as Imogen approached her door. She tapped her knuckles against it. “It’s me, I’m here.”

Imogen paced in lazy circles while she waited for Bix to answer. She put extra weight on her cybernetic leg. The next creak shifted through the metallic joints and nearly caused her to lose balance. During the last bounty she collected, she unwisely made a risky jump from one rooftop to another. The resulting impact put strain on her body, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time. It seemed there might be some damage to the prosthetic after all. Imogen made a mental note to get it serviced.

The front door finally opened with a mechanical whoosh. While Imogen’s expectations were low, seeing Bix with an extremely noticeable bruise on her temple completely caught the bounty hunter off guard.

“Bix.” Imogen rushed for the mechanic before she could stop herself. She gently cupped Bix’s face and turned her head to examine the wound. A fresh gash peeked through her hairline and Imogen felt a flush of anger in her chest. “Did the troopers do this?”

“No.” Bix closed her eyes like she might be avoiding Imogen’s gaze, but she leaned into her touch and allowed Imogen to look at her as long as she wanted. Or maybe she was just too tired to pull away. Imogen noticed the dark circles under her puffy eyes and the way her shoulders slumped.

“What happened, Bix?” Imogen prompted and reluctantly dropped her hands.

Bix took a moment to scan their surroundings before motioning at Imogen. “Come inside.”

“Was that Timm’s doing?” Imogen asked once the door slid shut behind them. She angrily pushed her hood down.

Without so much as glancing over her shoulder, Bix shuffled into the kitchen. “Do you want some caf?”

Imogen put her hands on her hips. “Not as much as I would like an explanation. Particularly one that explains why I’m here.”

Bix finally threw her a weak excuse for a smirk as she prepared two cups. “Pretty sure you’re the only one that can answer that.”

I came because you asked me to, felt like a pathetic excuse, so Imogen ignored her remark and accepted the cup of caf Bix offered. “There isn’t a lot that would motivate the Empire to seize control of a free trade planet.”

“No,” Bix agreed and took a quick sip. “But a shootout with a bunch of corpos does the trick, as it turns out.”

Imogen shook her head and scoffed. Corpos were even more useless than Stormtroopers. Fools, the lot of them. “How exactly did that occur?”

“They were looking for Cassian. Timm ratted him out…” It looked like Bix nearly choked on those last four words. She grimaced down at her cup as if it became too foul to drink.

“So it was Timm’s fault.”

“Some blame Cassian.” Bix shrugged. For how exhausted she appeared, her fingers tapped restlessly against the side of the cup in her hands. “What does it even matter? Timm is dead. Cassian is gone.”

“And I’m here,” Imogen added like an accusation.

The mechanic’s face fell. “I haven’t forgotten our last conversation. I just needed… someone.”

Despite the urge to move closer, Imogen stayed still. “For what?”

Bix’s gaze locked on the bounty hunter’s, those deep brown irises unable to hide the pain tearing her up inside. “Comfort.”

Imogen hadn’t forgotten their last conversation, either. Nor could she forget the will it took not to surrender herself to the woman in front of her. Now she asked for comfort. Imogen knew nothing of the sort, not even for herself. She set her cup aside and found it hard to look the other woman in the eye. “To what end, Bix?”

Bix released such a heavy sigh that her shoulders looked even heavier than before. She smiled flatly and shook her head. “Forget it. Get out.”

No amount of effort could make Imogen ignore the sudden pit in her gut. “Bix –”

“No, it was stupid of me to ask.” Bix’s voice shook and she slammed her cup down on the nearest flat surface.

Imogen had no clue what came over her. It felt like a foreign entity seized control of her body as she swiftly closed the growing distance between them and pulled Bix into an embrace. Bix stiffened in Imogen’s arms. For a moment, she tried to push her away, but there was hardly any effort in her attempt. With a choked sob ringing in her ears, Imogen felt the mechanic utterly melt into her.

In a way, the fight drained out of both of them. Bix succumbed to her torment. Imogen gave up on resisting the persistent pull towards a woman she didn’t deserve. They simply clung to each other and abandoned any conviction that would stop them from doing so.

