#satchel cannon

[wenmistry]

🌻 Protect his life as your own. 🦊

[iloveyoudie]

[thefutureiswhat]

Someone has been sittin' in your chair. And someone has been eatin' from your bowl. And someone has been sleepin' in your bed.

[peculiaritybending]

Reblog for larger sample size

[ivyfluoresce]

I've always seen (& still do see) the relationship between Rabbi and Satchel as a paternal one, but it's probably not a coincidence that Rabbi's little brother is named "Michael" in the S4E1 script…

I think about this all the time.

[robbinggoodfellows]

i could write an academic paper on the wizard of oz symbolism of satchel cannon

[sygiandepths]

Team leaders

[sunnami]

❝we can't be friends (wait for your love.)❞

[credits to @artofpan for the lovely art! title is taken from ariana grande's song, we can't be friends.]

summary. fortune favours the bold, so they say. but you're an awkward ravenclaw in yearning.

pairing/s. poly!marauders x reader (james potter x reader, lily evans x reader, remus lupin x reader, and sirius black x reader.)

word count. 11.4k

tags. childhood friends to ex-friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like remus and tonks, also a bit of spice ;3

note. asdhjf while im working on the last part of the time traveller au pls enjoy this fluffy piecee ueueue

‘TIS THE SEASON OF raucous jeering and gaudy paraphernalia in the corridors, the unmistakable scent of overly-polished brooms, mud trekking through the cobblestone floors, and jerseys soaked in sweat, rain, and grime after hours of vigorous training. The dreaded second week of school where arrogant fledglings end up in the infirmary on account of broken noses, dislocated shoulders, or sprained wrists.

In other words: Quidditch tryouts. 

You’re just not fond of the havoc wreaked in every corner and alcove of the castle. But to your relief, the library remains untouched through it all. 

Needless to say, you absolutely hate Quidditch. 

It is a fact you simply will not elaborate on. The skies are blue, the grass blades are green; you and the Marauders are as different as night and day. 

On your way to the library, the last bastion of academia, you weave past the crowd in the courtyard corridor, ears ringing from the shouting match earlier in the Great Hall for breakfast—something about the Cannons versus the Magpies. There’s a pile of books shoved inside your leather satchel, painfully bumping into your hip with each step you take. You traverse through the Romanesque architecture, blissfully unaware of the misfortune to come. 

“If I study for Charms now, I can take a nap for the rest of the day,” You say to yourself, pensively tapping at your chin. 

“Watch out!” 

You barely have any time to react before a Quaffle comes crashing straight into your face. 

“Merlin’s hairy arsehole—fuck!” There’s a sicky sound of bones cracking, a dizzying flash of white before your eyes, and something viscous trickling from your nose down to your lips. Your hands fly to your face—instantly flinching when you catch a glimpse of your fingers dipped in blood. Your eyes grow wide in panic, chest rapidly heaving—it’s only now that you realize that you’re sitting on the ground, textbooks laying haphazardly around you, shoulders quivering from the adrenaline. The crowd’s concerned murmurs are lost in the cacophony of hysteria. 

“Move!” 

To your rescue, is Alice Fortescue, a fellow prefect. She cuts through the onlookers of petrified first-years and nosey fifth-years. You have no doubt this incident will grace the school’s gossip column for the next few days. She grabs your arm and wraps it around her shoulder with ease. You’d write poetry of her gallant display, but you were too busy moaning in agony. She utters a few incantations to stop your nosebleed from worsening, though there’s not much she can do to help with the possible concussion. 

“Did you know Bludgers used to be called blooders?” You mumble languidly, nearly crashing into one of the knight statues. 

“I do now,” replies Alice, tightening her hold on your waist, the ghost of a fond smile on her face. (She’s missed you, actually—three and a half years of radio silence. There used to be a time where running into you in the Gryffindor common rooms was an everyday occurrence. Even the Ravenclaw prefects knew where to look first if they wanted to find you.)

After what feels like an eternity of trudging through the castle, you finally reach the infirmary. The matron, Poppy Pomfrey, shrieks in alarm at the sight of your soiled blouse and blood stained lips. She gently ushers you into her hold, guiding you to a vacant bed. Alice hangs back, awkwardly shuffling her feet, gaze worriedly trained on you. 

“You may return to your classes, Miss Fortescue, thank you,” says Madam Pomfrey, tipping your head upwards and grimacing.  “Oh, good heavens, what happened?” 

Your head droops in her palms, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—you must have bit your tongue earlier. You blubber pathetically, “Got hit by a stray quaffle.” 

Wordlessly, Madam Pomfrey summons a vial from her stash in the cupboards. She hands the small bottle to you, uttering various healing spells under her breath with a deft expertise of someone who’s been doing this for years upon years now. “There,” says Madam Pomfrey, lips firmly pursed. “That should help with the fractured cheekbones.”

With—what?

As your eyes bulge out of your head, Madam Pomfrey looks over you once more, a floating quill at her side hastily scribbling on a parchment. “Concussion, mild blood loss, fracture in the cheekbones, broken nose cartilage.” She illuminates the tip of her wand, and moves it left and right in front of you. “Hmm. Any nausea at all, dear?”

“There’s a six point four chance I’m going to get amnesia,” You whisper solemnly, head hanging low as your voice cracks from the unbearable pain. “I don’t want to get amnesia.”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that while you’re under my care.” Madam Pomfrey gently nudges you to lay on the pillow. She hands you a folded blanket. “Rest now. We’ll keep you here until the morning in case your condition worsens.”

“I can’t.” You groan, sitting upright—Madam Pomfrey pushes you back onto the bed with a stern glare. “I’ve got to study.”

“And I’ve got three other students to tend to. Mister Lockhart has been dealing with food poisoning all week.” Madam Pomfrey places her hands on her hips, sighing sharply. She jerks her thumb behind her back—that’s when you notice that three certain people are staring back at you. Sirius Black and James Potter squeezing together in one chair—and miserably failing—and Remus Lupin, resting cozily on the infirmary bed with bandages around his arms and head. “And don’t even get me started on this one.”

“You love him, Poppy, don’t lie.” Sirius grins wolfishly at the matron. You make out the sunken bags underneath his gray eyes, pale lips and his unkempt heap of dark curls. 

Pomfrey huffs exasperatedly. “It would be easier to wrangle a hoard of Hippogriffs than to keep you three out of the infirmary past visiting hours.” She spares you one last glance, nodding when she deems you safe and healthy—as can be, anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart rolls out of his bed, his cries echoing around the room, threatening to barf up his entire breakfast, and Madam Pomfrey is gone in an instant. 

There is an awkward silence that envelops your side of the room—you roll over on your left, desperately ignoring the three of stares burning intensely into your back. 

THE STORY GOES like this: 

You know their names more than you know your own. Each morning finds them at the Ravenclaw common room’s doorstep—while waiting, Lily, Sirius and Remus try to figure out the password as James attempts to brute force his way in. (He had actually figured out the riddle minutes ago, James would just rather play along with his friends.) The blue-tied prefects watch endearingly as one of their first-years rush out of the tower, squealing deafeningly, and jumps right into the lion cubs’ embrace. (It’s not that Inter-House friendships are rare, it’s more common than one would think; usually, it just takes more time for the eaglets to break out of their shell.) 

“I got a hundred and twelve!” You exclaim merrily, hair in disarray and eyes puffy from having just woken up. Lily grabs your hands; together, the both of you jump up and down, excitedly giggling in celebration of the success of your History of Magic essay. (You had ignored them for a day to focus on your homework—Sirius did not like that at all. It wasn’t as fun to play if one of their friends were missing. Gone off to study, of all things.) 

The tale of your friendship may be an unsolved mystery to some, but to you, it’s like finding jigsaw pieces that perfectly fit together. Magic isn’t only centaurs in forbidden forests, or ceilings bewitched to look like the night sky—sometimes it’s stumbling into a random train compartment and shyly offering your bag of assorted treats. Next thing you know, Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon are constantly with you in the library, oohing and aahing over pages of the fantasy novels Lily had brought from the muggle world. 

There’s rarely a day where you aren’t spotted in a sea of red and gold. Except when you’ve studied yourself sick—and the Marauders are never fond of that. 

(“I’m sorry, she can’t come down today,” says one of the fifth-year prefects, Lalita Burman, a rather tall girl with intricate curls, brown skin, and eyes that stare into one’s soul. She wakes up to banging on the tower entrance, not even eight o’clock in the morning yet—on a Saturday. It doesn’t come off as a surprise anymore when she opens the door to five red-faced children. “She’s come down with the flu. Most of the firsties have, actually. Madam Pomfrey says they’ll get better by tomorrow but Alex and I have been running ourselves ragged looking after them.” 

James Potter narrows his eyes at her. “Okay. Then we’ll go inside.” 

“Maybe we can help,” says Remus. 

Lalita holds up her hand to stop them from barging in. “That’s really sweet, but we can’t risk any of you getting sick as well.” 

Sirius stands on his toes to spy past Lalita’s shoulder, frowning when he finds nothing of importance—or really, when he can’t find you. He couldn’t wait to call you stupid for getting yourself sick—you just missed out on frog hunting. “That’s alright.” He huffs, shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Our immune system can take it. Will you let us in now?” 

Her eye twitches. “Come back tomorrow.” 

With that, she slams the door in their faces. 

The Marauders then declare you are never, ever allowed to get sick again.) 

Your second year in the castle creeps up on you without you noticing. 

“Remus Lupin, I am going to kill you!” 

No one bats an eyelash when you stalk up to the Gryffindor table, twelve years old and on a mission, fresh from the summer holidays. You slam your hands down onto the table, eyes ablaze as Remus stares at you, head resting on his palms, shaggy blond hair falling over his brows—no thoughts, head empty, just sheer adoration. 

“Hello there, stranger,” Remus says, grinning fiendishly. “You look rather lovely—did you have a good holiday?” 

You scoff, pointing an accusatory finger at him—Peter watches at the scene with wide eyes, slowly chomping on his shepherd’s pie, not an inkling as to what was going on. “Don’t try me, Lupin!” You exclaim sternly. “That book you gave me—you said it would have a happy ending! Tell me why I stayed up until bloody five o’clock in the morning crying me eyes out! You. . . you—!” 

“Wanker, dingbat, berk, git,” Lily supplies helpfully with an innocent smile, pulling you down to sit with her. “And my personal favorite—toerag.” 

You gape at the pretty redhead, jaw falling to the floor. “How do you even know these words?” 

She hums nonchalantly, spreading blueberry jam onto her buttered toast. “A lady must arm herself with the necessary ammunition.” Lily points to a certain pair of boys—James and Sirius are currently engaged in an eating contest, shoveling pancakes after pancakes inside their mouths; so far it looks like Sirius is winning. Lily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, “Especially if she wants to survive that kind of company.”  

“Him, even more,” says Lily, gesturing to Remus. “He may be Professor McGonagall’s golden boy but I see right through him.” 

“What can I say?” Remus smirks, helplessly shrugging his shoulders. “I’m a monster.” 

Lily glares at him. 

Then, you turn thirteen—the dreaded age. Suddenly, you’re dealing with oily skin, acne, body odor, hair growing out of places you didn’t even know could grow hair, hormones messing up the way you look at everyone else—something awakens in you the day you see Dorcas Meadowes in the Quidditch pitch wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck—and hormones messing up the way you look at yourself. 

Everything is starting to change. 

You usually never blink twice when James wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head on your shoulder. Except this time, he’s gone from a gangly bean sprout, to a heartthrob with perfectly messy hair, newly defined muscles from his countless hours of Quidditch training, charming smile, eyes that one could get lost into for hours, and a tantalizing scent of mint and bergamot. 

“Are you really not going to our game this Saturday?” James whispers in your ear—the five of you had been hanging out in the library. 

You sigh. “Can‘t. Sorry.” 

“Scared your House is going to lose to us, pet?” Sirius teases from where he’s sitting backwards on the chair next to you, engrossed in twirling locks of your hair around his finger. 

You bristle at the nickname—they have been brazen with the endearments lately, you’ve noticed. “It’s not like we’re going to win anyway,” You mumble, tapping your quill on the empty parchment—there’s never any work done while they’re around. “There’s only a sixteen point seven percent chance of Ravenclaw winning against Gryffindor.”

James wrinkles his nose, now sitting on the edge of the table. “Percent, shmercent. What matters is how everyone plays that day.” 

He kicks his legs against yours, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, will you come watch?” 

“We have that History of Magic project, remember,” You say defeatedly. “I need to get started on it this week otherwise I’ll be behind all the electives I signed up for this year.” 

Lily frowns, looking up from her own homework to glance at you in concern. “How many did you even pick?” 

“All of them.” 

“What?” Lily screeches in terror, suddenly rising from her seat to lean over the table. “How is that even possible? How did McGonagall even allow that?” 

“Professor Flitwick,” You correct, wincing when Lily and Sirius glare at you. “It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I wore him down. All I had to do was rework some of my class schedules and promise him over a thousand times that my wellbeing wouldn’t ever be compromised by my studies. Otherwise he’d take back his decision.” 

Remus doesn’t seem all too happy. “No wonder we don’t see you at Transfiguration anymore.” 

“Or in Kettleburn’s class,” Peter pipes in. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be taking that many classes at once?” Remus grimaces, sharing a worried look with James. “The limit is three, and even that is too much to handle.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

(Peter knows a lie when he hears one.) 

James tenses up, jaw tightening. “So you’re saying you’re going to miss a game because of school? Like all the other times? That’s bullcrap!” 

Remus hisses his name in warning. 

Tears prick your eyes instantly—you’ve heard him speak like this when quarreling with Slytherins, but never to your face. “That bullcrap means a lot to me, Potter. You’d understand that if you took your studies seriously more than just going around and playing silly pranks on everyone!” 

James scoffs. “Like how you take us seriously? Did you know that Lily is the youngest ever to be invited to Slughorn’s club? Yeah, she got the invitation last week. Did you congratulate her for that when she was staying up late with you to revise for your practical test in Herbology?” 

“I—” You stammer, guilt pooling in your stomach. 

“No, you didn’t.” James sneers. “You only see yourself. Do you know what Remus has been going through? Do you even care?” 

“That’s enough, James,” Lily says vehemently. 

“Well, if you think like that, maybe we all should just stop being friends!” You retort.

Before anyone else can reply, Madam Pince comes around the corner, and everyone falls silent—a tense atmosphere that threatens to choke you. With a heavy heart, you gather your belongings and run out of the library. 

The months pass by, and Frank Longbottom wonders why he doesn’t wake up at midnight anymore to find five students having a sleepover in the common room with a certain eagle, each of them trying to contain their giggles and  failing. (One time, the Prewett twins had run down the stairs in panic, only to find you and Peter screaming from Remus’s theatrics in telling his ghost stories during an awful thunderstorm.) You no longer visit the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and they no longer wait for you after your classes. 

“It’s probably just a tiff,” says Alice to Mary Macdonald. “They’ll make up—they always do.”  

Mary nods, though unsure—while Peter is gut-wrenched about it all, the other four in particular seem like heartbroken puppies when you enter the Great Hall and barely acknowledge their presence. 

The snow melts and time catches everyone unaware.

“I can’t believe I’m going to graduate and you idiots haven’t made up yet,” Lalita sighs as she pulls you in for a hug. In a few weeks, she and the other seventh-years are due to leave; you’ve grown real close with her over the past few terms. Her departure is going to be truly difficult for you to handle. “Just talk it out with them, okay?” 

You sniffle, holding onto her robes. “I’m trying, but they’ve been ignoring me, too.” 

Lalita squeezes you tighter. “Don’t worry. These kinds of things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

At the end of the term, you present your final project to Professor Binns. The ghost nearly returns to life. It was a research study on the Evolutionary Analysis of Magical RNA Manipulation in the Catalonian Fireball. Days after your paper is published, you’re featured on the Daily Prophet; dragon tamers and professors from Spain are owling you letters of praise and congratulations. It goes without saying that such a feat had naturally catapulted Ravenclaw to the top, ultimately winning the House Cup. 

(But what you don’t tell everyone is that you’re so severely burnt out after that—to the point where you didn’t want to ever pick up a textbook again. For the first time in forever, learning had become a chore, not a passion. You’d been puking out of anxiety, hands trembling as you forced yourself to write on the parchment, the sides of your fingers constantly swollen and raw. You’d study until four o’clock in the morning, and wake up an hour later to complete all of your homework. You’ve begun to masquerade as the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower; lifeless and indifferent. Xenophilius and Pandora fuss over you, but you just lock yourself in your room and say: “I’m tired.”

Perhaps, it is why Professor Flitwick isn’t surprised when you withdraw from most of your electives. 

“The pursuit of knowledge is a rewarding journey,” says Professor Flitwick on the day you visit his classroom—hours away from needing to be on the train platform. He sighs and sets his spectacles on the table. “But it is a perilous one, too. I trust that you have understood the consequences of your actions. As a teacher, I can only offer guidance when it is needed. The other professors may disagree, but I find the best learning method to be, what is it the kids say—fuck around and find out.” 

You snort. 

Professor Flitwick chuckles, quite pleased with himself. “If I may be so bold as to leave you with another piece of homework, I would like to ask you to truly enjoy the holidays. I hear the summer is a time for discovering new things about oneself, for new beginnings and growth. After all, learning does not happen only within the castle grounds.”) 

Later that day, you board the express, purposefully choosing the farthest compartment where you know they’ll be staying in. You share the cabin with two people whose names are Regulus and Narcissa Black—this is the first time you’ve ever met them. Narcissa shares her green tea flavored candy with you.  Afterwards, you spend the rest of the ride back to King’s Cross asleep. 

(Right before the train arrives, Remus is nervously searching for you in the crowd of people. 