“I was so stupid,” Bix whimpered into Imogen’s shoulder. “And there was nothing I could do – nothing.”

Imogen didn’t trust herself with words, so she planted her lips on the side of Bix’s head. That odd, warm sensation settled inside Imogen’s chest again as she shut her eyes and inhaled some of Bix’s scent. Imogen liked this. She liked holding her. She liked the way her hair tickled her face. The only thing she could do without were the painful sobs wracking through the woman in her arms. Even more bewildering was the desire to chase those tears away.

“I’m here,” Imogen said again, this time without any hint of irritation.

Bix pulled back and carefully cradled Imogen’s face. She had never touched her this way before – had never looked at her with such fondness. Imogen got distracted by her deep brown eyes. The richness shimmered with unshed tears and Imogen saw herself reflected clearer than ever. “Thank you,” Bix said through a strained whisper.

All she managed was a nod before Bix delicately brushed her mouth with a chaste kiss. Imogen moistened her lips as she resisted the desire to lean in for more. She tasted salt on the tip of her tongue and thought maybe Bix might need physical distraction. It would certainly be the easiest offering for Imogen. “Is that the kind of comfort you want?”

Bix shook her head and caressed Imogen’s cheeks with calloused hands. “Just stay with me for a little while. I don’t want to be alone.”

Not even a hint of disappointment twisted in her gut. “Okay.”

The two of them found seats beside each other on the couch. Bix released her torment in waves, alternating from crying into Imogen’s shoulder to staring off at nothing in particular in quiet contemplation. She maintained physical contact, though. Whether it was a trembling hand grasping at any part of Imogen it could find or their sides brushing together during a break in the storm, Bix always had to touch her. Imogen silently allowed whatever she needed without judgment.

The bell eventually rang outside. Soon the streets of Ferrix would be teeming with workers. It would be crawling with Stormtroopers, too. Imogen didn’t feel concerned, crowds were easier to blend into, but she did worry for her mechanic. Bix’s secret trade could land her in an Imperial cell if they ever found out.

“Maybe,” Imogen started. The words were dry and heavy in her mouth. “Maybe you should leave Ferrix.”

Bix slowly turned her weary head to blink at Imogen. “What?”

“You should go offworld. Get far away from here and start new.”

“With you?”

Imogen swallowed hard and nodded. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

Bix’s features softened so much that it tightened Imogen’s chest. She sighed almost wistfully at the idea, but said “I can’t, Imogen. I have my parents’ salvage yard and I need to keep an eye on Maarva, too.”

“Since when is Maarva your responsibility?” she grumbled.

“When someone matters to you,” Bix said, reaching over to place her hand on Imogen’s good knee. “You do what you can to care for them.”

The bounty hunter studied the way Bix’s thumb brushed back and forth, grateful that it had been on her intact leg. She wouldn’t have been able to feel her otherwise. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“You know,” she gently insisted.

“Bix…” Imogen sighed.

“You’ve been saying my name a lot.”

After a moment of hesitation, Imogen looked up. Bix stared so intently into her eyes that Imogen couldn’t break from her gaze even if she wanted to. A part of her did want to – the part inside of her that screamed to hold her ground. She wondered if it ever occurred to Bix that walking away from her had been the closest thing to caring that Imogen was capable of.

She never fully understood how compassion worked. That turned out to be her biggest problem under the tutelage of the Jedi, but her greatest tool as an Inquisitor. Neither offered her the opportunity to form a proper attachment and learn what it means to care about someone other than herself. It dawned on Imogen as she studied Bix that this might be the only person in the entire galaxy she has ever truly cared for.

“Swear to me you’ll keep a low profile,” Imogen requested and placed her hand on top of Bix’s where it still rested on her knee. “No more deals under the table. Don’t reach out to any offworld contacts.”

“Does that include you?”

“Do you want it to?”

“No,” Bix answered immediately.

The corner of Imogen’s mouth twitched with the flash of a smile. “Then promise me and… and I’ll come back whenever you call.”

Bix’s soft, genuine smile lasted long enough that Imogen had the opportunity to commit it to memory. She really is beautiful. It’s not that Imogen hadn’t noticed before, it’s that she hadn’t let herself appreciate Bix’s beauty with affection. The woman’s features were always something that brought forth a hunger to crave and possess. Now she was something to simply just admire for what she is.

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Now,” Bix’s hand switched to pat Imogen’s metal knee. “Can I get a look at this leg? You’ve shifted your weight.”

Imogen released an amused breath, both at her perceptiveness and her need to always fix something. “It’s a prosthetic, not a ship.”

Bix shrugged. “Can’t hurt to take a peek. Maybe you just have a screw loose.”

Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “And if you fry the neural interface?”

“I’m a way too skilled mechanic for that and you know it,” she bit back.

After another moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Fine.” At the very least, it was an excuse to stay a little longer… to keep Bix close.

Imogen opted out of synthflesh when she received her cybernetic leg, leaving most of the inner workings exposed without clothing. It made for easier accessibility for maintenance, but she mostly wanted a constant reminder of what Vader had so casually taken from her. She remembered lying on the floor of the training room, clutching the burned stump of her leg, and listening to her new master drone on about the importance of loss. The lesson had been pointless. He knew nothing about what she lost. Or what she took.

Bix had her walk around without pants to pinpoint the issue. Imogen usually underwent this process with medical droids and felt a bit foolish in Bix’s home, but she still silently obeyed every instruction. The mechanic eventually muttered something about an offset joint and sat Imogen back on the couch to get a closer look.

With the cybernetic leg outstretched, Bix knelt on the floor and leaned over it to tinker with the mechanisms in her knee. One arm rested on Imogen’s thigh as Bix got pulled into her element. Imogen may as well have been a ship for how concentrated the mechanic was. She wanted to watch her work more than anything, but Imogen averted her gaze to avoid irritating Bix.

Even indoors, the chill of Ferrix caused the bounty hunter to shiver and her exposed skin to prickle with goosebumps. Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Bix glance up. She made an effort to suppress her body’s reaction to the cold.

“There’s a blanket behind you,” Bix told her.

“I’ll survive,” Imogen dismissed. “You’re almost done.”

Bix leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Imogen stiffened and felt like she might fall into those rich brown eyes of hers, but she quickly realized the mechanic only reached for the blanket. As Bix placed it on Imogen’s lap, she smiled with a hint of coyness and said “It’s gonna be a few.”

“You’ve made me your responsibility as well, it seems.”

“Like I said before,” Bix murmured absentmindedly as she returned to work. There seemed to be more she planned to say, but Imogen noticed her hesitate as if she caught herself. “I’m grateful you came,” she continued. The tone of her voice sounded more formal. “And this gives me something to do.”

Imogen saw right through the deflection. When someone matters to you, you do what you can to care for them.

“You’re wasting your time,” Imogen warned. She meant it matter-of-factly. One only nurtures to see something change, typically in ways that are considered better by the perspective of the person devoting their efforts. If Imogen learned anything from her first master, it was that. Others had tried to make her right for so long that she finally turned wrong.

Bix shrugged without looking back up. “Then it’s a good thing it’s mine to waste.”

Imogen didn’t really know what to make of that response. She simply stared down at her mechanic quizzically and admired her casual confidence in the silence that followed. The lack of resistance in Imogen’s chest allowed her to relax in the late morning light that shined through the windows of Bix’s home. The rising presence of the sun brought little warmth with it, but Imogen began to learn that there were other means to chase away the cold.

#oc insp: imogen kol #ship insp: if i had a heart #my writing #WELL here's more of them #me writing this before Bix got arrested and thinking she already went through trauma :/#the good news is there's more hurt/comfort potential #fic: if i had a heart

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ratcandy · 2 years

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For the ship ask thing what abt Monomon/Lurien?? I've seen a few people ship those two.