“We’ve got to say goodbye, at least.” Lily nibbles on her lower lip uneasily. She once joked that she could find you anywhere—as if you two had a red string tied around both your pinky fingers. Now, it seems you’re too far away for her voice to reach you. 

James drops his head down in shame. “I never got the chance to apologize.” 

“She’ll appear somewhere,” says Sirius unwaveringly with a nod, taking Lily’s heavy suitcase from her as steam whistles are heard in the distance. “She could be in our special compartment, waiting for us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter questions dubiously. 

“Of course I am, she’s my best friend,” Sirius counters resolutely. “She’s there, I can feel it.”)

You’re fourteen when you return back to the castle—you hadn’t touched a single book throughout the summer, but you find yourself well-rested; you learn how to swim from your mother; staying up all night to accompany your family dog as she gives birth to seven beautiful puppies, and scratching yourself on the bark of sycamore trees with your poor attempts at climbing.

You find out that you don’t like Arithmancy at all, strongly preferring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve also garnered a curiosity for Ornithomancy, the oracle reading of birds. 

This year, you signed up for the Gobstone club, despite your unfamiliarity with the game. It’s led by a Slytherin girl named Haerin Seong. (It’s properly read as Seong Hae-rin.) She has pin-straight hair, a sharp nose, and the mouth of a drunken sailor.

You also decide that you want to become a professor after Hogwarts. The groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, belly laughs when you declare this to him one afternoon, right in the doorway of his hut. 

“Well, go on then!” Hagrid bellows, patting you on the head. “Anyone who tries ter stop yeh has got ter go through me!” 

On the dawn of your fifth-year, an owl delivers a prefect badge to your doorstep. Your father, born and raised as a Muggle, doesn’t understand the significance of this, but he cries harder than you on that Sunday morning. (“My child is a prefect!” He sobs into the telephone after dialing your aunt’s number.) 

The fresh batch of Ravenclaw firsties aren’t the only new additions to the castle. According to the gossip mill, James and Lily are finally dating, so are Sirius and Remus apparently. (Then, months later, everyone would be shrieking about how they’re all dating. )

You hear of the news as you guide the first-year eaglets to their next class. You’re climbing up the spiral staircase when you see the Quidditch pitch through the window. They look like flying ants from this distance. You can imagine the wind in their hair, the tense muscles as they chase after the Quaffles, the crowd roaring in their ears, victory within their reach if they just fly fast enough. 

You hate the way you envy them—how easily they soar up in the skies while you watch from below, much like a flightless eagle, shackled by your own shortcomings. 

You hate Quidditch.

It’s bound by no rules, unpredictable and barbaric. Most of all, it looks down on the cowardly. 

In your sixth year, you have your first kiss with a boy named Augustine Fenberry. It’s extremely short-lived and awkward. You date for three months until it’s unanimously agreed that you two are better off as friends—until you catch him laughing about you with his mates in an empty corridor, saying that you were clingy, too much, and needed to learn how to shut up. (You wonder if that’s why they grew tired of you, too.) 

You handle him with a quick, “Entomorphis.” 

It’s probably one of the more cruel jinxes; Augustine bawls piercingly as he grows antennas atop his head, the spell forcing him to get on his hands and knees; his friends hover around him in panic, but all Augustine can do is chirp like a grasshopper in the night. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but Haerin tells you that’s exactly what Augustine is—vermin. 

You also, with great satisfaction, deduct thirty points from his House—which happens to be Ravenclaw. 

(Nobody knows this about Peter, but he’s nimble on his feet, a bit of a wallflower—and he is now the newest editor of Hogwarts’s newspaper column, The Golden Snidget. By the next day, everyone knows what he’s done. Argus Filch, who’s in charge of his month-long detention, should be the last of his worries. Peter sympathizes with the wizard—but only for a fraction of a second. Because it’s not even the werewolf Augustine has to be scared of, not the pureblood heir who could ruin anyone with just a lift of his finger; not the Quidditch prodigy with a sharp mind, knowing a thousand ways to seek revenge. 

It’s Lily Evans. 

“Go near her again and I’ll rip your balls off!” Marlene flips the bird to the group of cowering boys. “Matter of fact, if you treat anyone like that again, I will come for your bloodline.”

“Fucking toerag!” Lily wildly swings the Beater’s bat she had stolen from the Quidditch changing room. “If you even look at her, I’ll hunt you down and shove this up your arse—until you feel it in your throat!” 

Peter shivers in fear. He didn’t ever want to be on the receiving side of Lily’s wrath. 

“This is the same girl who cried for an hour when she saw the ducklings in the Great Lake separated from their mother,” says Remus, horrified. 

“Honestly, I feel so, so conflicted whether to find this terrifying. . . or attractive,” James whispers to Sirius.

“Attractive. Definitely attractive,” Sirius responds breathlessly, all eyes on Lily.)

Gryffindor wins the House Cup that year, to no one’s surprise. You find yourself clapping along with everyone else, but can’t help it when your gaze drifts to the left-side of the Gryffindor table. You watch as Sirius lifts Lily in the air, her giggles somehow louder than the thunderous cheering, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. James stands on the table, encouraging everyone to sing more of his praises—there’s a split second where his eyes find yours, you look away immediately—as Remus covers his face with his palms, flushed from all the attention. After James, Remus had won the most points for their House. 

They seem complete—a puzzle that never really needed another piece. (You miss them, heartachingly so.) Maybe it was for the best that all of you drifted further and further apart. You now forget the way they call your name.  

And so, the story ends just like that. 

YOU HAVE FOUND yourself in a very tricky position. 

It’s past midnight when you wake up—you nearly scream bloody murder when James, Lily and Sirius materialize out of thin air. They stare back at you, frozen in place, unblinking for the last twenty seconds. 

“Oh God, I’m hallucinating.” You cry to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist. “I hit my head and now I’m seeing things.” 

“No, no, no, no,” James stammers, shaking his head. “It’s an invisibility cloak—see?” He wears the cape, then abruptly takes the cloak off—his body disappearing and reappearing in time with his actions. “Not hallucinating, I promise.” 

“That’s even worse,” You say hoarsely, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Y-You’re out past curfew—visiting hours are over. Someone could catch you. Madam Pomfrey will have your heads.” 

Remus chuckles—he had missed your voice so bloody much. He barely contains his grin when you glare at him. (Finally, after three years, you look his way again.) 

“We snuck in here to see you all the time,” Sirius tells you, the corner of his lips tipping into an overfond smile. “At some point, Poppy just stopped trying to keep us out.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Your gaze falls to the floor as you mousily toy with your fingers. The infirmary falls painfully silent. Again. You clear your throat. “Anyway, I–I should get going.” 

“Oh.” Lily’s expression turns crestfallen, words cracking from the thick lump wedged in her throat. (This is the first conversation she’s had with you in years—one that isn’t awkwardly bumping into one another with shallow, hesitant greetings, before you scurry off like a timid squirrel.) “R-Right. But why don’t you have dinner first? We brought some from the feast and—” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” You rasp, slipping into your shoes and throwing your cardigan over your shoulders. (More than anything, you want to hug Lily and congratulate her for making Head Girl—but you have to wonder if it’s too little, too late; if the distance between you and her is too great to try and  cross.) 

You toss Remus a wary glance. There used to be a time where you could say anything to him, and now it feels like ice-cold hands are stapled over your mouth. “F–Feel better soon.” 

“Thanks.” Remus coughs. 

Sirius’s eyes bounce from you to Remus, mentally ripping his hair out from exasperation—this whole thing is going nowhere. 

You sprint out of the infirmary without a word, hands trembling from the nerve-wracking encounter inside. You take a moment to catch your breath, to shove your heart back inside your ribcage, as you lean sideways on the wall. It’s like running into a pack of wild chimeras in the mountains bare-handed. 

“That was so scary.” You breathe out deeply, clutching the front of your shirt tightly. 

The loud call of your name slices through the hallway and you jump in fright. 

Luckily, it’s just James—but just James sets your heart aflutter and your knees wobbly even after all this time. He bridges the gap between you in quick, long strides; murmuring your name once more like a prayer. “Hey,” James says quietly, as if afraid to spook you off. 

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, tucking your hands inside your pockets. “Hey.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say—back in the library, all those years ago. I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry. Sirius decked me in the face that day, which I definitely deserved.” James nervously scratches the back of his head. “It was stupid of me—and I never should have said any of those things. I know it’s been years since then, you don’t even have to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know—”

“It’s fine, James.” You cut into his rambling, having already forgiven him for that day. “Really. Water under the bridge.” 

In fact, some of what he had said made you realize how much you isolated yourself without even knowing. “And, I—uhm.” You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” 

James widens his eyes, then instantly shakes his head. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A dark red blush spreads from his neck to his prettily carved cheeks.  “So. .  . uh. . . are we okay?” 

“We’re okay,” You say and he exhales deeply in relief. “And James, I. . . I. . .”

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he takes one more step towards you—achingly patient, but there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. 

“I—” You look away and the words fizzle out in your throat. “Never mind.” 

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said that day. I miss you more than life. Thank you for staying by my side all those years—for being one of my best friends. You make me feel safe, James Potter. You are one of the most intelligent and caring wizards I know. How  anyone can think otherwise is baffling to me. I’m sorry if I don’t let you know that more often. 

“See you around, James.” With that, you turn and leave. 

Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. 

(So why is your heart shattering into a million pieces?) 

“TODAY, WE ARE GOING TO be interpreting messages from the divine!” 

On a lovely Friday morning, Professor Nasenyana drags the class out to the grounds for a hands-on Divination lecture, the groundskeeper’s hut within sight. He unlocks the barn nearby, where flocks of various bird species take to the skies instantly. He’s a rather eccentric fellow with one of the friendliest smiles you’ve ever seen. Most of the Ravenclaws are also star-struck, hanging onto his every word. As it turns out, Nasenyana is a graduate from Uagadou, the top school for Astronomy and Divination.

“Ornithomancy—!” He proclaims, flashy cloak billowing, startling some of the Gryffindors from their sleep. “It is a form of divination that looks into the behavior of birds—celestial creatures blessed with the ability to traverse through the heavens and the earth. But, you see, it is more than that. It requires utmost concentration and mastery. To pass this class, you will need to—” 

“I told you we didn’t miss anything important!” 

“Pads, shut up.” 

Sirius and Remus come rolling down the hill. Remus’s robes are disheveled, whereas Sirius’s tie is loosely hanging around his shirt, sleeves folded up. They nearly crash into Professor Nasenyana—who doesn’t appear to be pleased with their tardiness. You notice Remus’s flushed cheeks, the sweat running down the sides of his forehead, and the pinkish bruises on the column of Sirius’s neck. 

Lily chortles. 

Oh. 

You blush deeply—that is so none of your business. 

“Mister Black! Mister Lupin! So nice of you to finally join us.” Professor Nasenyana exclaims. “I trust that it won’t take you thirty more minutes to find a place to sit?” He gestures to the assembly of students sitting down on the grass, some shielding the sunlight from their face with the Divination textbook, and others transfiguring their school robes into a picnic mat. “Take your seats, gentlemen.” 

“And that is five points from Gryffindor. Each.” Professor Nasenyana declares just as Remus and Sirius plop down on the closest patch of grass to them. 

Which happens to be right beside you. 

You pour all your attention on the teacher, and not how warm Sirius feels next to you. 

“As I was saying,” Professor Nasenyana continues, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “In order to pass this class, you will form groups of three where your task is to read each other’s fortune based on the information presented to you and document your findings. Everything you need for interpretation is in your textbooks. You will hand this assignment in after the winter holidays. I expect excellence from each and every one of you. Failure to comply will result in a Dreadful.” 

Gilderoy’s arm shoots up in the air. 

“Shall I guess your question, Mister Lockhart?” Nasenyana grins blindingly. “Your groups will be determined by fate—those closest to you will read your fortune, and you theirs.” 

He lowers his arm with a bright blush. 

You, however, are frozen in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a robe strewn over your lap—you even hold your breath from the shock. Fate must be mocking you right now. Spending the next few weeks in close proximity with the boys who held your fragile, little heart in their hands.

How fun.

Not.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in forever, you don’t pay attention in Charms.

The thought of working with Remus and Sirius haunts you so much that you burrow your head in your arms for the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lesson. Your seatmate, Xenophilius, watches in horror as you flub the enunciation for Ascendio. Thankfully, no one is accidentally flung into the air—except for Gilderoy who is unfortunately blown away from his chair.

“Sorry.” You twinge empathetically as he climbs back onto his chair, glaring at you. 

Xenophilius nudges your shoulder, whispering, “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” You respond hurriedly, almost choking on your spit. “What ever gave you the idea that I was not fine? I’m bloody fantastic even. The sun is shining, fishes are swimming, and there’s not a single thing out of the ordinary in my life.” 

“It’s cloudy outside,” Xenophilius says impassively. “And Lockhart is looking at you like you’ve just attempted murder.” 

“Lockhart always looks like that.” You brush him off with a wave, busying yourself with flipping the pages of your Charms textbook. 

Xenophilius pokes you in the side. “You are avoiding the subject. Is it because of Lup—”

“Ascendio!” 

This time, it’s too perfect of an incantation that even Merlin weeps from his grave.

At the end of class, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. Just as you leave the classroom, you find Sirius and Remus standing in the corridor, so absorbed in conversation that they don’t notice the sixth-year girls giggling as they walk by—either that, or they have had plenty of practice when it comes to  ignoring attention from the entire student body. It’s not like you can blame everyone else—they’re a duo carved by heaven’s finest. 

Sirius realizes instantly when you walk out of the doors. He smiles blazingly at you, instantly rising to his feet, hands shoved inside the pockets of his trousers. You can’t believe this is the same boy who’d give you piggyback rides down the hallway. Dark layered curls tumble messily past his shoulders, a smidge of dark liner around his eyes, multiple piercings in his left ear. He’s grown taller, certainly more confident, too. 

“Ready to go, pet?” He asks, as if casually inquiring about the weather. 

“Go?” You echo, nonplussed. “Go where?” 

“Birdwatching, obviously.” Sirius grins devilishly before grabbing your hand and leading you to the courtyard, Remus hot on your heels—who, for some reason, now has your bag hanging from his shoulders. 

“D-Do I even get a say in this?” Truthfully, you had thought that you could finish the project without meeting up. Ever. You even think of collaborating with them via owl; staying far, far away from one another. So that none of you get hurt again, and you don’t risk another heartbreak. 

“Not one bit, darling.” Sirius looks back at you and winks—this cheeky bastard!

You’re in a daze by the time the three of you reach the middle courtyard. Sirius happily plonks down under a tree, further unbuttoning his shirt until a hint of a tattoo peeks out—you gape. Remus chuckles before urging you to sit as well, before he settles on your other side. 

“This is nice,” says Sirius as he leans his head against the tree trunk, eyes closed. “Bloody missed this.” 

“Missed what?” You dare to ask, heart hammering in your chest. 

He opens one eye, cheek dimple flashing. “Being by your side.” 

“Oh.” 

One does not respond to that, actually. One just simply passes out and fades away. 

And as you typically do when facing hardships in life, you ramble about homework. Clearing your throat and staring straight at the earthworms crawling out of the mud, you say, “So, about our project. . .” 

“I was thinking we could get started on it next Saturday,” You splutter, fiddling with your fingers. “Or I could start on everyone’s reading and we’d put it on paper sometime next month—but I could do that myself, too. I-If you wanted. Just so that it’s easier for everyone. We really don’t have to rush, honestly.” 

“Procrastinating on schoolwork?” Remus laughs heartily with a slow shake of his head, stretching his long legs on the ground. “Who are you and what have you done to our best fr—” 

The word falters on his tongue, and his smile fades into a somber line. 

To save everyone from the awkward tension, you carry on, ignoring the way Sirius stiffens, “If you want to start early, I can head to the library after lunch to find some books on Ornithomancy. The more references we have—”

“What happened to us?” Sirius interjects gravelly. 

You let out a deep sigh. 

You suppose this conversation has been a long time coming, given lions and their stubbornness. 

“It’s simple,” You say gingerly. “After that. . . that day, the distance kept growing and growing until we went our own separate ways without looking back.” 

A single teardrop slides down your cheek before you can stop it. “You changed. I changed, too. The difference was, you all had each other while I had no one.”

(Though Pandora and Xenophilius were the truest and most honest friends one could ask for, they didn’t hold your soul captive the way they did.) 

Sirius stares at you as if you had just spit acid; a thunderstorm forming within his gray eyes, his jaw locking painfully. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Remus asks softly, leaning forward to offer you his handkerchief. His voice sounds strangled—as though your words physically torment him. He pulls away just as your gaze falls on his. 

“That’s what happened, though. But I suppose it doesn’t really even matter anymore.” You flinch away, electrocuted from his touch. 

There’s a stretched silence that blankets the three of you. It carries on for a few minutes, the breeze flowing by, and the slow, clamorous bell chiming in the distance. You’re about to speak up when Sirius breaks the quietude first.

“Be ready,” He says decidedly, looking straight ahead. 

“For what?” You ask in disbelief. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair with a loud exhale. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin carelessly set on his palm, eyeing you intensely. “We’re going to prove you wrong from now on.” 

“What exactly are you going to prove?” 

Sirius chuckles, coiling a strand of your hair around his finger. “That it’s always been you and us for life, princess.” 

Merlin’s saggy balls. 

THE GRYFFINDOR TABLE descends into a coalescence of wide eyes and rapid, hushed whispers when you arrive sometime during dinner. It’s not out of your own volition, of course, but your own duty and responsibility as prefect to return the handkerchief that Remus had lent you earlier this afternoon. You hoped it would be a quick in-and-out; dishing out more forced smiles, and some half-baked banter until you could finally run away, tail tucked between your legs. Like most things in your life, it does not go the way you want. 