I personally can't see them in any sort of romantic sense but I love the idea of them being besties . but also worsties. Like in the sense that they bring out the worst in each other if they're around. They act real cordial with one another for about two minutes before somebody says something stupid and it just devolves from there

Aesthetic-wise I just think that the scientist and the watcher works quite nicely . Like two sides of the scientific field (experimental and observatory) but also almost opposite sides of . I'm losing the word I'm thinking of. Not respect. Uhhm. Nobility? Lurien's quite obviously high on the Social Hierarchy with his tallass spire in the city, but Monomon is out in the middle of uninhabitable nowhere. She also is NOT a bug in any sense of the word.

So I think the general population's opinions on the two differ wildly and they're both probably aware of this, but I think it's funny in the sense of who acts what way in public. Lurien all poised and solitary with an actual air of nobility. Blending in with the city as though he is an essential part of it, as it is an essential part of him. while Monomon is just there, brightass green in the middle of a dull blue city, jellyfish looking creature in a crowd of beetles, just having a great time sticking out like a sore thumb. Essentially Lurien's already got some amount of respect from the city bugs but Monomon is fully aware that she's more of "something to stare at and mumble about" and she's basking in it because she thinks that is Hilarious

also the "they're both terrible in every way" is just due to what little characterizations I have for them in my head sdghKJHD I think they would be Silley . I like that for them :) That is all

#ask #hollowed bugs #they're awesome I like them. I care them #I should think about them more #as for the hurt/comfort fic Please? I think there is an untapped potential there. I mean considering what the both of them are giving up #for the sake of the city. n also Monomon having some amount of involvement in the vessel research(?) so . I'm j. I'm just saying #anyway I think Monomon is a being of static electricity . like if you touch her it'll feel like you just slid across a carpet with socks on #and she is aware of this and will just zap Lurien at random intervals while he's talking about something serious just to throw him off #that's all. thank u #ship askgame

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snzyspencer · 4 months

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Would anyone be interested in snz fics from the show G/rimm? It would really just be one shots. I know the fan base on tumblr for the show seems to be fairly small, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. If so, is there a specific ship anyone wants to see? I kind of want to write some N/ickroe stuff.

#the show has so much potential for whump and hurt/comfort #and for anyone who is curious but hasn’t seen the show #N/ickroe is a mlm ship #snz kink #snzblr #snz blog #snz fet #snz fucker #snz #snzfucker #sneeze kink #snzfic #snz fic

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feirceangel · 7 months

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Imagine | Lost (Zoro)

Imagine getting lost with Zoro.

Word Count: 1,604

Warnings: hurt/comfort

(Gif is not mine!)

Things haven't gone according to plan. Of course, that's the norm when you're traveling with Luffy and the rest of the Strawhats. Each crew member has their own quirks, but sometimes everyone manages to stay relatively on track.

Except for Zoro.

The green haired swordsman is notorious for his directional challenges. He even gets lost on his own ship, that's how hopeless his sense of direction is.

So, when everyone splits up to search for the current treasure of the day, you watch with a chuckle as Zoro immediately storms off in the wrong direction.

Huffing with laughter, you race to catch up with him. You trail beside him until he notices and raises a brow at you.

"Huh, what're you doing? We're supposed to split up."

"Oops," you grin at him, chuckling at his exasperated sigh.

He doesn't stop walking, "Go away."

"No."

"I'm serious.”

"Whatcha gonna do? Stick me with your big sword?" You hide your laugh behind your hand as his ears turn beet red.

"If you're gonna follow me, at least shut your mouth," he grumbles.

Smirking at your victory, you subtly start walking a bit closer to him, eyes roaming the area for any potential threats or treasures.

If he notices how close you are, he doesn't comment. He's also on the lookout for danger, hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword.

You've always admired how ready for a fight his is- never letting his guard down. Even when he's 'napping', he's still paying attention to his surroundings.

You've tried a few times to prank him when you thought he was fast asleep but failed every single time. He seems to be able to sense your proximity every time you get within five meters of him.

Even now, as you walk in close proximity, you can't help but admire him. His tall posture and alert eyes that peer into the forest. His soft green hair slightly tousled from the wind.

"You're staring," his voice bears a tinge of smugness, making you whip your head the opposite way.