“You could keep it, if you want,” says Remus, hesitantly taking the embroidered cloth from you. 

If the world knew how many trinkets Remus Lupin had gifted you during your friendship, you would be swimming in gold—and cursed letters from his devoted fangirls. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” You placate him with a crooked grin, the words spilling from your lips like a jumbled mess. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon and Fabian Prewett nudging each other’s shoulders whilst pointing at you, keeping their heads low. You have no idea what that’s about. 

“Well. That is all. E-Enjoy your dinner.” You nod, mentally patting yourself on the back for not passing out in the den of lions. “Goodbye.” 

Though the Ravenclaw table is placed next to Gryffindor’s, you have the bright idea of sitting with your backs to them, lest you engage in a round of cloddish staring contests with the Marauders. Just as you pivot on your heels, ready to make it to Pandora’s side, an achingly familiar voice calls for your name. 

“Wait!” Marlene is partially out of her seat, bright blonde hair in a loose, messy braid; hand outstretched, as if reaching out to you. Her pale cheeks blossom with shades of scarlet as she receives miffed glares from the students nearby—such is the curse of a Gryffindor; if this were a fantasy novel, they would be the perfect protagonist. “Why don’t you eat with us? F-For old time’s sake. It’s been so long and I really would like to catch up with you.” 

Your resolve nearly crumbles. This is the same girl who would bring sweet candies in her pocket in case you got hungry during class. But, if this were a fantasy novel, you would only be an extra; fated to walk a path so different from the likes of James Potter and Lily Evans.

“Maybe next time,” You say, unconvincing to even your own ears. 

FROM ACROSS the Great Hall, another conversation is taking place. 

“I am telling you, Minerva, I caught them talking again in the infirmary,” says Poppy Pomfrey to her fellow teacher, a spry grin on her kind face. 

“Poppy, as I’ve told you, I do not make a habit out of discussing my students’ personal lives,” McGonagall replies tiredly, slicing into her dinner plate of steak and kidney pie. She pauses for a few moments, before pushing up her spectacles with a wrinkly smile. “But, perhaps, I’ll let this slide just this once. Tell me all about it. I’ve also heard that—” 

“ACTA NON VERBA.”

Deeds, not words. 

Truly a befitting password for the House of bravery and recklessness. The Fat Lady’s portrait gasps in delight, raising her champagne glass to you. Seconds later, the Gryffindor common room is revealed to you. (Most of the Ravenclaw prefects have the House passwords memorized, in case they encounter a lost student outside the dormitories who has forgotten the passcode. It happens more often than one would like. Although it isn’t just first-years who are often stuck outside. You’ve stumbled upon Frank Longbottom many times before in a heated argument with the Fat Lady.) 

“Oh!” Alice, bundled up in a red scarf and a wooly jumper, is startled to find you at the entrance. She breathily says your name, eyes crinkling as she smiles widely. “What a pleasant surprise! Oh my Gods—it’s so nice to see you again. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding everywhere.”

“I didn’t get amnesia. So that was good.” You head inside the room, instantly enveloped in a familiar warmth, a welcoming hug as if you had never strayed far. “Thank you. For that day, I mean. For bringing me to Madam Pomfrey.”

She waves you off. “Don’t mention it.” 

“But. . .” Alice cocks her head with a conniving smile. “Don’t tell anyone else this, but when James found out it had been the Gryffindor team’s co-captain who hit the Quaffle your way, I heard James put him through some intense training. He must’ve had to run a hundred laps around the pitch for a week straight.  Poor guy even had to wash everyone’s jerseys without magic.” 

“What?” You shriek. “But it was just an accident. Surely, James wouldn’t—”

Alice tweaks your nose with a chuckle. “Oh, for you? He would.”

You have the strangest urge to throw yourself out of the tower. 

You cough into your first, desperate to shift the conversation topic otherwise you’d spontaneously combust. “S-So, where’s Remus? We agreed to work on our Divination project here—if that’s alright with you and the others, of course.” 

“Ha!” Alice exclaims, palming her forehead. “So that’s why the tower stinks of flipping perfume.” She snickers at your bewildered expression, before engulfing you in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

“Thank you, Alice.” You squeeze her back, giving yourself just this one time because you really did miss her.

Alice takes a step backwards before roaring loud enough to shake the ceiling. “Remus!”

“Get down here! Your girlfriend is waiting!”

You break out in a coughing fit. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” Alice winks at you, patting your cheek before skipping out the common room. 

You hear the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. Moments later, you see Remus Lupin beaming at you, casually dressed, hair damp and tousled over his brows, broad shoulders stretching his white top, and fluffy, mismatched socks over his feet. He walks over to you in record speed. 

“You came,” He says huskily. 

“I did.” 

“You look beautiful today.” Remus grins wolfishly, dimples poking out of his cheeks, flecks of light in his hazel eyes. 

You blink owlishly, dumbfounded. You peer at your clothes—nothing fancy or experimental. “This is how I normally dress, though.” 

“I know.” 

Remus smiles, swiftly taking your bookbag from you. (Alice was right. He smells like a basket of green apples, old leather tomes, and sandalwood. Not that you mind.) You follow him to the couches by the fireplace. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You look around the common room as you sink into the red sofa. There’s a pair of third-years playing chess, a young girl feathering her hand across the bookcase; sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. 

But no sign of Sirius Black. 

“Miss me, did you, love?” 

Sirius chuckles into your ear—you jump out of your skin, clutching at your knees in fright. 

“Merlin’s tits—!” 

You gasp for air while Sirius and Remus laugh at your expense. “You fucking wanker!” You grab one of the quilted pillows as Sirius jumps over the back of the couch. “You’re an idiot, Sirius Orion.” 

“There.” Sirius flops right down on the sofa; his hair tied up in a low bun, silver rings around his fingers. “Now you don’t look so bloody scared and nervous around us. We don’t bite, you know.” He pauses, then grins devilishly at you. “Unless you ask.” 

You slap your palms against your lap. “Anyways—!” 

Nostrils flaring as you take a deep breath—this is going to be a long day. You begin setting the parchments, feather quills, and Divination textbooks on the coffee table, along with a notebook where you had written some observations during the week. “When we were out—erm—birdwatching the other day, I noted down the birds that flew by for our readings. For Remus, it was a flock of Firecrests. And—” 

“I’m very sorry, loveliest love, but none of this makes any bloody sense to me.” Sirius goes through the Divination volumes you had checked out from the library, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Tea reading, I can tolerate. But studying bird droppings really isn’t my thing.” 

You glare heatedly at him, oddly defensive about the subject. “We’re not studying bird droppings, you plonker. There’s so much more to Ornithomancy than what meets the eyes. You see, nature connects everything. From the number of birds you encounter, to which direction they fly, their pattern of flight, down to the colors of their wings.” 

You point to the glaring page from Snallygasters and Omens: Vol. 1 where a picture of a Jobberknoll jumps out. “This bird flies to the east because the east governs new beginnings and warm springs after winter. Blue wings symbolize reliability. One day in the future you’ll be tasked with a huge responsibility. A family could entrust their godson to you, who knows? You have to be clear-headed, Sirius. Your emotions can get the best of you if you’re not careful.” 

Without even pausing to breathe, you say, “Remus. The firecrest. Smallest bird in the wizarding world, but will dare to fly higher than any other creature, even the king of birds. The firecrest and its flock were flying to the south that day, Remus. To the place of passion and life. Love. Beauty.” 

“So it’s. . . it’s more than just bird droppings!” 

By the end of it all, your chest is heaving, fingers trembling with adrenaline; Remus and Sirius gazing at you with stars in their eyes, devotion pouring from their growing smiles. (Oh, how their hearts beat for you.) 

Sirius tips your chin with his knuckle, leaning closer until you feel his breath on your nose. “Welcome back, princess.”

NIGHT FALLS WITHOUT anyone’s permission. James, Lily, and Peter make their way back to the Gryffindor tower, patches of sunburn on their nose after spending the entire day outside observing bird flight patterns. Like Sirius, Lily has her mind firmly set against the philosophies of Divination; the mumbo jumbo not really all that comprehensible to her. As they enter the common room, her hand in James’s, they’re greeted by a rare sight—one that Lily didn’t think she would see again. 

Sirius is sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wand tucked behind his ear, a pile of books at his side, his brows contorted in frustration as he drowns in the pages of When Fortunes Turn Fowl. He presses his finger to his lips when his silvery eyes fall on Lily and James, jerking his head to the scene across him. 

Lily fails to bury her smile when she sees you snoring away at Remus’s lap, his fingers absentmindedly knitting through strands of your hair. The space is bedecked in loose pages with scribbled notes on them and ink stains on the carpet. 

“I take it you three got further along than we did,” Lily whispers as she kneels beside Remus, softly nudging his chin as she captures him in a fond kiss. 

Remus smiles into her lips. “A month’s worth of progress, at least. Thanks to this one here. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bird the same way again.” 

“Who knew our little eagle had a knack for Divination?” Lily chuckles, gaze softening as she delicately drags her knuckle down your cheek. “It’s getting pretty late. Should we wake her up?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No. Let her sleep a bit more.” 

Selfishly, Lily agrees. She traces the tip of your nose, the pillows of your lips, before retracting her hand with a long sigh. “We used to talk about anything and everything until the sun rose. Now, it seems like I can never catch up to her no matter how fast I run.”

“Lily—” 

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “I am nothing if not stubborn. She’ll know my wrath soon.” 

Sirius snickers. “How charming.” 

The fire crackles and you mumble something, deep in slumber, shifting in Remus’s hold, “Only one percent. . . of the world’s population is . . . is naturally redheaded.” 

“Is that right?” Lily grins from ear to ear. 

Just you wait, Lily is going to sweep you off your feet.

(Something she should have done years ago.) 

“IS THAT A new jumper?”

Pandora simpers knowingly, heterochromatic eyes uncovering your every secret—the beads in her long braids click as she keeps in time with your brisk pace. She teasingly pulls at the oversized sweater. “It looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, watchfully twisting your arms around your waist. “It was cold this morning, alright? Remus lent it to me. It’s not a big deal. It’s what friends do, right?” 

“So, you’re friends now?” Pandora muses. “Well, thank the Gods, because it has been excruciating watching you tiptoe around one another. It only took you lot three years, but it’s better than never, eh?” 

“Wilderwood! No magic in the corridors! That’s five points from Slytherin!” You bark at the stubborn fifth-year who grins sheepishly at you, before you reply to Pandora, an ache forming at the back of your head. “It’s complicated. Everything was sort of awkward in the beginning.” 

You think of last night, how Sirius was especially keen on making you laugh every few seconds; Remus would inch closer to you, head nearly on your shoulder as he peeks at the notes you’ve jotted down. You could barely think straight in their presence. Then, you remember waking up earlier this morning, James sprawled all over Sirius and Lily on the couch; Remus’s nose fully buried in his drawing book.

“But. . .” You trail off, remembering Remus’s arms around you as he sent you off, careful not to wake the others. (“I am a selfish bastard, pet,” He whispers into your hair, “I’m sorry, but let me steal this morning from them.”)

“It’s like coming home after a long day.”

“Brilliant!” Pandora exclaims, roughly laying her hands on your shoulders as she ushers you past the cobblestone walkway and into the grassfield, where the Quidditch Pitch rests in the near distance. You hadn’t even realized that you were a little ways from the castle already. “Tell them that!” 

“What?” You squawk. “Are you mad, woman?”

You hear the sound of brooms zipping by at an unimaginable speed. The crowd clamors over the announcer’s intense commentary. Your legs feel like they’ve been jinxed to feel like jelly. You hate Quidditch. 

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES! — That’s one-hundred and twenty in all! — Still no snitch yet! Hurry on, Potter! Mulciber’s got nothing on you– Ow! Professor! — Fawley heads for the goal! — Great deflect by Black! — Bletchley misses! — Another point for Gryffindor! We might as well end the game now!”

“Mr. Prewett!” You hear McGonagall scold into the charmed megaphone. 

“Sorry, Minnie! Anyway! — Mulciber and Potter race for the Snitch! Potter reaches out! — Surprisingly good manoeuvre from Mulciber! — Come on, James! — He’s almost got it! — It’s right there!”

You wait with a bated breath.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

“Potter’s got it! — GRYFFINDOR HAS WON!” 

“Go on now, treasure. Before the Wrackspurts get inside your head again.” Pandora urges you forward, dusting the invisible creatures off your shoulders. As you take one step into the field, fireworks of gold and scarlet light up the sky, the Gryffindor teams’ cries of victory shake the ground; you hear Fabian screaming into the megaphone. Your fingers go numb. “Don’t let another day go by without expressing your heart,” says Pandora into your ear, almost a gust of wind if you hadn’t been paying attention. “Go to them. They are waiting for you.”

“But what if they aren’t?” You watch as the sun descends on the Gryffindor team lifting James in the air, Golden Snitch in his gloved hand. Sirius catches Lily by the waist, twirling her up high; her smile more dazzling than any other gem you’ve seen. As James is set back down on the ground, he snatches Remus unaware and bends him down for a fervent kiss.

“Dora, what if I’m the only one who feels this way? I can’t do that to them. What are the chances that I’ll ruin everything? That would hurt more than anything.”

Pandora cups your cheeks and lays her forehead on yours. “You won’t ever know unless you go out there.”

With that, she pushes you into the Quidditch pitch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, ears ringing from the crowd chanting James’s name, and your heart pounding in fear. 

“J-James. . .” You call out weakly as he drowns in the sea of students.

Perhaps it’s a sign.

This really wasn’t a good idea.

Love is a fool’s game.

Don’t you get it? They don’t need you in the picture at all.

“N-No!” You shout, chest heaving. If everything happens for a reason, maybe you were meant to meet in that train compartment all those years ago. You’ve lost three years with them already.

If you don’t go to them right now, you could lose a lifetime. 

If bravery is for the reckless and arrogant, you’re prepared to be the most depraved witch in the castle just to stay by their side. 

“James—!”

“Go, go, Gryffindor!”

You bite your lip in frustration—but you can’t just give up. Not now. 

Once more.

���JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!”

Please.

Time stops as you stand at the edge of the field; James whips his head around and finds you instantly. The glow of having just won a match doesn’t even compare when his eyes land on you. He pushes past his team members and some of the Gryffindor students, his gaze unwavering, some of them call out his name but he doesn’t bother looking back. Before you even know it, he stands in front of you, breathing heavily—but not from the rush of the game.

“You’re here,” He says, eyes disappearing into his smile. “But you hate Quidditch.”

“I do.” You grin wearily. “But I love you more.”

Without even giving James the chance to speak, you ramble on, hurricanes whirling in your stomach, “You’re a bloody brilliant wizard, James Potter. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before. I see you. I see all of you. How could I not? I love you. I think I’ve loved all of you before I knew it was even love. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same w—” 

James grabs the back of your legs and hoists you up, tendrils of hair falling over his glasses as he beams at you. The sun can’t even dream of competing with him. 

“Put me down, James, I am going to hurl—!”

He spins you one more time for good measure before placing you on the ground. James barely gives you a second to gather your bearings as he seizes your lips with his own, hand cradling the back of your neck. 

“You’re here,” He says, unable to believe his very eyes, gently chasing after your lips, breaths mingling until you don’t remember where either begins or ends. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You promise breathlessly as James pecks the tip of your nose, the arch of your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Beautiful.” He kisses you until you’re gasping for air. “And all ours.” 

There’s not a moment where you don’t feel loved, not even when he lets you go, and it’s Lily who encompasses you in her arms, bright hair filling your vision; you willingly burn in the warmth of her body. The mellow scent of pomegranates and red roses fill your nose. You see a never-ending horizon of kindness in her emerald eyes. (How could you have stayed away for so long?) It’s like finding a missing piece of your soul that you never knew that was lost. 

Lily laughs—it sounds like an orchestral symphony. Her gaze cascades to your lips, the prettiest of smiles on her face; she cradles the curve of your jaw with utmost sincerity, a few drops of tears shimmering against her freckled skin. “May I?”

“Please.” You feel her breath tickling your lips, deftly pulling you in for a kiss until all you can feel is her. She consumes every inch of you, and you are happy to surrender, heart and soul. 

“You must be the thickest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met,” says Lily, giggling as she kisses you once, twice—thrice. 

“And that means?” You scoff lightheartedly. 

She steals another kiss from you. “That means: I hope you know that we have loved you ever since, you daft witch. That I’ve loved you all this time. And now that you’re ours, we are going to make sure you remember that. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” 

You smile, holding onto her hand, dizzy with a hundred emotions. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

(Your Divination project is a point lower than Lily, Peter and James’s, but you find that it’s the luckiest fortune you’ve ever had.) 

EPILOGUE:

“I LOVE QUIDDITCH!” 

You are twenty-two years old, nose bitten from the chilly air, lounging in the best seating area the Quidditch World Cup has to offer; an unobstructed view of the players. The match is between the Brazilian and Japanese National Quidditch teams. Much to Sirius and James’s chagrin, your cheek is painted in yellow and green stripes, the vibrant flag around your shoulders. 

You scream along with the crowd, nearly spilling your Butterbeer popcorn, as the Brazilian players enter the vast stadium. You ardently shake Lily’s shoulders. “That’s him! That’s him! Lily, it’s Brazil’s youngest ever Seeker! Vinícius Silva! I watched a replay of his matches and he’s got a seventy-eight percent win rate!”

“Watch out, love, you’ll fall off the edge if you aren’t careful,” Lily says worriedly.