"Was not."

"Was too."

"I wasn't. I don't know why you'd even think that," you cross your arms and turn to look at him again. "Not like there's much to look at."

Your tone and smirk betray your lies, Zoro unable to stop from smirking along with your teasing.

"Really? Nothing at all?"

"Of course, I'd never ogle at you and your well trained muscles."

He smirks, turning away from you.

It's been like this since you were welcomed into the Strawhat Crew, easy banter between you and the swordsman. After you had proven your loyalty to Luffy that is. You believe Zoro values loyalty above all else.

Zoro had warmed up to you more than he had some of the others.

There'd been an unspoken tension between you: lingering glances and touches mingled with flirtatious words and playful gestures.

He'd let you drag him into drinking contests (which you always lost), nap beside him, and even join his workouts.

And you'd always tease him (backing off immediately when you noticed that he had enough), and steered him in the right direction when he got horribly lost.

Like right now.

"Zoro, I'm pretty sure we have to go left here," you point out.

"I knew that," he grumbles and alters his course. "I was just scouting the area."

"Uh-huh."

"I was!"

Laughing, you hop onto a large fallen tree that blocks your path. You turn to taunt Zoro a bit more, but you pause as a loud shot rings out.

Sudden pain shoots through your leg as blood splatters around you. You crumble down off the log, saved from a hard landing by strong arms.

Stunned, you look up into Zoro's eyes.

"You're alright," he says firmly as he sets you down against the tree. "It just got you in the leg."

Dumbly, you stare into his face, barely registering his words or his angered expression.

"You stay here and I'll be right back."

You nod, unable to do much more. As you watch him leave, you meekly call out to him, "Don't you dare get lost."

He didn't get lost, to your immense surprise.

By now, the shock has worn off and the pain has really kicked in. The bullet went straight through the meat of your leg, luckily not shattering bone. But you will need Chopper to get a better look and bandage it properly.

Right now you're using a strip of your shirt as a makeshift bandage and it's already soaked through. As Zoro does a second assessment.

"You're fine."

You glare at him, "I'm in pain."

"You'll live."

"Good thing, cause if I didn’t I'd haunt your ass!"

Shaking his head, he crouches in front of you, "Can you walk at least?"

You level a deadpan stare at him.

He sighs heavily, "Guess I'll just have to carry you then."

"No, no way."

"It's either that or you walk."

"You need your hands to fight in case there's more enemies," you reason. "Can't use your swords if you're carrying me."

"I'll just set you down."

"No, you'd drop me. And I don't want to be dropped right now," you fire back.

He stands up straight and glares down at you.

"What if you carry me on your shoulders?" You suggest. "That way your arms will be free and you can still fight."

"Fine," he agrees.

You wince as you stand on your uninjured leg, motioning for him to bend down so you can get your legs on his shoulders. He obliges and you precariously manage to seat yourself on his shoulders.

He stands without a problem, steadying you with one hand on your thigh. Pain floods your sense for a second but it is quick to fade as you realize something.

You realize the extent of the compromising position you've put yourself in.

You're on top of Zoro's shoulders, hands on his head to steady yourself as he grips your thigh with his broad hand.

You flush with embarrassment. Beneath you, you can see the dusting of a blush across Zoro's ears and cheeks.

"Thank you for this," you say, unsure of what to do with your hands. The desire to run your fingers through his hair is immense and it takes all your will power to not act on it.

"I appreciate it, Zoro."

He grunts, "Just don't get injured again and we'll call it even."

"Hey, I didn't wanna be shot!"

"You made yourself an easy target!"

"I thought we were alone!"

"You should've known better!"

"I can't believe you're blaming me right now," you say in exasperating. "By the way, you're going north and the ship is to the south."

He grumbles beneath you but does switch his course to follow where you pointed. You wince every so often as he jostles you.

"Sorry," he says, very uncharacteristically.

Surprised, you lean over to stare into his face.

"For what?"

"I should've sensed that sniper but I was distracted," he grits his teeth in annoyance. "If I had seen him, you wouldn't have been hurt."