“His fastest record for catching the Golden Snitch is ten minutes and thirty seconds! He’s won Most Outstanding Player in the Junior Division twice! I’ve got a good feeling about this team—I knew those auguries were a lucky sign.” 

“The only Seeker you should be obsessing over is me.” You hear James grumbling behind your back, stealing a kiss from Lily’s lips before pressing his mouth to your cheek. “And you bloody well know that Japan’s Chaser, Kurosawa, is going to steal the limelight in this match. An average possession time of thirty seconds per play. A beast, that one.” 

You wave him off, more confident in your statistics. “Did you place my bets? I’m telling you, we’re going to be rich.” 

“Yes, darling,” He says, utterly loving his role as the dutiful husband. 

Moments later, Sirius appears at his side, fussing over your scarf, and kissing you just because. “Can we take off your bloody hat now? I think you just blinded Malfoy and his little blonde gremlin.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You simper fiendishly before smacking his arm. “And don’t call your nephew that.” 

Sirius grins.

You pull at one of his curls. “Besides, if you’re good you can take off everything later tonight.”

He pulls you in for a deep kiss, hand at your waist, nose brushing each other’s. “And that is why I love you, dear wife.” 

You pout, albeit seeing right through his white, little jape. “Truly?” 

Sirius lands another kiss to your forehead. “Are you doubting me, loveliest love of my life? The lighthouse in my ocean storms. The apple of my eye. Fire in my loins—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “I get it, thank you, my love.” 

Sirius beams from ear to ear. “Glad to have eased your doubts, darling.”

Thirty minutes into the match, Remus arrives, dressed in a muted gray suit, light brown hair flopping over his eyes. He greets everyone with a tired kiss. 

You immediately wrap him in a hug, nuzzling your nose into his neck. He had a particularly difficult full moon some nights ago. You press a tender kiss to the scar right below his jaw. “How was work? Did you bring my binder? It has my lesson plan for next week, I don’t want to return to the castle unprepared, and—”

The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor squeezes your waist. “Work was fine, pet. And no, I didn’t bring the papers because right now we are not working. We are going to watch Brazil win the bloody match and get right home to Harry after.” 

You, the newest Divination teacher of Hogwarts, tug him by his necktie, smiling coyly. “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.” 

BONUS: 

“REMUS!”

The empty classroom is filled with soft, fervid moans—two professors especially drunk on the taste of each other’s lips. You’re seated on the desk, Remus wedged between your thighs, his hand inching dangerously higher and higher; the other hand slipping under your shirt and thumbing the bare skin underneath. He captures your whispers and mewls with his lips. Jackets and ties are tossed carelessly to the side. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He nips at your lower lip. 

“Rem. . .” You whimper, tugging at the strands of his hair. “Remus—please!” 

The door to the DADA classroom slams open and you two detangle from each other’s embrace in record speed. As you pat down your hair, Remus draping his blazer over your shoulders, you watch Lily and Harry stalk over to you in lengthy strides, reaching the both of you within seconds. You clear your throat, awkwardly averting your gaze from your son’s precious eyes; Lily, a moment away from throwing her head back in laughter. 

Harry, fourteen, and not at all ignorant to what couples do in the castle alcoves, sees the ruffled hair, the lipstick over his father’s cheeks and neck, and his parent’s misbuttoned blouse. 

He grimaces. “You two are disgusting, you know that right?” 

You guffaw, pinching his cheek. “Now, is that any way to greet the person who’s changed your diapers since you were a baby?” 

Lily cackles from Remus’s side, fixing the collar of his shirt. “Harry’s got a bit of a problem. Go on, tell them, my love.” 

Harry immediately throws his hands in the air, groaning frustratedly. “It’s Ron! He thinks I put my name in the bloody Goblet—!” 

“Which, I will still be having a word with Dumbledore about,” You say decisively. You’re not about to endanger your son. The Minister of Magic and the Headmaster be damned. They can also take it up with your husband, James, Head Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement department. 

“And now Ron’s not talking to me, Hermione’s not talking to me because I’m not talking to Ron—Colin’s following me around everywhere I go! I’m going mad, mum!” Harry slumps on one of the empty chairs, huffing. “Stupid bloody tournament.” 

You chuckle as you walk over to him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “Take it from me.” You press a warm kiss to his forehead. “Talk to them, otherwise you’ll lose time that was meant to be spent together. It doesn’t matter who was wrong or who was right. It’s important that you have the courage to reach out. They’re your friends. They will understand your heart soon enough.” 

Harry blinks. “Thanks.” 

He exits the classroom in a daze, heavily pondering on your words. 

The door clicks shut, and Lily wordlessly locks the entrance. She turns to you and Remus, a sultry grin on her ruby red lips. “What are the chances we Floo home, and invite Sirius and James to join us?” 

You take her outstretched hand. “A hundred and twelve.”

a/n. i wasn't satisfied with the angst here.. so expect a hufflepuff!reader and enemies to lovers next time (i promise to do better in the next fic aaakfsh) tell me what u thought of this one EUEUEU HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS FIC!! heart heart

[pop-sesivo]

Satchell Cannon (Rodney L Jones III) y Rabbi Milligan (Ben Whishaw) en el mejor episodio de la temporada 4 de la serie Fargo, "East/West", emitido el 15 de noviembre de 2020.

If I don’t come back, I’m dead or in jail

[notsopersonalcharlie]

Work Divorce

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader angst/fluff

Summary: Aaron and you come to a realization when you get into a fight about a case.

Warnings: Cannon typical descriptions of violence, alcohol, mentions of divorce, aaron being cuddly, no use of Y/N

Notes: I thought of this (and wrote it) at the airport so sorry for mistakes! Read more of my hotch stuff here and the angsty interlude to this here Gif isn't mine

“Absolutely not. You are not going out there.” Hotch’s mouth was a straight line, and his features read anger to anyone but you. It was his eyes that gave him away. Pure panic and fear.

“Hotch, I built a rapport with him over the phone. I can-“ You tried.

“That’s final.” The whole room was tense, the police officers who didn’t understand the implications and your team, who felt like they were watching their parents get into an argument.

“You have to let me do my job.” It hung in the air, and Hotch didn’t respond.

The tension followed the team onto the plane. The case had ended badly. Yes, the team had managed to rescue four of the five hostages, but not all of them and the unsub was dead. And it had become abundantly clear that Hotch had made the wrong choice. You could have saved them all.

You were kneeling on the dirt floor of the cave the unsub had dug, holding cloth to a bleeding hostage. The other four had been able to walk out on their own and you were waiting with her for the paramedics who had to make their way through the forest. She was crying, tears leaking down the sides of face and dragging clean lines in the dirt and blood that had been caked there.

“He wanted to talk to you. I could hear your voice. I cou-“ she hiccuped, “Why didn’t you come?”

Your lip trembled and you swallowed trying not to think of the memory as you curled yourself into a seat beside Derek, using him as a barrier against Aaron. He had sat down in his usual seat, the one beside it occupied by JJ who usually sat where you were now.

“You did what you could, kid,” Dave said, patting your shoulder on his way past you.

You tried to sleep on the flight, closing your eyes and staring at the back of your eyelids. You had no idea how much time had passed since the plane took off, but you heard an exchange beside you and Derek moved, replaced with the familiar warmth you knew as your husband.

“I-“

“I don’t want to talk right now,” you responded, eyes still closed. The scene of her body being carried out of the hole, limp hand sliding out of yours, was replaying on a loop. Aaron’s hand rested lightly on your calf where you’d pulled it up to make yourself smaller. It was his form of an ‘I’m sorry’.

-/-/-/-/-

Derek and Emily were whispering over the dividers between their desks when Spencer got in. He tossed his satchel in its usual spot and leaned over.

“What’s going on?”

“Their stuff is gone from their desk. Hotch got here alone,” Emily hissed, nodding to where you usually sat. All of your trinkets, colorful pens, and most importantly your wedding photo were gone. It had been a week since the last case, and the last time the team had seen the two of you together was the day after you got off the jet. You had gone into Hotch’s office, door closed, and from the expressions visible through the noise proof window, it looked like you were yelling at him.

You had left, stormed off was more like it, and not been back over the week. And now this on a monday morning. Hotch was visible through the window, frown prominent as he read over a case file. All three younger agents averted their eyes when he looked out, but Spencer managed to scan over the expression when Hotch looked at your empty desk. Melancholy was the best way he could name it.

-/-/-/-/-

Another week and another case passed without a single mention of you. Hotch had never been one to wear a wedding ring, not after his first divorce, so there was no indication there. Still Hotch’s expression flickered to sad when he looked anywhere you usually were, beside him on the jet, in the bullpen, at the round table, and even in moments when the team was used to your quips against him.

“Whatcha got, babygirl?”

“Is everyone there?” Garcia asked, uncharacteristic of her. All ears turned in that direction.

“Everyone but Hotch and Rossi.”

“Good. They are still married! Legally at least. Hotch put in the transfer papers two days after the fight for them to move to the counterterrorism team.”

“Three whole floors?” JJ joked.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Jennifer!” Penelope’s voice shrilled, “This could be serious! The fight was real!”

“Baby girl, let’s not get all sorts of spin up.”

“They drive to work separately!” Reid cut in. All eyes turned to him.

“What?”

“Wednesday and Thursday I saw both their cars in the garage on my way in.”

“And you kept it to yourself?” Emily complained. The door to the conference room, turned BAU office opened admitting the other two members of the team.

“Thanks for the heads up, baby girl. We gotta go.” Morgan ended the call before she could give them away.

“What was that about?” Rossi asked, taking one of the seats.

“Just warning us about weather patterns,” Emily said at the same time as Morgan said, “She was telling us about another case to keep an eye on.” The two agents glared at one another.

“Smooth,” Rossi joked, “Can we get back to work now?“

-/-/-/-/-

The case didn’t end up being too horrible or difficult. They made it out without another killing and the unsub was caught without a firefight.

Emily picked up her phone, the ringtone distinctly Garcia.

“Hey, we’re almost-“

“Stall! I don’t want to see them fight!” Emily’s eyebrows knit and she frowned. JJ gave her a questioning look.

“Who?”

“The Hotchners! Just stall!” The call ended. Emily looked at the team, who were slowly getting out of the SUV, a few protesting groans since they all had to run through the streets of Cincinnati a little bit longer than they would have preferred. She huffed to herself and quickly unclipped an earring, dropping it between the seats.

“Shit!” The whole team turned to look.

“I dropped my earring.” Hotch looked exasperated, but he turned the car back on so they could turn the lights on and climbed in the back with Emily to hunt it down.

Upstairs the other SUV of the team was standing in the hallway talking to you.

"How was the case?" You were carrying a few things from Hotch's office, the blanket from the back of the couch and one of the photos of you and Jack that sat on his desk. Spencer was documenting the items in your hands and cataloguing them, JJ could tell based on how is eyes scanned over the items twice.

"Not bad. We were just talking about celebrating." You gave a tight smile and your eyes flickered to the elevator coming up from the garage.

"I'll talk to Hotch. I gotta go." You rushed for the stairs, the door closing just before the elevator doors opened to reveal the rest of the team.

"They seem like sturdy earrings," Morgan sighed, "but whatever." JJ and Spencer were staring at Hotch openly before Emily coughed.

"What?" Hotch asked, looking down at his suit.

"Nothing. We were just talking about celebrating today. We haven't all hung out for a while. Rossi, can you host?" The older agent rolled his eyes.

"You know you could at least ask me before asking in front of the whole team," he griped, "But yes. I can host. Make yourselves scarce. Drink some water. See you at seven." The agents scattered to their desks, but once Hotch and Rossi were in their offices, they stood with their heads together, occasionally glancing up at Hotch's office to see if he noticed the missing items.

Aaron walked into his office and immediately noticed the lack of blanket on the couch. Additionally a spot in the dust on his shelf and an absent little plastic dinosaur that sat next to the Captain America figurine on his desk gave away your recent presence. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the rest of the room before deciding everything else was in place. With a sigh, Aaron tossed his go bag by the door and removed some files from his briefcase before picking both bags up and heading for the door.

The agents in the bullpen were whispering and Aaron rolled his eyes at them. They were terrible profilers sometimes.

"See you soon," he called, hiding his smile when they all jumped apart.

"It must have been so bad! For them to be avoiding each other! And stealing stuff out of Hotch's office? That's crazy!" Emily hissed.

"We'll find out tonight." They knew you would never miss an evening at Rossi's. You two were always there first and left later than everyone else.

The younger agents nodded in agreement and dispersed, a continuous drone of concerned texts in their chat as they got dressed for the evening and stopped for snacks, wine, and beer.

Spencer, who was chronically punctual arrived first, the driveway conspicuously empty. He jabbed a message into the chat 'no one's here yet'. The responses of shock were followed by 'go inside and ask dave about it!' from Emily.

The front door was always unlocked when he knew they were over, given Dave's chronic laziness and the access to a firearm in basically every room in his massive house.

"Rossi! It's Spencer, don't kill me."

"We're in the kitchen," came Hotch's voice. Spencer peaked in and failed to hide his shock. You were sitting across Aaron's lap, red in the cheeks from alcohol. Your arms were wrapped around his neck and you were in a full body laugh. Aaron was laughing too, his headshaking, eyerolling one when you said something particularly silly. Dave was leaning on the other side of the counter, the grin on his face prominent.

"I can't believe you would betray me like that," Aaron chuckled, "It's my stuff."

"Nuh uh! We're married! It's my stuff too." Aaron's arms squeezed tighter around your middle, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You could feel his smile when he kissed you again and you felt like a teenager blushing. Dave pointed past you to the doorway.

"Don't you dare start texting, boy genius. Let the kids find out on their own." You and Aaron both turned to see Spencer put his hands up, phone slipped back into his sweater pocket.

"Take a seat, Doctor Reid. Have a drink," you joked. Dave poured him a glass of wine.

"So you just switched teams?" You looked at Aaron, who shrugged a little bit. No use lying.

"Kind of. We both realized there was no world in which Aaron could be impartial, no matter how hard either of us tried. And I got promoted." Watching Spencer's gears turn was always fun. You could almost see the puzzle pieces fall into place as they did in a split second.

"You're the new supervisor in the CT unit! That's why you stole your stuff from his office. They were for yours." You nodded.

"Precisely. And it's not stealing! It's mine!"

"It is absolutely stealing, you're a menace."

"Your menace," you corrected, booping him on the nose before reaching for your wine.

"We're here!" Penelope's voice echoed through the house, followed by the cacophony of Emily and Derek arguing. It was about you.

"Just come in here!" You complained. There was a thunder of footsteps running through the front hallway and the three other agents cartoonishly paused in the doorway staring.

"You know people are allowed to get new jobs right?" Aaron asked. He wasn't usually the joker in the group, but sometimes with just the right amount of alcohol his dry humor took over.

"Thank god! I thought I was going to have to start planning two parties!" Penelope gushed, running over to hug you. You laughed, sliding out of Aaron's lap. He was reluctant to let you go. He had been every time you were together, now that you didn't see each other constantly he missed you being beside him.

"Anyway, if we ever separated I would get the team," you stage whispered. Aaron pinched your thigh.

"Absolutely no you wouldn't."

"We will have to write up a contract for your work divorce," Spencer laughed.

"That's not fair! He used to be a lawyer," you whined. Aaron pulled you back into his arms, resting his chin on your shoulder where you stood in front of his stool.

"187 over here can help you." You bickered and laughed and explained yourself to the team once JJ and Will arrived.

"I can't believe you thought we broke up," you sighed once dinner was over and all of you had settled in the backyard under the summer stars.

"I can't either," Dave laughed, "They have no idea how much more of a mess you two would be."

"Hey!" Both of you interjected. The team laughed as you both looked at each other. Aaron pulled you ever closer, nuzzling his nose to your cheek. He was properly drunk now, which is why you both decided ubering over was a better idea so you didn't have to worry about a car.

"He's right," he muttered, his letters slurring together. You chuckled, wrapping your arms over his shoulder and squishing him to your chest.

"I know. I would be too."

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS Men React to Seeing You in Armor for the First Time

AN: Am I writing the same thing again and again? Yes. Does this please me? Very much.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 75% drama, 25% fluff. 100% cannon divergence

My Fav: Xavier and Zayne's

Xavier:

In a tournament against the knight to whom he had given a favor, he saw you.

His knight in shining armor, from some backwater village.

You defeated his champion in two effortless moves. He watched in fascination as you dismounted your horse and retrieved the handkerchief he had given to Ser Vance of Gor.

Then, catching him in the act of staring, you turned toward him. Pressing a kiss to the handkerchief, you made his heart shudder.

"Favors are to be won, not trodden on," you reasoned with the guards as they dragged you from the arena for stealing the royal favor.

From winning the tournament, to spending a night in prison, to kneeling before him in an oath. Xavier did not know when you became his dark knight.

Not until he realized you had stolen more than just a favor.

Rafayel:

He heard you first, the clash of swords and daggers, the thud of bodies hitting cold, hard ground.

And then he was blinded. After days of darkness, light flooded in, making him recoil into himself.

It had been weeks since you left for the campaign. Weeks since he had been captured from the shallow shores and thrown into the unlit cells that stank of death and fear.

Fighting the stinging pain in his eyes, he looked up, and there you stood. In all your glory. In your kingdom's armor, holding your sword- eyes wide with battle's fury.

He reached for you, though his tail, torn and raw, stung against the floor. They had not allowed him to shift. Still, with a thousand grievances, he reached toward you.

"Rafayel," you whispered, kneeling beside him and pulling him into your arms. "I am here." You murmured as your sword shattered his chains.

Your words made the bond thrum with joy despite the pain in his body.

"I am sorry it took so long," you said, wiping the gash above his brow. "But I’m here."

And that was when he cried. Shedding pearls his captors would have killed to possess.