"Distracted?" You raise a brow, "You were distracted?"

"Don't-"

"Was it me that distracted you?" You grin, forgetting your pain. "Were you perhaps staring at me?"

"Forget I said anything."

"Too late! Admit it, you were checking me out."

His delightful blush is back in full force, "Was not! I was making sure you didn't fall."

You pat his cheek, "Well, you did catch me when I fell. And I guess I fell for you."

He stumbles slightly, making you laugh and cry out in pain at the same time.

"Watch your step Rorozo," you smack him lightly on the head.

"Don't call me that."

"Never," you run your hand over his hair, "I think you secretly like it."

He doesn't say anything and neither do you. Despite your injury, you are enjoying the moment of closeness between you and the swordsman.

It's moments like these that lighten your heart and bring a smile to your face.

His hand shifts over your thigh, "Maybe I do like it. This."

"Me?" You add softly, tracing patterns through his soft hair.

"Maybe."

"Well, maybe I do too," you bend down and press a kiss to his forehead. "Like you."

His hand tightens on your leg, his other hand coming up to caress your hair in a rare display of physical affection.

"Y'know, Sanji's gonna faint when he sees us like this," you chuckle, imagining his reaction.

"Maybe that stupid love-cook will finally leave you alone."

"Sanji? Stop fawning over a drop dead gorgeous woman? It's unlikely."

Zoro reads his head up to try and glare at you, making you wince as you jolt your injured leg.

"Don't worry Rorozo- I only have eyes for you."

At that confession, he stops in his tracks.

"That's it."

He lowers you to the ground, your confusion growing. Weren't you both on the same page just a second ago?

You're not on the ground for long though, as Zoro picks you up bridal-style and stares into your eyes.

"When you say things like that," he tsks, "I want to shut you up."

Before you can ask what he means, he presses his lips against yours, hard.

He breaks away far too soon, “That’s better.”

“If that’s how you’re gonna do it, you can shut me up anytime,” you grin, lean your head against him.

Wrapped up in his warm embrace, you’ve forgotten all about the pain in your leg…

Or the fact that Zoro is once again walking in the wrong direction.

#female reader #imagine #reader insert #x reader #one piece #one piece imagine #one piece reader insert #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #op zoro #zoro x reader #Zoro #pirate hunter zoro #fanfic #zoro x you #one piece zoro

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bby-deerling · 5 months

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floral & fading (law x reader nsfw)

18+, mdni, nsfw, wc: 1.7k masterlist

a secret santa present for my lovely anie <3 @strawheart-pirate

cw: afab!reader, piv, rough sex, scratching, choking, hate sex kinda, law is bad with feelings, reader is also kinda bad with feelings, angst, bittersweet, hurt no comfort, you let this guy hit once and he's totally obsessed w/ you, strawhat!reader, messy relationship dynamics

Law needs you desperately despite the fact he knows he cannot have you.

He hadn’t intended to get attached to you, not in the slightest. Mind scattered, full of adrenaline, and buzzing with alcohol, he had meant for you to be nothing more than a late-night drunken distraction from the flood of emotions he felt after the events of Dressrosa. Somewhere in the murky deep of the back of his mind, you had snuck in and sank your ragged claws into the sulci of his brain, to the point where he can barely close his eyes without picturing your mischievous smirk, or the contortions on your face as he fucked you, squeezing his tattooed hand around your throat.

For all intents and purposes, Law couldn’t stand you. Brimming with intelligence and wit, you squandered your potential by wasting precious time goofing around with Luffy. The strategic and combative skills you possess in battle make you an essential asset to your crew, but you were resistant to discussing any sort of long-term plan with him, insisting that wasn’t how Luffy rolled—it drove him crazy, and gave him the deep urge to break you until you finally relented and decided to use your mind properly like he wanted you to.

“Come on, Traffy! Tell us who won!” you exclaim one day after a water gun fight, out of breath and nearly falling over as you slide along the wet deck in your flip flops, Luffy close behind you.

Law rolls his eyes and sighs, not bothering to look up from the book he was reading. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention to your nonsense.” he says in his usual dry monotone.