Never before had waiting been so painful. But in every lifetime, a union with you was worth the suffering.

Zayne:

He had been an apprentice in Astra's halls when he first saw you, the herald to the God of Time itself. You stood proud at your lord’s side.

How you shone brighter than Astra himself was beyond Zayne. How could a mere herald possess such light?

But you were beloved. Rescuing disciples from Astra's wrath, smoothing over mistakes, appeasing Astra's tantrums. You were the calm in his halls.

Yet, you were also his sword, leading sparring sessions with the students of fate.

Zayne learned the way of the bow from you. Steadying his hands, you taught him the exact points to strike while he spoke to you of anatomy and healing.

He had always been a thorn in Astra’s side, a healer who fought to give life where there was none. Perhaps that was why he had been barred from battle.

Forced to tend to the wounded, far from the battlefield, so that his kindness would not extend to the dying on the other side.

On the eve of battle, you handed him your bow. "This is for your defense, and for the people around you." You fixed the quiver around him, the head of the healing halls.

As the herald leading the assault, your presence was a surprise to many, especially next to Zayne, the one who had angered Astra.

"And this," you said, handing him a satchel, "is for anyone who needs help. Friend or foe. We deny no one aid." You smiled.

And then you walked into the battle of time. Your armor burning bright as any star even as you fell.

Sylus (Angel x Demon au):

You were chaos. The bloodthirsty bane of heaven. He found you in the battles of men, the brothels of night, the tears of mothers.

You prowled the fields with plague and ruin dripping from your fingertips. Your crimson eyes burned with madness as you swept through the carnage with a scimitar. Blood clung to you, from your hair to your eyes, flowing like a river.

A terrible sight to many. Damning to him.

He had been sent to capture you, to deliver justice for the humans who prayed for help. He who had once beheld your unmarred form.

And when he pressed his sword to your throat, you had only laughed. A low, broken sound.

"We meet again," you had grinned, guiding his sword to your chest. Wrapping your hand over his. "This time, I shall have you forever."

You steadied the sword and pulled it into your heart.

Your breath ghosted over his ear as you whispered the prophecy of your shared fate. "Let this be a debt we shall settle for eons."

Your curse settled upon him. Dragging him down. Twisting him into a reflection of you in his soul, in his crimson eyes, and last of all, in his heart.

Unleashing upon him the wrath of unending time. Truly making him yours forever. Stealing him from the heavens, you won.

Caleb:

He hadn't seen you in your gear until the end. Not until you stood before him, pointing your gun at his chest.

"Colonel Caleb, you are under arrest for working with EVER. You will be detained until the trial." Your voice was devoid of emotion.

"Drop your weapons and step back."

You turned him around, folding his hands behind his back. The handcuffs snapped shut with cold finality.

"You have the right to remain silent." Your touch did not linger.

Your uniform was not unlike his. But he had never known. Not until now. There, on your lapel, was the badge of intelligence.

All these years, you had both managed to keep the most dangerous of secrets.

Despite himself, he smiled.

It vanished when your knee struck the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel.

Leaning down, you yanked him back by his hair. "Expect no mercy," you snarled before leaving him kneeling on the cold floor, surrounded by your officers.

tags: @mentaltrouble2201

[2b4st4r]

Hey there! How are you?I’m not sure if you’re taking requests, but I wanted to throw an idea your way.What if, during a fight while escaping from an island, you almost died—and that moment awakened some hidden feelings in Zoro?Even though everyone around could see those feelings, he’d try to distance himself, hoping they’d fade.But at the same time, he’d start training you hard, pushing you to get stronger so he’d never feel that scared again.And then... during one of those training sessions, things start to heat up.If you know what I mean...

A Quartermasters Heart

Zoro x reader

Words:13,575

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and injury, emotional distress, explicit sexual acts, face-fucking, angst, SMUT WARNING

!!SMUT!!

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The biting salt spray of the Grand Line was a familiar comfort against your cheeks, the rhythmic creak of the Thousand Sunny a lullaby you knew by heart. From your usual vantage point near the helm, a subtle smile played on your lips as you observed your eccentric family. You were the quiet anchor of the Straw Hats, their Quartermaster and a formidable fighter, though your battles were rarely fought on the front lines. That was the nature of the Chishin Chishin no Mi, the Mind-Mind Fruit, its power a mental ballet of influence and control that kept you in the background, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows.

A quick glance confirmed your mental inventory: Chopper was happily munching on the last of the candied chestnuts you'd slipped him earlier; Nami was hunched over a new chart, her inkwell glistening with the fresh supply you’d restocked; Zoro, as always, was polishing Wado Ichimonji with the specialized cloth you’d acquired for him, his intense focus a familiar sight; Sanji was a blur of motion in the galley, the glint of his newly sharpened knives a testament to your recent procurement; Brook's melancholic tunes drifted from the deck, his bow perfectly rosined from your latest find; and Usopp was meticulously sorting through a new batch of satchels, perfect for his chemical concoctions. Even Luffy’s beloved straw hat, perpetually abused, bore the subtle, neat stitching of your recent repairs. Robin was engrossed in a particularly old tome you’d unearthed on a recent island, and Jinbe was calmly tending to some rigging, your earlier offer of assistance still lingering in the air between you.

You were, simply put, kind. It was your defining trait, a gentle current beneath the waves of adventure. You saw the small needs, the quiet desires, and you moved to meet them, a silent, steady hand in the chaos. Every Straw Hat knew it, felt it, relied on it. And perhaps none more so than Zoro. His eyes, usually half-lidded and distant, held a surprising acuity when they landed on you. It was rare that his gaze wasn’t somewhere in your vicinity, a silent sentinel. And right now, as the tranquility of the open sea was shattered by the jarring boom of cannon fire, was one of those moments.

"Marines!" Usopp shrieked, his usual bravado dissolving into panic.

The ambush was swift, almost too swift. A massive Marine ship, cloaked in some sort of shimmering distortion, had materialized from the horizon. Its captain, a hulking figure on the bow, possessed a Devil Fruit power that immediately made itself known. It was the Fushoku Fushoku no Mi, the Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit. The air around him shimmered, and anything he touched, anything his corrosive aura extended to, began to break down, to crumble, to simply cease to exist. It should have been easy. It should have been. The Straw Hats were a force of nature, but this insidious power was making everything difficult.

Luffy’s rubbery punches, usually devastating, were dissolving mid-air, the impact absorbed and dissipated by the captain’s corrosive field before they could even connect. Zoro’s slashes, usually precise and powerful, seemed to lose their edge, the very air around his blades weakening as he tried to cut through the captain’s defenses. Nami’s lightning bolts crackled and fizzled, her perfect storms struggling to manifest against the oppressive, disintegrating aura. Sanji’s fiery kicks left behind trails of smoke that quickly dissipated into nothingness, his powerful leg strikes simply unable to find purchase. Even Franky’s strong right, usually capable of smashing through anything, was met with a sickening decay as his robotic arm began to corrode. Brook’s soulful slashes seemed to lose their spiritual impact, his attacks becoming dull and harmless. Chopper, in Monster Point, roared with frustration as his fur began to shed and his hooves chipped away with every contact. Robin's limbs, usually appearing out of nowhere with lethal grace, were dissolving into nothingness the moment they formed within the captain's corrosive reach. Jinbe, a master of Fish-Man Karate, found his powerful water attacks evaporating into mist before they could strike, the sheer force of his blows negated by the captain's all-consuming power.

The deck of the Sunny itself was groaning, planks flaking away into dust. Every blow, every attack, every defensive maneuver was being negated, weakened, or outright destroyed. Everyone was struggling, pushed back by an unseen force that ate away at their very being. Your eyes, constantly assessing, constantly calculating, flickered between your crewmates, searching for an opening, a weakness, a way to turn the tide. You were rarely on the front lines, but your mind was always, always paying attention.

The cacophony of battle raged around you, a blur of dissolving steel and desperate shouts. Everyone was so focused, so consumed by the struggle against the Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit, that the usual rhythm of the Straw Hats’ fighting was shattered. You, the quiet orchestrator, found yourself forced to the front lines, a position you rarely occupied. It wasn't that you couldn't handle it; with a mere touch to your forehead, you could send a wave of mental influence, forcing a Marine to pass out or a lesser foe to simply drop their weapon. But using your Chishin Chishin no Mi in such rapid succession, against so many, was exhausting. A dull throb, the precursor to a full-blown migraine, began to bloom behind your eyes.

No one noticed your increasing strain. Their attention was consumed, their energy focused on self-preservation, or at least, attempting to stay intact. Luffy roared, trying to land a blow that dissolved into nothingness. Zoro gritted his teeth, his blades sparking and fading against the corrosive air. Nami cursed, her carefully crafted weather eggs disintegrating before they could unleash their fury.

It happened in a second. Just a second.

The Marine captain, his hand outstretched, a swirling vortex of decay around his fingertips, lunged towards Chopper. The little reindeer, in his Heavy Point, let out a terrified cry as the corrosive aura rippled closer, threatening to consume him. There was no time to process, no time to even think. You instinctively reached for your own head, a single finger poised for your usual technique, but the distance, the speed, the sheer immediacy of the threat… it was too late.

There was only one option.

Without a moment's hesitation, you lunged, propelling yourself forward with desperate force. You threw yourself directly between the captain and Chopper, a human shield made of flesh and bone. All five fingers pressed hard against your temples, a desperate, last-ditch effort to unleash the full, concentrated power of your Chishin Chishin no Mi. You tried to stop the captain’s horrifying abilities before they could even touch you, to turn his own power against him, to simply erase his will to attack.

But it was too late.

The captain’s hand, wreathed in that sickening, destructive aura, brushed against your arm. A searing pain erupted, as if countless needles were pricking your skin, followed by a horrifying sensation of something fundamental being stripped away. You felt it, the corrosive power seeping into your very being, trying to break you down, to erase you.

Still, you pushed. With every ounce of your will, even as the pain threatened to consume you, you focused the full force of your Chishin Chishin no Mi into one desperate wave, a mental tsunami aimed directly at the captain. You stopped it just a bit. Just a bit. That infinitesimally small fraction of a second, that tiny sliver of resistance against the overwhelming power, was enough. Enough for a chance. A chance that it wouldn't kill you.

The world tilted, and a gasp tore from your throat as the captain's corrosive touch seared into your arm. The pain was immediate, a thousand tiny teeth gnawing at your flesh, and a horrifying sensation of disintegration spread from the point of contact. Your skin, once smooth and resilient, began to flake, a terrifyingly rapid decay.

"Y/N!"

It was Chopper's voice, high-pitched with terror, that pierced the chaotic din of battle. He’d seen it, the sacrifice, the terrible price you'd paid. The pure, unadulterated fear in his cry rippled through the crew, shattering their singular focus on their own struggles.

Luffy, who moments before had been relentlessly assaulting the corrosive aura, his rubbery fists dissolving into nothingness, stopped. His eyes, usually alight with an unshakeable confidence, widened in raw horror as he watched you crumple. A growl, primal and dangerous, rumbled in his chest, and his next punch, fueled by a terrifying surge of rage, connected with the captain's face with a force that sent ripples through the very air. The Marine captain, caught off guard by the sheer, unexpected ferocity, sailed through the air and plunged into the tumultuous waves below.

Zoro, who had been locked in a desperate, blade-to-corrosion struggle with a particularly tenacious Marine officer, felt an icy dread grip his heart the moment he heard Chopper’s scream. His head snapped towards you, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Your collapsing form, the flaking skin—it was a sight that tore through his usual stoicism. With a guttural roar, he brought down Wado Ichimonji in a blindingly fast, deadly slash, a desperate act of finality that ended the Marine he was fighting in a sickening thwack.

He didn’t even glance at the fallen foe. Zoro was already moving, a dark blur across the deck, his swords sheathed with a definitive click. He dropped to his knees beside you, catching you just before you hit the splintering deck. He cradled you gently, his large hands surprisingly tender as he pulled you close, his gaze sweeping over your face, then frantically searching for the point of contact on your arm.

"Y/N! What did he do?!" His voice was rough, laced with a fear that rarely touched him. His fingers brushed against your arm, and he recoiled slightly as more flakes of skin crumbled under his touch.

Nami, seeing you fall, felt a wave of nausea. She stared, wide-eyed, at your deteriorating skin, a silent scream caught in her throat. Her Clima-Tact, forgotten, slipped from her numb fingers, clattering uselessly on the deck. "No... no, Y/N!" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring wind and crashing waves.

Sanji, mid-kick, froze. His fiery leg hung in the air, his usual flirtatious bravado replaced by a look of sheer, cold fury. His eyes darted from you to the spot where the captain had been, a chilling promise of retribution in their depths.

Usopp, huddled behind a shattered crate, peeking out, watched with a gaping mouth as you collapsed. His eyes welled up, and he let out a choked sob. "Y/N! Don't you dare!"

Robin's calm demeanor fractured. Her usually composed features tightened with concern as she saw your weakened form. She instinctively reached out a hand, though she couldn't reach you, a look of profound worry etched on her face.

Franky, his cybernetic body scarred and dented from the corrosive attacks, stared at your prone figure. "Super... Y/N..." he muttered, his voice unusually subdued, devoid of its usual bombastic energy.

Brook's ever-present smile faltered. His eyes, though only empty sockets, conveyed a deep sadness. He raised his violin, a mournful, drawn-out note echoing across the ship, a somber testament to the sudden despair.

Jinbe, though still getting to know you, felt a pang of deep regret. He'd seen your quiet kindness, your unassuming strength. He moved, his powerful frame cutting through the remaining Marines with grim efficiency, clearing a path toward you.

The air thrummed with unspoken panic, a silent understanding passing between the Straw Hats. Their quartermaster, their kind, gentle Y/N, the one who always patched them up, was hurt. Badly.

Your body was a dead weight in Zoro’s arms, your head lolling against his shoulder. The horrifying flaking of your skin continued, a stark visual of the corrosive power that had touched you. He pulled you tighter against him, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, rough plea. "Wake up. Hey. C’mon. This ain't funny." He rocked you gently, a desperate attempt to stir some sign of life. "Open your eyes. You hear me? Just... just open your eyes."

Chopper, his small face contorted with intense concentration and a deep, aching fear, reached you, his tiny hooves surprisingly steady as he pressed them to your neck. He searched frantically for your pulse, his brow furrowing with every passing second. Finally, a faint tremor.

"Her pulse… it’s there," he whispered, a sliver of relief cutting through his terror, "but it's barely there! Zoro, gently, lay her down flat. We need to check her over properly."

Zoro’s grip on you tightened for a moment, his jaw clenching. He was clearly panicked, a rare sight for the usually unflappable swordsman, but he complied, carefully easing you from his arms to the deck, arranging you straight and still.

Luffy was beside you in an instant, his earlier rage dissolving into a raw, childish fear. He knelt, his eyes wide and brimming. "Y/N! Chopper, fix her! Please! She's... she's flaking!"

Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Her skin… it’s getting worse!" Her voice was hoarse with distress. "What do we do, Chopper?!"

Sanji approached, his face grim, a lit cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. He watched Chopper work with an intensity that bordered on furious helplessness. "Doctor-kun, can you... can you stop it?"

Usopp sniffled, rubbing his eyes. "Don't die, Y/N! We... we need you! Who's gonna fix Luffy's hat?!" His attempt at a joke was swallowed by a choked sob.

Robin knelt opposite Zoro, her expression serene but her eyes filled with a deep concern. "Chopper, is there anything we can do to counteract the Devil Fruit's effect?" she asked, her voice calm amidst the growing panic.

Franky slammed a fist against his metallic thigh, the sound echoing ominously. "This is super un-cool! Captain, what was that guy's power?!"

Brook's spectral gaze was fixed on you. "Y/N-san… to think such a kind soul could be touched by such a cruel power. Yohohoho... I pray for her recovery."

Jinbe stood over you, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "That Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit is insidious. It doesn't just destroy, it unravels. We must find a way to contain this."

The Thousand Sunny, usually a beacon of laughter and adventure, was suddenly quiet, save for Chopper’s frantic movements and the terrified whispers of the crew. All eyes were on you, their kind, selfless quartermaster, now lying still and vulnerable on the deck, caught in the terrifying grip of a power that threatened to consume you.

Chopper's tiny hooves moved with frantic precision, pressing against your chest, trying to assess the damage. He pulled out a small magnifying glass, examining your arm where the corrosive touch had landed, his brow furrowed in desperate concentration. The flaking, however, continued, a relentless erosion. He murmured to himself, a litany of medical terms mixed with panicked whimpers, his little mind racing for a solution to an unprecedented problem.

Then, he froze. His ears twitched, straining for a sound that wasn't there. He pressed his ear to your chest, his fur bristling.

"No... No, no, no!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "Her heart! It's stopped! She's not breathing!"

The words ripped through the already tense silence on deck like a thunderclap. Your chest, which had been rising and falling faintly, was now utterly still.

"Y/N!" Luffy’s voice was a guttural roar of pure agony.

Zoro, who had been kneeling beside you, watching Chopper with bated breath, felt a cold dread grip him, tighter than any vice. His Y/N. The kind, gentle hand that stitched Luffy’s hat, the thoughtful gaze that always noticed the small things, the quiet strength that kept them grounded. This was his Y/N, lifeless and crumbling in front of him. His breath hitched, and for the first time in years, a tremor of true, unadulterated panic shook him to his core. His hand instinctively reached for your still face, his fingers brushing against the cold, flaking skin.

"Chopper! Do something!" Zoro's voice was raw, stripped bare of its usual composure, laced with a desperate plea.

Chopper, tears streaming from his eyes, immediately began to perform CPR, his small hooves pressing rhythmically against your chest, his little head tilted back as he tried to give you mouth-to-mouth. "Someone! Get my emergency stimulant kit! The one in the blue pouch! Hurry!" he yelled, his voice strained. "It has the epinephrine! Maybe it'll kickstart her heart! I don't know if it'll work with... with this, but we have to try!"

He was guessing. Wildly, desperately guessing. He had never encountered a Devil Fruit power that actively dismantled the body, that stole life by dissolving it. This wasn't a poison, or an injury, or a disease he could diagnose. It was something far more terrifyingly fundamental.

Nami, her face ashen, was already scrambling towards Chopper's medical bay. "The blue pouch! Got it!" she cried, her voice trembling.

Sanji swore under his breath, his hands clenching into fists as he watched the horrifying scene unfold. Robin's expression was grim, her mind undoubtedly racing, trying to find any obscure knowledge that could help. Usopp sobbed openly, burying his face in his hands. Franky let out a low, pained groan. Brook's mournful violin notes picked up in intensity, a desperate, sorrowful melody. Jinbe, his face etched with concern, stood ready to assist in any way he could, his powerful hands clenched.

Every breath they took felt like a betrayal, a stark contrast to the terrifying stillness of your chest. The Straw Hats, normally a force of nature, were paralyzed by fear, watching as their beloved nakama slipped away.

Nami sprinted back, the small blue pouch clutched in her trembling hand. "Here! Chopper!" she cried, sliding to a halt beside you.

Chopper snatched the kit, his tiny hooves fumbling with the vials, his brow furrowed in a desperate scramble against time. Your skin continued to flake, a terrifyingly visible sign of your body unraveling. He grabbed a syringe, drew a clear liquid from a small bottle labeled "Epinephrine - Cardiac Stimulant," and, with a silent prayer, plunged it into your arm, right near the point of contact with the corrosive power.

Everyone held their breath, the silence on the Thousand Sunny thicker than any storm.

A long, agonizing second passed. Then another.

"Come on, Y/N!" Luffy pleaded, his voice choked.

Suddenly, your chest gave a convulsive jolt. A faint, rattling gasp escaped your lips, and a weak, irregular beat pulsed beneath Chopper's hoof. It was barely there, a stuttering drum against the silence, but it was there. You were still unconscious, still barely breathing, and the flaking hadn't entirely stopped, but the immediate crisis had passed. You were alive. Barely.

Chopper collapsed onto your chest, sobbing with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "Her heart... it's beating! She's breathing!" he cried, his voice muffled. "But... but I don't know how to stop it! The corrosion... it's still there!"

Zoro, who had been frozen in a state of suspended horror, sagged with a shuddering breath, the tension leaving his body in a rush. He lowered his head, resting it on your still form, a silent, profound relief washing over him. He felt your faint heartbeat against his ear, a fragile rhythm that was nonetheless a miracle.

"She's alive," Nami whispered, tears streaming down her face as a shaky, relieved laugh escaped her.

Sanji let out a long, slow exhale of smoke, his cigarette having burned down to nothing. His shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, relaxed slightly. "Thank goodness, Y/N-chan," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Usopp wiped his nose with a loud sniffle, a wide, wobbly grin breaking through his tears. "She's always getting into trouble, huh? But she always pulls through!" he chuckled, though his eyes were still red.

Robin's serene expression returned, though a shadow of concern still lingered in her eyes. "A remarkable recovery, Chopper-kun," she acknowledged, a hint of admiration in her voice. "But you are correct. The underlying issue remains."

Franky pumped a fist into the air, a subdued "SUPER!" escaping his lips, his relief palpable. "Y/N's one tough chick! Always has been!"

Brook bowed his head, his violin playing a soft, hopeful melody. "A testament to her spirit, yohohoho. And to Doctor-san's brilliance."

Jinbe nodded, his expression serious. "We have bought her time. Now, we must find a way to heal her completely. This power... it's unlike anything I've encountered."

You were alive, a fragile flicker of life in the heart of the Grand Line. But the terrifying question hung heavy in the air, echoing the fear in Chopper's words: How could they stop the corrosion? How could they truly save you? The Straw Hats had faced countless dangers, but this was a silent, insidious enemy within, and for the first time, their unparalleled strength felt utterly helpless.

The fragile, erratic beat of your heart was a small victory, but the chilling reality of your continued decay hung heavy in the air. Chopper, though relieved, was still frantically trying to stabilize you, muttering about unknown antidotes and impossible cures. The crew, though heartened by your pulse, watched, helpless and terrified.

Zoro, however, was staring at your flaking hand, a sudden, desperate thought flashing through his mind. Her power. The Chishin Chishin no Mi. It was a power of the mind, of control, of influence. Could it... could it influence even yourself? Could it fight this insidious decay from within?

He gently took your hand, his rough fingers brushing against your deteriorating skin. With agonizing care, he lifted it and placed your fingertips against your own temple, mirroring the gesture you always made when using your Devil Fruit.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, raw and exposed in a way none of them had ever heard. His other hand went to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cold, flaking cheek. "Please. Fight this. You hear me?"

A single tear, unbidden, traced a path down his scarred cheek, catching the faint light from the cloudy sky. It was a sight that stunned the entire crew into profound silence. Zoro, the stoic, the unflappable, the one who rarely showed emotion beyond battle lust or annoyance, was on the verge of tears. He was begging.

"You're strong, Y/N. The strongest," he choked out, his voice cracking. "You fix everything for us. You always have. Now... now you gotta fix yourself." His gaze was fixed on your still face, desperate, pleading. "I know you're tired. I know you're hurt. But you gotta try. Just try. Don't... don't you dare give up. I... I can't... I can't do this without you. We can't do this without you. Please, Y/N. Live."

His words, born of raw anguish and a love he rarely expressed, hung in the air. Luffy, Nami, Sanji, Usopp, Robin, Franky, Brook, Jinbe — all of them watched, mesmerized by the intensity of Zoro's uncharacteristic display. It was a testament to the depth of his feelings, a silent, powerful affirmation of your irreplaceable presence in their lives. The mighty Zoro, reduced to a desperate plea, begging you to fight, to simply live.

Zoro's desperate pleas echoed in the silence of the Thousand Sunny's deck, a raw, exposed confession that pierced through the crew's despair. He continued to hold your hand to your forehead, his voice hoarse, "Fight, Y/N! Come on! You can do this! Don't you dare leave us!"

His words hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears and profound affection. The crew watched, stunned into a collective silence they had rarely experienced. They had always known Zoro cared, but to see him so utterly vulnerable, so utterly human, was a testament to how deeply you had woven yourself into the fabric of their chaotic family.

Then, a faint, almost imperceptible light began to emanate from your fingertips pressed against your temple. It was a soft, ethereal glow, shimmering with the familiar, gentle power of the Chishin Chishin no Mi. The same light that accompanied your subtle manipulations, your quiet influences, now pulsed faintly from your unconscious form.

A collective gasp swept through the crew.

And then, the horrifying flaking of your skin stopped.

The active decay, the continuous erosion that had been relentlessly consuming you, ceased. The existing damage remained—the raw, exposed flesh, the areas where your skin had already dissolved—but the progression, the terrifying advance of the corrosion, was halted. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected, a silent will pushing back against the destructive force.

"Her power!" Chopper shrieked, his voice choked with a mixture of awe and renewed hope. "She's... she's fighting it! She's using her Devil Fruit to protect herself!"

Zoro stared, his eyes wide, fixed on the faint glow. A shaky breath escaped him, and a wave of profound relief washed over his face, replacing the stark terror. He slumped slightly, still holding your hand in place, but the rigid tension in his shoulders eased.

"Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, his earlier tears forgotten, replaced by a wide, relieved grin. "You did it! I knew you could!"

Nami, her eyes still brimming with tears, let out a choked sob of joy. "She's really doing it! Oh, Y/N! You're amazing!"

Sanji released a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a small, uncharacteristic smile gracing his lips. "Always the overachiever, Y/N-chan. Even when you're unconscious."

Usopp wiped his eyes with a joyful laugh. "That's Y/N for you! Always pulling off the impossible!"

Robin's serene expression softened into a genuine, heartfelt smile. "A truly remarkable display of will, Y/N-chan. Your spirit is formidable."

Franky let out a booming "SUPER!" his voice thick with emotion, as he clapped his hands together. "She's one tough super-sister!"

Brook, his violin now playing a triumphant, soaring melody, chuckled. "To think such a powerful mind lies within such a kind heart! Yohohoho!"

Jinbe nodded, a look of profound respect on his face. "Her control over her power, even in this state, is truly extraordinary. A testament to her strength."

You were still unconscious, the visible damage a stark reminder of the battle you had barely survived. But the threat of immediate death had receded. You had bought yourself time. The relief on the Thousand Sunny was palpable, a fragile hope blossoming amidst the lingering fear. They had stopped the bleeding, so to speak, but the wound remained. They still had a long way to go, but for now, you were safe. And alive.

A fragile peace settled over the Thousand Sunny, but for Zoro, the relief was a thin veneer over a churning sea of dread. Your skin had stopped flaking, the gentle glow from your hand against your temple a testament to your unconscious fight for survival. Yet, the sight of your still form, the raw, damaged areas where your skin had already dissolved, gnawed at him. He was relieved, yes, but a cold, heavy stone of worry settled in his gut.

He couldn't lose you. The thought hit him with the force of a tidal wave, clearer and more potent than any opponent's blow. He had always been the one to walk his own path, to stand alone. But you... you were different. You were the quiet anchor, the warm constant in the beautiful chaos of his life on this ship. You remembered the small things, the little comforts, the unspoken needs. You were the one who stitched Luffy's hat, who kept his swords perfectly maintained, who seemed to effortlessly understand the unspoken language of the crew.

He cared too much. That was it, wasn't it? He cared so much that the thought of you not being here, not being the quiet, kind presence you were, twisted something deep inside him.

His gaze lingered on your pale, unconscious face, on the faint glow emanating from your fingertips. He loved you.

The realization hit him with a startling clarity, a silent, internal thunderclap. He loved you. It wasn't just care, not just friendship, not just the deep bond of nakama. It was a profound, aching, terrifying love that had been simmering beneath his stoic exterior, unnoticed, unacknowledged, until now. Until he nearly lost you. The sheer weight of that realization, the raw, overwhelming emotion, settled heavily in his chest.

"Let's get her to the infirmary!" Chopper announced, his voice still shaky but imbued with renewed purpose. "We need to keep her stable, and I need to figure out what to do next!"

Carefully, reverently, Zoro lifted you into his arms once more, his movements gentle despite the tremor in his hands. He held you close, the feeling of your fragile weight both a comfort and a sharp reminder of how close he had come to losing you. The crew parted, making a path for him and Chopper.

"We'll need to keep a close eye on her," Robin said softly, following closely behind.

Nami nodded, her earlier tears giving way to determined resolve. "Whatever we need to do, Chopper. Just tell us."

As Zoro carried you through the door and down into the ship's infirmary, the love he had just realized pulsed within him, a fiercely protective new burden. He had to keep you safe. He had to keep you alive. Because now, with this sudden, stark understanding, he knew he truly couldn't face the world without you.

A dull throb, a persistent ache, was your first sensation as consciousness slowly seeped back into your mind. It wasn't the usual gentle awakening aboard the Thousand Sunny, but a jarring return to a body screaming in protest. A groan escaped your lips, raw and unfamiliar.

Your eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus against the unfamiliar ceiling. It was white, sterile, and smelled faintly of antiseptic – definitely the infirmary. Panic flared, a quick, sharp jab to your chest. What happened?

You tried to move, to sit up, but a searing pain shot through your arm, followed by a dizzying wave of nausea. A small, involuntary cry escaped you. You blinked, focusing on the source of the agony. Your arm, the one that had been closest to the Marine captain, was swathed in thick, pristine bandages, meticulously wrapped from your shoulder to your wrist. A quick glance confirmed that patches of white, gauze, and tape adorned other parts of your body, though thankfully less extensive.

Your mind, still hazy from the pain and whatever Chopper had given you, slowly pieced together fragments. The ambush. The overwhelming, corrosive power of the Marine captain. Chopper’s terrified scream. And then... a sudden, desperate lunge. You remembered throwing yourself forward, placing your hand on your head, trying to activate your power, trying to stop him.

A wave of dread washed over you as the memory solidified. He had touched you. That awful, disintegrating power. You remembered the searing pain, the sensation of your own skin flaking away. And then... nothing. Blankness.

A chilling thought wormed its way into your mind: Am I... okay? Am I whole? You tentatively wiggled your bandaged fingers, then your toes. Everything seemed to respond, albeit sluggishly. The pain, though intense, was manageable now, a constant background hum rather than a sharp shriek.

You were alive. Barely. The thought brought a strange mix of relief and terror. You had faced countless battles, witnessed unimaginable horrors, but this had been different. This felt... fundamental. Like your very essence had been threatened. You hated the feeling of being so vulnerable, so completely out of control.

A deeper concern then surfaced: the crew. Were they okay? Had anyone else been hurt trying to protect you? The memory of Chopper's scream, of the chaos on deck, fueled a quiet anxiety. You pushed down the urge to panic, focusing on the rhythmic creak of the ship and the distant sounds of the sea. You were in the infirmary, safe for now. But the burning question remained: How had you survived? And what had happened after you blacked out?

Your eyes, still a little unfocused, scanned the small infirmary. The gentle rocking of the Thousand Sunny was a comforting constant. Then, in the corner, slumped in a wooden chair, you saw him. Zoro. His head was tipped back, a faint snore rumbling in his chest, his three swords propped against the wall beside him. Even in sleep, he looked like he was standing guard. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight of him. He looked utterly exhausted.

The door to the infirmary hissed open, and in scampered Chopper, a pile of medical books precariously balanced in his tiny hooves. He was humming a little tune until his eyes, wide and surprised, landed on you.

"Y/N! You're awake!" he squeaked, the books tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes immediately welled up, and he launched himself onto the bed, his little body shaking with relief. "Oh, Y/N, I was so worried! Your heart stopped for a bit! I thought... I thought we'd lost you!" He buried his face in your bandaged arm, soft sobs shaking his small frame.

The sound of Chopper's outburst, though muffled, was enough to rouse Zoro. His head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly to clear the sleep. He saw Chopper on the bed, and then, his gaze locked onto you. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, softened with a wave of profound relief you'd never seen directed at you before. He was on his feet in an instant, crossing the small room in a few strides.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice a low, rough murmur. He stood beside the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes never left your face. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a raw emotion that made your breath catch.

"Hey, Chopper," you whispered, reaching out a hand to gently pat his head, careful of the bandages. "I'm okay, buddy. Just a bit sore." You looked at Zoro, a faint smile touching your lips. "And you, sleepyhead. Were you here the whole time?"

Zoro grunted, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. "Someone had to make sure you didn't kick the bucket," he mumbled, though the underlying concern in his voice was unmistakable. He still looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and a faint stubble roughened his jaw.

Chopper pulled back, wiping his nose. "You stopped it, Y/N! Your power! It fought back against the corrosion!" he exclaimed, looking at you with admiration. "It was amazing! We didn't know what to do, but Zoro... Zoro told you to fight, and then you just... glowed! And the flaking stopped!"

Your eyes widened. My power? Fighting it from within? You remembered Zoro's voice, pleading, desperate, urging you to live. So that's what happened. He had somehow, instinctively, pushed you to use your own ability. The ache in your chest wasn't just physical anymore; it was a blend of pain, gratitude, and a bewildering warmth.

"So," you said, your voice still a little weak, "I'm alive. But... this?" You gestured to your bandaged arm. "Will it heal?"

Chopper immediately became all business, though his eyes still held a lingering worry. "I've stopped the active corrosion, Y/N! That's the important part! But the parts that dissolved... they're gone. I can't just make your skin reappear. It's going to be a long recovery, and we'll need to make sure the corrosion doesn't start up again, especially if we face that captain again." He puffed out his chest a little. "But you're a tough human! And I'm the best doctor! We'll figure it out, just you wait!"

Zoro remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, a strange mixture of relief, lingering fear, and something else—something softer, deeper—in his eyes. The infirmary, usually a place of quiet recovery, now felt charged with unspoken emotions. You were safe, for now, but the journey to full recovery, and the true meaning of what had transpired, had only just begun.

The infirmary became your temporary home, and with it, began the arduous journey of recovery. Chopper, a whirlwind of boundless energy and medical genius, tirelessly tended to your wounds. The dressings were changed daily, revealing the raw, unhealed patches of skin where the corrosive power had stripped it away. It was a slow, painful process, and despite Chopper's assurances, the parts that had been gone truly were gone, leaving your body a patchwork of delicate new skin and exposed, tender flesh.

You tried, truly you did, to resume your duties as Quartermaster. You'd sit up in bed, a medical chart spread across your lap, painstakingly checking inventory, managing supplies, and ensuring everything was in its proper place. But the pain, a constant, dull throb that flared with movement, made focus difficult. Even simple tasks, like sketching out a resupply list, left you exhausted. The mental fatigue from your Chishin Chishin no Mi's intense use lingered, too, leaving you prone to headaches if you exerted yourself.

But what was even rougher, perhaps even worse than the physical pain, was Zoro. He was ignoring you.

It wasn't outright avoidance, not entirely. He'd still come into the infirmary, usually when Chopper was busy or when he thought you were asleep. He'd sit in his usual corner chair, polishing his swords, or simply staring out the porthole. But he wouldn't look at you. If you spoke, he'd grunt a noncommittal answer, his gaze fixed on the wall or the hilt of his sword.

One afternoon, as you struggled to reach a misplaced logbook on a shelf, your bandaged arm protesting every stretch, he was there. You could feel his presence, the shift in the air. "Zoro, could you…?" you started, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your elbow.