“Traffy, you were supposed to be watching us!” Luffy whines, putting his hands on his hips as he pouts. Law ignores both of you, hoping you would eventually find another judge to determine the victor of your silly game; he thinks you’re finally discussing finding someone else to bother when you whisper something in Luffy’s ear that makes your Captain giggle maniacally.

“We decided to team up.” Luffy says proudly. Law catches your grin in his peripherals, but continues to sit, eyes fixed on the pages in his lap, and ignores you, a mistake that would soon lead to his downfall.

“So…You lose!” you shout with a grin.

With your words comes a stream of water straight to his face, followed by a second, less accurately aimed jet from Luffy that drenches his book and leaves Law fuming. You keep that infuriating, mischievous grin plastered across your face, but he slightly smirks as he notices the way you swallow hard as he glares at you, a silent acknowledgment that you knew you were certainly in for it now.

“Shishishi—you’re in trouble with Traffy! Not me though, I’m gettin’ away!” Luffy cackles, using his rubber arms to swing to the other side of the ship, leaving you to Law’s devices, and oh, did he have plans for you.

Your idiocy had earned you a harsh quickie in the library, full of bites and dirty talk and nails dragging into his back.

“F-Fuck, Traffy—” you whimper as he bucks his hips harshly, filling you up so deeply his cock brushes against your cervix.

He yanks on your hair harshly and sinks his teeth into your neck, not caring in the slightest if he leaves marks on your precious, unblemished skin. “Brat. Say my name properly.” he hisses in your ear, wanting nothing more than to hear the word fall off your lips.

“Mmmf, ‘m sorry, Law…” you whine, tilting your head towards him to give him more access to your neck. Law—hearing you drop the nickname and letting his real name drip off your tongue drives him wild and makes him drive his cock into you even harder as he bites and sucks along the column of your neck. The familiarity and intimacy of it—even though it’s entirely manufactured, and he would never dream of displaying a similar vulnerability and dropping the -ya from your name—allows him to pretend you care more than you do. It lets him pretend you care as much as he does.

“You better be.” he whispers, roughly clawing at your back with his jagged nails. He wanted a string of apologies out of you before he was done—he’d already coaxed one out of you for spraying him in the face with the water gun, but burrowing your way under his skin and refusing to evacuate was the much more severe crime at hand, one with a sentence that ended up benefiting you both physically, but left him in a mental state even more frazzled and unfocused than before.

Irrationality began to cloud his judgement even more so as time went on, and he insists on you being in the group he brings to Wano with him. Having you on the Polar Tang, even for a short time, is intoxicating to him—with the temptation of having you so close overpowering him, he finds himself uncharacteristically taking breaks from his work to use you for stress-relief. He tells himself that’s all it is despite the fact he knows it’s a weak lie. You’ve deciphered his feelings by this point; he can see it written on your face, though you cautiously say nothing. Instead, you hang around after your unsavory activities, following him around the submarine and staying up late at his side, curiously and gently prying at aspects of himself that he thought he had locked away for good. He’s furious at you for the way you’re able to unravel him, ripping him open emotionally just as he tears at your insides physically, and he takes his frustrations out on you accordingly. However, you never seem to mind, and take all he gives you in strides; he’s mean, nasty, and rough with you in bed, but no matter how hard he tries to keep control, there’s a glint in your eyes that says you’re the one with the real power—you’re the one who can get the Surgeon of Death to snap and succumb to his base urges, and it enthralls you, much to his continued frustration.

He finds himself obsessing over you so deeply that he makes every excuse to keep you apart from your crewmates until the rest arrived with Sanji in tow. He gives you a cover story to keep you close to him and continues his façade of this simply being sex to him, though you both know it’s more at this point.

“I like you, Law. I've gotten attached.” you said one night, words nearly drowned out by the chorus of cicadas hissing in the distance.

You were curled into his side, fingers tracing along his chest tattoos; it’s a rare moment where he lets you to show him affection like this, and your confession makes him deeply regret allowing you this luxury. Despite the way your presence makes his heart contort and twist, despite all the hoops he’s jumped through to keep you close to him, and despite the fact that if he keeps his feelings bottled up for too much longer, he may never get the chance to vocalize them, he remains stubborn, letting a painful silence emanate into the night.

“It’s silly of me, I know, but I can’t help it.” you whisper, flinching at the way your voice cracks in the process.

At times, Law saw you as obnoxious and silly, but you were also clever, compassionate, understanding, and strong, especially as you withstand all of his erratic mood swings as he sorts out his feelings for you—that’s why it cuts him to the bone when he causes you pain like this.

“Neither can I.” he whispers, unable to hold his sentiments back any longer. He feels a touch lighter, but is not surprised when the melancholy resting between the two of you remains hanging in the air, coating you like a blanket. After all, this could not and would not last forever, and once this alliance ends, the only glimpse he may ever get of you again might be on your wanted poster.

When all of the business in Wano ends, he has half the mind to take you for himself—to make you his and refuse to let go no matter how much Luffy begged him to release you, but he knows you would never leave your friends and go with him willingly. Maybe that’s what infuriates him most—no matter how intimate and soft your half-lidded stare is while he fucks the daylights out of you, you would always love the sea, freedom, and your stupid antics with your crew more than him. No amount of late-night conversations, full of hesitant divulgences and barriers broken, and no amount of physical contact would ever permanently tie you together, despite how much he wished that wasn’t the case.

Law knows this is the last time he’ll have you beneath him, close to him, and vulnerable for him, but he can’t bring himself to be gentle, overwhelmed by the violent storm in his chest. Laid out and panting, your fingers curl into the sheets beneath you as his skilled fingers work magic on your clit. Just as your thighs begin to twitch, he pulls his hand away, delighting in the way you whine and plead with him in frustration. Inked fingers roughly squeeze the sides of your windpipe, making you squeak for him.

“You didn’t think I’d let you have it this easy, did you?” he taunts, using his other hand to grip your chin, smirking as he hovers over you before planting his lips onto yours. Heated, deep, and full of longing on both sides, the kiss is enough to nearly pull his heart apart in two. He takes great care to memorize the drag of your lips against his, the way the plush skin of your hips feels in his grasp, and the grip of your walls against him as his cock slides deep inside of you.

If this is the last time Law is going to have you, he is intent on drawing it out as long as he possibly can before he lets you go. He just wishes things didn’t have to end this way.

#one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law x you #law x you #trafalgar law x y/n #law x y/n #one piece smut #one piece scenario #one piece fanfiction #x reader #mdni

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace.

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection.

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips.

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you.

Water hits the top of your head.

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap.

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship.

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises.

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms.

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright?

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you.

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way.

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all.

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John.

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it.

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor.

The fish brushes your tail again.

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime.

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor.

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up.

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked.

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles.

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving.

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture.

Oh, and your precious tail.

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders.

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval.

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves.

They slam you to the deck like a fish.

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight.

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming.

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely.

They were going to rip you to pieces.

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty?

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure.

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!”

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles.

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman.

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other.

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled.

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left.

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood.

Christ, there was blood in the water.

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists.

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire.

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand.

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet.

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals.

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away.

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached.

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside.

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow.

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back.

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing.

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection.

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened.

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived.

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep.

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water.

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water.

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time.

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze.

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over.

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?”

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different.

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.”

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood.

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb.

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways.

This was torture.

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold.

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.”

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out.

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye.

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.”

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering.

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here?

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?”

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade.

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear.

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove.

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.”

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck.

“They’re going to take my tail.”

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?”

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm.

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought.

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside.

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies.

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse.

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse.

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene.

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this.

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall.

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight.

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back.

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.”

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready.

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck.

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse.

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John.

Your Fisherman.

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water.

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.”

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man.

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody.

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood.

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.”

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more.

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually.

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling.

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another.

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.”

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up.

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck.

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.”

“...Then forgive me.”

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man.

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