He didn't move. He simply stared blankly at a spot on the wall opposite you. After a moment, Nami, who had been sitting by your bedside reading, sighed dramatically and reached for the book herself. "Honestly, Zoro, are your eyes decorative?" she muttered, easily retrieving it for you. Zoro remained silent, not even flinching at her jab, a clear indication something was deeply amiss.

Later, when Luffy burst into the infirmary, demanding you join him for a game, Zoro merely grunted. "She's still recovering," he mumbled, his voice flat, not meeting Luffy's enthusiastic gaze. He usually had a sharp retort, a playful jab, but now, nothing. He just got up and left the room, his shoulders stiff, leaving Luffy confused and Chopper sighing.

Even during mealtimes, when the crew would gather, full of boisterous laughter and stories, Zoro kept his distance. He'd often be the last to arrive, picking a seat at the far end of the table, engrossed in his sake. If you happened to catch his eye across the table, he'd immediately look away, his jaw tight. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift for anyone else, but for you, who paid attention to the nuances, it was a gaping canyon between you.

It was baffling, and it hurt. The man who had been so desperate, so raw with emotion when you were dying, was now acting as if you were a ghost. The memory of his anguished pleas, his tears, his declaration of 'cannot do this without you,' played on a loop in your mind, contrasting sharply with his current, agonizing distance. You were alive, yes, but Zoro's uncharacteristic avoidance was a new, unexpected wound, one that Chopper's bandages couldn't hope to cover.

Weeks bled into months, and with each passing day, your body fought valiantly, slowly, agonizingly healing. The raw, exposed patches of skin gradually closed, replaced by a delicate, almost translucent new layer. The pain receded, becoming a faint memory rather than a constant companion. Soon, you could sit up without wincing, walk without a tremor, and eventually, move with almost your usual agility. The constant headaches from your Chishin Chishin no Mi's exertion faded, and the strength returned to your mind, just as it did to your body. You were finally back to your old self, or at least, a very close approximation.

You could manage the Quartermaster duties with ease now, your mental acuity sharp as ever. You were back to slipping Chopper his favorite candies, restocking Nami’s maps, and making sure Brook’s bow was perfectly rosined. A sense of normalcy, a welcome routine, had returned to your life on the Thousand Sunny.

But your relationship with Zoro? It didn't get better. It got worse.

The initial distance had solidified into an almost unbreakable wall. He still didn't meet your eyes, still mumbled evasive answers, still found reasons to leave the room if you entered. The only time he truly acknowledged your presence, the only time he spoke to you, was during training. And that, surprisingly, was a lot.

Too much, even.

His training sessions with you, once rigorous but measured, had become relentless, almost cruel. He pushed you beyond your limits, beyond what was safe, beyond what even he usually demanded of his nakama. It was as if he was trying to work out some internal frustration, or perhaps, punish himself – and you, by extension.

"Again!" he'd bark, his voice sharp, devoid of any warmth. You'd just barely managed to dodge a blow from his Wado Ichimonji, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your arm, newly healed, ached with the strain. "You're getting sloppy, Y/N! Your reactions are sluggish!"

One afternoon, in the training room below deck, the air was thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the clang of steel. You were practicing close-quarters combat, relying on your agility and the subtle mental pushes of your Devil Fruit to disorient him. He moved like a whirlwind, faster, stronger than ever, giving you no quarter. He’d disarm you with a brutal swiftness, then press a dull blade to your throat.

"Too slow!" he'd growl, his eyes, dark and unreadable, boring into yours. "You hesitate. That hesitation will cost you your life out here!" He'd force you to spar for hours, long after your muscles screamed in protest, long after your vision blurred from exhaustion. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't let you rest, not until you practically collapsed.

"Again!" he'd demand, even when your legs felt like lead and your mind felt like static. He’d throw you against the wall, not hard enough to cause serious injury, but enough to leave a bruise, enough to make you gasp. "Get up! You think enemies care if you're tired?!"

Another time, he had you practicing your mental paralysis technique, demanding you hold a Marine dummy in place for extended periods. Your temples throbbed, your head pounded, and a thin sheen of sweat covered your face as you strained your will. "Hold it!" he commanded, his voice cold. "Stronger! Don't let it twitch! You let your guard down for a second, and it's over!" He'd make you repeat it until your nose bled from the mental strain, leaving you dizzy and disoriented, before dismissing you with a curt nod.

His expressions during these sessions were grim, his jaw perpetually clenched. There was no encouragement, no praise, just a relentless, almost brutal drive. It was as if he was trying to forge you into something unbreakable, something that could never be hurt again. But in doing so, he was putting an unbearable strain on the fragile threads that connected you. The man who had nearly cried over you now pushed you to your breaking point, and the confusion, the hurt, the sheer emotional exhaustion, was almost as debilitating as the physical pain had been.

In all truth, Zoro's brutal training regimen was a desperate, misguided act of love. Every harsh command, every punishing spar, every moment he pushed you to your limit, it was fueled by a singular, overwhelming fear: the fear of losing you again. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing you so vulnerable, so close to death. He couldn't relive the agony of watching your skin flake away, of hearing Chopper's terrified pronouncement. He loved you, deeply and fiercely, and this was his twisted way of protecting you, of forging you into someone who would never face such a terrifying helplessness again. He couldn't lose his nakama. He couldn't lose you.

You, lost in the pain and confusion of his distance, couldn't see it. You couldn't perceive the raw terror that drove his actions. But the rest of the crew? They saw it all.

Subtle Signs

Luffy, for all his obliviousness, sensed the shift in Zoro. He'd find Zoro staring out at the sea, a haunted look in his eyes, whenever you were out of sight. One evening, as you finally retired to bed after a particularly grueling session, Luffy found Zoro still in the training room, mercilessly hacking away at a dummy. "Zoro," Luffy had asked, his voice softer than usual, "are you mad at Y/N?" Zoro had paused, his shoulders stiff. "No," he'd grunted, but his grip on his sword hilt was white-knuckled. Luffy, surprisingly perceptive in his own way, just nodded, a knowing glint in his eye.

Nami, ever the observer of emotional currents, saw it in the way Zoro's gaze would involuntarily snap to you whenever you laughed, or when you accidentally bumped your still-healing arm. He'd quickly look away, pretending to be utterly uninterested, but Nami caught the lingering worry, the almost possessive concern in his eyes. She'd often see him covertly watching you from the crow's nest, his face unreadable to you, but to her, it spoke volumes of a deep, unspoken attachment.

Sanji, despite his constant rivalry with Zoro, couldn't deny the truth of what he was witnessing. He'd catch Zoro's eyes, narrowed in furious concentration, tracking your every movement during a training session. One day, after Zoro had pushed you to the brink of collapse, Sanji had walked past the swordsman, muttering, "If you break her, Marimo, I'll cook you." Zoro hadn't retorted, hadn't even sneered. He'd just clenched his jaw, a silent acknowledgment that Sanji's words had hit their mark.

Chopper, with his empathetic heart, understood Zoro's anxiety better than anyone. He knew the depth of Zoro's fear when your heart had stopped. He'd often find Zoro lingering near the infirmary door, listening for your movements, or quietly asking about your progress without looking directly at Chopper. He knew Zoro wasn't trying to hurt you; he was desperately trying to ensure you'd never be in such danger again.

Even Robin, ever perceptive, noted the contrast between Zoro's harsh training and his quiet vigilance. She'd often see him retrieve a dropped item for you, placing it within reach without a word, or subtly clearing a path for you on a crowded deck. His actions, so seemingly contradictory to his cold demeanor, spoke volumes of a protectiveness that bordered on fierce devotion.

They saw the love that you, caught in your own pain and confusion, couldn't yet perceive. They saw the giant, green-haired sentinel, unknowingly protecting the one he cherished most, even if his methods were rough, even if his fear manifested as a cruel distance.

The air in the training room was thick with the scent of sweat and simmering frustration. Zoro was a relentless whirlwind, his three swords a blur of steel. You moved, ducked, parried, and dodged, your body screaming in protest with every forced motion. He was pushing you beyond your limits, beyond anything reasonable. Your newly healed skin, while resilient, was still tender, and a sharp pain flared in your arm as you barely deflected a blow meant for your side.

"Faster, Y/N!" Zoro's voice was a guttural growl, his eyes unreadable, devoid of any warmth. "You're lagging! That hesitation will get you killed!" He lunged, a swift, brutal thrust that you narrowly evaded, stumbling back against the wall with a grunt.

"I can't, Zoro! I'm exhausted!" you gasped, your breath ragged, your chest heaving. Your head throbbed, a familiar precursor to the migraine that often followed overexertion of your Devil Fruit.

He didn't relent. "Exhausted means dead out here! Get up!" He advanced, his blades flashing. You barely managed to block an incoming strike, the impact jarring your entire arm. Your vision blurred slightly, and a bitter taste filled your mouth.

Something inside you snapped. Weeks of relentless pain, of his cold distance, of the crushing confusion, boiled over into a simmering rage. You dropped your practice weapon, the clatter echoing loudly in the tense room.

"What is your problem, Zoro?!" you demanded, your voice sharp, laced with an anger you rarely allowed yourself to feel. You glared at him, your chest heaving, ignoring the throbbing in your arm. "Are you trying to kill me?! You've been like this for weeks! Why are you doing this?!"

"What is your problem, Zoro?!" you demanded, your voice sharp, laced with an anger you rarely allowed yourself to feel. You glared at him, your chest heaving, ignoring the throbbing in your arm. "Are you trying to kill me?! You've been like this for weeks! Why are you doing this?!"

His eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something unidentifiable. A flicker of surprise, perhaps, quickly masked by his usual hardened expression.

"Ever since I almost died," you continued, your voice rising, "you've been nothing but cold! Treating me like shit! Pushing me like I'm some useless recruit! What happened to 'I can't do this without you'?! Was that just an act, then? Just a way to scare me into living?!" The pain, the confusion, the lingering fear of the corrosion, all poured out in a torrent of furious words. You took a step forward, your chest heaving, uncaring of his formidable presence. "Just tell me, Zoro! Why are you doing this to me?!"

Zoro’s jaw tightened. He held your furious gaze, his own eyes, for once, not darting away. The usual stoicism, the blank wall he’d erected around himself for weeks, began to crack, revealing a raw, turbulent emotion beneath. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his grip tightening on his sword hilt.

"Because I can't go through that again," he finally rasped, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes, usually sharp and distant, were now wide and haunted, reflecting a fear you hadn't seen since that horrific day on deck. "I can't watch you die like that again."

He took a step towards you, his gaze locked onto your still-healing arm, then up to your face. "That fear... that was worse than anything I've ever felt. Seeing you... crumbling... I couldn't do anything." His voice was low, strained, the words torn from a place of deep pain. "I'm pushing you because you have to get stronger. You have to be strong enough that no one, no damn Devil Fruit, can ever touch you like that again. So I don't have to feel that again."

His hand, surprisingly, reached out, not to grab you, but to hover, uncertainly, over your bandaged arm, as if he wanted to touch you but was afraid to. "I... I can't lose you, Y/N." The confession was quiet, laced with an aching vulnerability that shattered his usual composure.

"I... I can't lose you, Y/N." The confession hung in the air, a raw, aching vulnerability that shattered Zoro's usual composure. His hand still hovered over your bandaged arm, trembling almost imperceptibly.

You stared at him, your anger deflating like a punctured balloon, replaced by a bewildering mix of shock, understanding, and a tenderness that bloomed in your chest. The intensity of his fear, the depth of his unspoken love – it all hit you at once. He wasn't pushing you away; he was desperately, agonizingly trying to prevent another terrifying near-loss.

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Zoro's eyes, wide and exposed, searched yours, and then, a flicker of regret crossed his face. He pulled his hand back as if burned.

"Damn it," he muttered, turning his head away, his voice laced with self-reproach. "I shouldn't have said that. Forget it." The wall was already beginning to rise again, the familiar stoicism threatening to swallow his raw honesty.

But you wouldn't let it. Not now. Not after everything.

Without thinking, driven by an impulse as strong and sudden as his own confession, you reached out. Your unbandaged hand, surprisingly steady, cupped his cheek, turning his face back towards you. His eyes, though still clouded with regret, widened in surprise.

Then, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you. Your lips met his, soft and hesitant at first, then firm.

For a moment, Zoro was completely still, rigid with shock. But only for a moment. Then, with a soft groan that seemed to rise from the depths of his being, he melted into the kiss. His arm, the one not holding his sword, wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. His lips, rough and chapped, moved against yours with a desperate, overwhelming passion, a silent echo of the fear he had just confessed, and the love he could no longer deny. The clatter of his practice sword hitting the floor was the only sound in the small training room, lost in the overwhelming rush of a kiss that promised a new beginning.

The clatter of his practice sword hitting the floor was the only sound in the small training room, swiftly swallowed by the overwhelming rush of a kiss that promised a new beginning. What began as a soft, hesitant press of lips quickly deepened, fueled by weeks of unspoken fear, suppressed tenderness, and a raw, newly acknowledged love.

Zoro's arm around your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between your bodies. Your own hand, still cupping his rough cheek, slipped into his hair, fingers tangling in the short, green strands as you leaned into the kiss, pouring every ounce of your pent-up emotion into it.

His lips, initially rough and chapped, softened and molded against yours with an intensity that made your head spin. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth exploring yours with a desperate, almost hungry passion. A soft gasp escaped your throat as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you readily parted them, inviting him in.

The kiss became a swirling vortex of sensation. His tongue tangled with yours, a dance of exploration and raw desire. You could taste the faint tang of sake on his breath, mixed with the clean scent of sweat and steel that was uniquely him. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer, as if you could fuse your very beings together.

His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slid lower, pressing firmly against the small of your back, arching you into him. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your front, the steady thrum of his heart mirroring the frantic beat of your own. Your bandaged arm, momentarily forgotten in the rush of sensation, brushed against his side, but neither of you seemed to notice.

The air in the training room crackled, growing heavy and warm. Every touch, every movement, every shift of lips against lips sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire that had long simmered beneath the surface. It was a kiss born of relief, of fear conquered, of a love that had finally, explosively, burst into the open. The world outside the infirmary, the rest of the Thousand Sunny, the vast, dangerous Grand Line, all faded away, leaving only the fierce, consuming intensity of Zoro's kiss.

The kiss deepened, becoming a fierce, consuming inferno. Zoro's hand, still firm on your lower back, suddenly shifted, pushing you backward until your back met the cool, unyielding metal of the training room wall. The impact was soft, absorbed by the sheer force of his body pressing into yours, effectively pinning you.

He didn't break the kiss, his mouth still devouring yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His other hand, which had been entangled in your hair, now slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, sending shivers through your entire body. He pressed his hips against yours, leaving no doubt about his escalating desire.

Your own hands, driven by an equal hunger, instinctively clutched at his vest, pulling him even closer, desperate to feel every inch of his hard, muscled frame against yours. You groaned into the kiss, a soft, helpless sound that seemed to fuel his intensity.

His lips finally broke away from yours, but only to trail a scorching path along your jawline, down the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath hitched as he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, inhaling your scent, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice raw and husky, a sound you’d never heard from him before. His hand began to roam, leaving the small of your back to trace the curve of your hip, then upward, beneath your shirt, his calloused fingers brushing against your warmed skin. The touch sent a jolt through you, a spark igniting a deep, primal heat within your core.

His other hand moved, sliding to the side of your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts. You gasped, your head tilting back against the wall, utterly lost in the maelstrom of sensation. Every touch, every breath, every whispered sound from him sent tremors through your body, blurring the lines between reality and a desire you had barely dared to dream of. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, a powerful current sweeping you both into uncharted territory.

Zoro's lips were still scorching your neck, his rough hand roaming beneath your shirt, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your ribs. The heat between you was undeniable, a roaring fire that consumed everything else. Yet, amidst the rising tide of desire, he paused.

His head lifted, his breath still ragged against your ear. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours. The raw passion was still there, burning fiercely, but beneath it was a flicker of something else: a deep-seated respect, an unspoken question.

"Are you sure about this, Y/N?" he rasped, his voice thick with a mixture of desire and genuine concern. His thumb, still brushing against your skin, paused its movement, awaiting your answer. The question, asked amidst such a heated moment, spoke volumes of the honor he held for you, of the bond that went beyond mere physical attraction.

You met his gaze, your own eyes wide and shimmering with a burgeoning desire that mirrored his. The pain, the confusion, the fear – all of it faded into the background. All that remained was him, and the powerful, undeniable connection that had just burst into the open. You didn't need words. You simply nodded, a firm, resolute movement of your head against the cool metal of the wall.

A low groan rumbled in Zoro's chest, a sound of profound relief and escalating desire. Your affirmative nod was all the permission he needed. His eyes, now burning with renewed intensity, returned to yours for a split second, a silent confirmation of mutual yearning.

Then, his hands began to move with a newfound purpose. One hand, still pressed against your back, eased down to the hem of your shirt, his calloused fingers deftly gathering the fabric. With a smooth, unhurried motion, he began to pull it upwards, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours. The fabric rustled, riding up your torso, exposing more of your heated skin to the cool air of the training room. He lifted your arms, his strong hands guiding them through the sleeves until the shirt was completely removed and tossed to the floor, a soft discard in the dim light.

His eyes lingered on your exposed torso for a moment, a silent appreciation before they flickered back to your face, seeking your reaction. You were breathing heavily, your chest heaving, but you offered him a soft, encouraging smile.

Then, his hands moved to the waistband of your shorts. With a practiced ease, his fingers found the button, then the zipper. The soft rasp of fabric, the slight coolness of the metal, were sharp sensations against your heated skin. He began to slide them down, slowly, allowing the fabric to gather around your hips before he eased them lower, over your thighs and knees, until they pooled around your ankles.

He straightened, his gaze now sweeping over your entire form, a mixture of awe and raw desire blazing in his eyes. The world outside the training room had truly ceased to exist.

With your clothes discarded on the floor, Zoro's eyes, burning with untamed desire, raked over your form, now clad only in your underwear and bra. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of profound appreciation and escalating hunger. He leaned in, his lips finding the tender skin just below your collarbone, kissing, tasting, trailing a path downwards.

His hands, rough and calloused, followed his lips, stroking over your hips, the curve of your stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making your breath catch in your throat. He kissed your shoulder, then the swell of your breast peeking above your bra, his touch a searing brand against your skin. You arched into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders, clinging to him as if he were your only anchor in a storm of sensation.

Then, with a sudden shift, he pulled away just enough to create a sliver of space. His gaze, still locked with yours, was intense, filled with a raw, undeniable desire. He reached for the hem of his own vest, pulling it over his head with a swift, fluid motion, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, and the intricate scars that crisscrossed his skin. He tossed the vest aside, then began to unbuckle his sword belt, the familiar click of the metal a surprising counterpoint to the escalating heat in the room. His swords, the symbols of his life, were carefully set aside, one by one.

You watched, mesmerized, as he shed his remaining clothes: his shirt, then his pants, until he stood before you, clad only in his boxers. His body, honed by countless battles and relentless training, was a breathtaking sight, a testament to raw power and unwavering dedication.

Driven by an instinct you didn't even recognize, a sudden surge of boldness coursing through you, your knees buckled. Whether it was the overwhelming desire, the lingering weakness from your recovery, or a deliberate, teasing choice, you found yourself sinking to the floor, kneeling before him. Your eyes, blazing with an answering hunger, met his, and a slow, confident smile touched your lips.

His gaze, momentarily surprised, softened into a look of profound pleasure. You reached out, your fingers finding the elastic band of his boxers. Your thumb traced the rough fabric, then slipped beneath the waistband, just enough to tease the taut skin of his hip. Your eyes, full of unspoken promise, lifted to his, challenging him, inviting him deeper into the desires you now shared.

You watched his eyes, ablaze with a mixture of surprise and mounting desire, as you slowly, deliberately, found the elastic band of his boxers. Your fingers, emboldened by the raw intensity of the moment, hooked into the fabric. With a slow, teasing pull, you dragged them down, over his sculpted hips, past his muscular thighs, until the dark fabric pooled around his ankles on the floor.

His cock sprang free, thick and powerfully aroused, jutting out with an almost startling vigor. A soft gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of awe and eager anticipation. You lifted your gaze to his, a daring challenge in your eyes, before letting your vision drop, mesmerized by the sight.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his shaft, and began to tease it. Your lips, soft and pliant, brushed lightly along the rigid length, a feather-light touch that promised more. You kissed the tip, a fleeting, butterfly-wing graze, then trailed your mouth lower, tasting him, inhaling his musky scent. A low groan rumbled from Zoro's chest above you, his hands instinctively reaching out, settling on your shoulders, steadying himself.

Your tongue flickered out, a soft, warm lick along the head, then trailed slowly down, swirling around the sensitive underside. You felt him tense, a shudder running through his powerful frame. The taste of him was intoxicating, a primal essence that deepened the heat coiling in your gut.

Then, with a resolve that matched the fire in your eyes, you opened your mouth. Slowly, deliberately, you took him in, the thick, hot length filling your mouth, stretching your lips. You could feel the rigid heat of him against your tongue, the slight pulsing, the sheer power of him. You began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing him deeper, savoring the taste, the feel, the incredible intimacy of the moment.

You continued the teasing, a slow, deliberate rhythm of lips and tongue, drawing him deeper, then easing off, savoring the shuddering breaths that escaped him. His hands, still on your shoulders, clenched and unclenched, his body a taut bowstring of anticipation. The air in the training room grew heavier, charged with the raw, desperate need that pulsed between you.

Finally, with a guttural groan that rumbled deep in his chest, Zoro had enough. His hands, suddenly no longer gentle, tangled in your hair, gripping the strands firmly. With a rough, powerful motion, he pushed his hips forward, burying his cock deeper into your mouth, his raw urgency palpable.

"Hurry up," he rasped, his voice strained, laced with a plea that bordered on a command.

You couldn't help it. Even with the powerful thrust, even with the demanding tone, a soft, husky chuckle rumbled in your throat, vibrating against his hot skin as you continued to take him deeper. The moment was too charged, too exhilarating, too undeniably him.

You began to suck him off, your lips working in a practiced rhythm, drawing him deeper, releasing, and drawing him in again. Your tongue swirled around the head, then flickered along the underside, eliciting soft groans and sharp intakes of breath from him. The taste of him was intoxicating, the feel of him thick and hot in your mouth. You wanted to drive him wild, to bring him to the brink with your mouth alone.

But Zoro was beyond the brink. He was already there, teetering on the edge, his patience snapped by your teasing and his own overwhelming need.

With a sudden, decisive motion, his hand tangled more firmly in your hair, gripping the roots. There was no gentleness in it now, only raw, unrestrained urgency. He pulled your head back, exposing your throat, and with a guttural roar, he began to thrust his hips forward, using the grip on your hair to control your movements.

Your mouth became a tight, wet sheath for him as he began to face-fuck you, pushing his cock deep into your throat with forceful, rhythmic thrusts. Your eyes watered, but you held his gaze, a mixture of pain, surprise, and raw submission in your expression. He was driving into you, hard and fast, a primal need overriding everything else. Each thrust was a desperate demand, a release of the tension that had coiled within him for so long.

He was driving into you, hard and fast, a primal need overriding everything else. Each thrust was a desperate demand, a release of the tension that had coiled within him for so long. Your eyes watered, but you held his gaze, a mixture of pain, surprise, and raw submission in your expression. The grip on your hair was firm, guiding your head, ensuring each forceful plunge met its mark.

Your hands, still wrapped around his hips, instinctively tightened, holding him in place even as your throat ached with the effort. You focused on his eyes, now dark and clouded with pure instinct, and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. The training room, once a place of brutal exercises, was now filled with the primal sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the low, guttural groans that rumbled from deep within Zoro's chest.

He continued to thrust, his body a powerful piston, until with a final, deep surge, he let out a choked cry, his hips bucking. You felt the hot rush of his release deep in your throat, a visceral, overwhelming sensation. His body shuddered against yours, and he collapsed forward, his weight pressing you against the wall, his forehead resting against yours as he gasped for air.

His hand slowly, gently, released your hair, coming to rest on the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. The raw intensity in his eyes slowly began to clear, replaced by a lingering vulnerability and a deep, overwhelming exhaustion. You were both breathing heavily, the remnants of passion and fear swirling in the air around you.

Zoro's breathing slowly evened out, his chest still heaving against yours. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting your still-dilated ones. A silent question, a shared exhaustion, and a profound, raw intimacy hung between you. He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his lips finding yours once more.

This kiss was different. It was slower, tender, a soft exploration. He tasted himself on your lips, a possessive yet gentle acknowledgment of what had just transpired. His tongue swirled, mingling your essences, a silent reaffirmation of the boundary you had just crossed together.

His hand, which had been resting on your face, now drifted lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, down your throat, and then across your chest. It found the waistband of your panties, still clinging loosely around your hips. With an almost imperceptible movement, his fingers slipped underneath the elastic, his touch soft and deliberate against your warm skin. He didn't rush, letting the simple friction of his touch build a new wave of heat between you, a silent promise of more.

Zoro's breathing slowly evened out, his chest still heaving against yours. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting your still-dilated ones. A silent question, a shared exhaustion, and a profound, raw intimacy hung between you. He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his lips finding yours once more.

This kiss was different. It was slower, tender, a soft exploration. He tasted himself on your lips, a possessive yet gentle acknowledgment of what had just transpired. His tongue swirled, mingling your essences, a silent reaffirmation of the boundary you had just crossed together.

His hand, which had been resting on your face, now drifted lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, down your throat, and then across your chest. It found the waistband of your panties, still clinging loosely around your hips. With an almost imperceptible movement, his fingers slipped underneath the elastic, his touch soft and deliberate against your warm skin. He didn't rush, letting the simple friction of his touch build a new wave of heat between you, a silent promise of more.

The pleasure built, a relentless tide surging through you as Zoro’s fingers worked their magic, expertly stretching and teasing. You were on the cusp, trembling on the edge of release, a soft moan escaping your lips as your body tightened in anticipation. Just as the wave was about to crest, just as your vision began to swim with pure sensation…

He pulled out.

The sudden absence was jarring, a sharp, cold shock after the intense heat. Your eyes flew open, wide with disbelief and a desperate yearning. He looked down at you, a slow, predatory smirk dancing on his lips, a glint of mischievous triumph in his dark eyes.

"Payback," he rasped, his voice a low growl, barely a whisper in the quiet room.

Before you could even process the tease, his hands moved with swift efficiency. He pulled your panties down, easily sliding them past your hips, thighs, and knees, until they joined the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor.

Then, with surprising strength, he lifted your legs, bending them at the knee and wrapping them around his waist. Your body instinctively adjusted, your inner thighs pressing against his hardened hips. He leaned in, his eyes burning into yours, and you felt the thick, hot tip of his cock press against your aching entrance, lining up perfectly.

A sharp intake of breath escaped your lips as you felt the blunt, hot head of his cock press against your aching entrance. He didn't thrust in immediately. Instead, he moved with agonizing slowness, pushing just the tip inside, stretching you gently, giving your body a chance to adjust to his impressive size.

You instinctively arched your back, your hips tilting to meet him, a soft moan escaping your throat. His eyes, dark and intense, watched your face, searching for any sign of discomfort, but finding only unadulterated yearning. He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure.

Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure. Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep within his chest, Zoro finally pushed all the way in. A sharp, pleasurable gasp escaped your lips as your body stretched and enveloped him, taking his full length. He filled you completely, a perfect, undeniable fit that made your mind swim. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting both of you simply savor the profound intimacy of being utterly connected.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours, a silent question passing between you. You met his gaze, your own eyes shimmering with desire and a raw, burgeoning love. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, conveying your readiness without a single word.

He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure. Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep within his chest, Zoro finally pushed all the way in. A sharp, pleasurable gasp escaped your lips as your body stretched and enveloped him, taking his full length. He filled you completely, a perfect, undeniable fit that made your mind swim. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting both of you simply savor the profound intimacy of being utterly connected.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours, a silent question passing between you. You met his gaze, your own eyes shimmering with desire and a raw, burgeoning love. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, conveying your readiness without a single word.

With a deep, guttural sound, Zoro began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, each one pulling him almost entirely out before plunging back in, eliciting soft moans and gasps from your lips. The rhythm quickly built, becoming faster, harder, more insistent. The training room, once filled with the clang of swords, now echoed with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the desperate cries of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he drove into you, a powerful, unwavering force.

The rhythm quickly built, becoming faster, harder, more insistent. The training room, once filled with the clang of swords, now echoed with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the desperate cries of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he drove into you, a powerful, unwavering force.

Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through you, building on the last, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the rigid muscles of his thighs pressing against your legs, the slick slide of his body against yours. He angled his hips, finding a deeper, sweeter spot with every plunge, making you cry out his name, a desperate, pleasured sob.

His head fell to your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear as he buried his face in your hair, letting out a low growl of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you tighter, driving deeper, faster. You were both lost in the primal dance, a tempest of sensation and raw emotion.

The world outside the training room ceased to exist. There was only the heat, the friction, the rhythmic pounding of his body against yours, driving you both towards an inevitable, explosive climax.

The rhythm intensified, a relentless, exhilarating beat that pushed you to the brink. Your entire body trembled, every nerve ending alive and singing under his powerful strokes. You could feel the pressure building, a delicious ache deep inside, winding tighter and tighter with each thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as if your life depended on it, your nails scoring faint lines on his heated skin.

Zoro's own groans grew more guttural, more desperate. He lifted his head, his face contorted with a mixture of raw pleasure and fierce concentration, his eyes locked onto yours. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his hair, damp from exertion, clung to his temples. He was pushing you both higher, faster, an unspoken challenge and a desperate plea in his gaze.

"Z-Zoro!" you gasped, your voice breaking, the name a desperate plea on your lips as your vision began to kaleidoscope. The intensity was almost unbearable, a sweet agony that threatened to consume you whole.

With a final, powerful thrust, a deep, shuddering groan tore from his throat. Your body arched, every muscle coiling, and an explosive wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you, stealing your breath and sending shivers rippling through every inch of your being. You cried out, a long, drawn-out moan of release as your inner muscles clenched around him, milking his own climax.

He stiffened, his body going rigid against yours, and with a series of powerful, deep thrusts, he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your shoulder, letting out a raw, guttural roar of pure release. His body shuddered against yours, convulsing with the intensity of his orgasm, a profound relief washing over him.

Slowly, the tremors subsided. He collapsed against you, his weight heavy and comforting, his ragged breaths warm against your neck. You clung to him, your own body still vibrating with the aftershocks of pleasure, utterly sated and spent. The training room, once a battleground of physical and emotional struggle, was now quiet, filled only with the sound of two bodies slowly regaining their breath, utterly entangled and irrevocably changed.

As their breaths slowly evened out, the intense rush of their shared climax began to recede, leaving behind a profound sense of peace and a lingering, delicious ache. Zoro lifted his head from your shoulder, his eyes, still heavy-lidded, met yours. The raw desire was still there, but now softened by tenderness and an overwhelming emotion that he could no longer keep silent.

"I... I love you, Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, the words tumbling out on a ragged exhale. His thumb gently stroked your cheek, his gaze unwavering, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

A profound warmth spread through your chest, eclipsing the lingering physical sensations. It was a warmth born of recognition, of shared vulnerability, and of a love that had been there all along, silently growing.

"I love you too, Zoro," you whispered back, your own voice thick with emotion, the words catching in your throat. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, tasting the remnants of your shared passion.

In the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the discarded remnants of your clothes and the echoes of their lovemaking, they clung to each other. The fears, the pain, the misunderstandings, all melted away, replaced by the undeniable truth of their feelings. The training room, once a place of conflict, had become the intimate space where two stubborn hearts finally found their way home.

[futurepastme]

I'm all for the "hates killing animals" Merlin (and that can still be true), but a conversation at work today made me realize that Merlin is a peasant and I don't remember cannon enough but if he's not also a farmer (even if a small one) he's definitely had to kill and prepare animals to eat before, either just for himself and his mom or to help people around in Ealdor.

Now, consider Arthur and the rest of the knights of Camelot. Before Arthur started to knight common men, they were all nobles. They were taught how to hunt, of course, but they never really needed to prepare the game they'd caught before, they all had servants and cooks to do that. They had learned how to hunt for sport and that was it.

All that to present the concept that: Before Merlin came to Camelot, Arthur and the knights (reminder: not our knights, the noble ones that Uther approved of and were already there before cannon started) had to survive quests mostly with the rations they took with them, only turning to hunting as a last resort because they all suck at preparing their catch.

They'll either skin them wrong, losing a lot of meat in the process or will simply be bad at cooking it, most times burning it a little. And the flavour, of course, sucks.

Arthur, I think, would be the only one to be half decent at that because I like to believe Uther would like to have him ready for any outcome, but he was the prince and nobody would dare to ask him to cook for them and we're talking about a before-Merlin Arthur, so I don't believe he would volunteer because at this point he's a prat.

Then comes Merlin, the idiot that was recently awarded the position as Arthur's servant. And the knights all know that Merlin is useless because Arthur's been complaining about him since day one.

Now the bumbling fool is following them to some mission somewhere and they have no hopes that he'll be of any use at all. That won't stop them to order Merlin around like the inferior peasant that he is, though.

But then.

Then they get delayed and have to hunt for food.

And of course Merlin is in charge of cooking it, because now that they have a servant there, there's no way any of those nobles will get their hands dirty with such an inferior task such as cooking.

They catch an animal (any animal, honestly. I don't care, from a mouse to a bear, it's up to you) and promptly shove it towards Merlin with no hopes of a good meal, but with the assurance that at least this time it would be bad because of a servant and they all would be allowed to complain about it with no reservations.

Then Merlin sits there by the fire, with a barely sharp enough knife and whatever animal they had caught, and seamlessly and smoothly skins the thing.

It takes him no time at all and there are no chunks of meat missing. Clumsy, idiot and useless Merlin had perfectly skinned the creature in a matter of seconds, like it was the easiest thing in the world, and had not damaged neither the meat nor the pelt.

They all kind of stop what they are doing to watch Merlin as he starts to cook the perfectly skinned meat. They stare as the boy seems to put green plants on it and some type of powders he had in his satchel, befuddled and confused.

And when they finally get to eat it, by the gods, if it isn't the best thing they have ever eaten outside of Camelot.

Slowly, the rumors of Merlin's skills start to spread amongst the knights and soon enough all of them are dying to try it.

In a matter of weeks all knights of Camelot agree that if you happened to end up in some type of quest with the prince, you're the luckiest bastard to ever live, not because of the honour to fight along the prince, but for the chance to eat a meal prepared by Merlin.

By the sixth month of Merlin tagging along with Arthur, the rations they bring to quests and such become the last resort food or maybe just side dishes, because if Merlin is at the party then hunting is mandatory, for every knight of Camelot loves Merlin's food. (Arthur is chef Merlin's number one fan, btw)

[thefutureiswhat]

Fargo 2x02 // 4x09

[peculiaritybending]

HE’S PLAYING WITH HIS TOYS :’)

[ivyfluoresce]

Homeboy got his elbows out

Accompanying fanfic coming soon! 🌿☀️

@julyinjanuaryfest