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natsaffection · 3 months ago

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Code Red. pt 2 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, panic, bones braking, Death

word count: 6,5k

A/n: New part! I mixed in 4 requests again, so I hope it works out well! Redline will have its moment tomorrow!!

Part 1

The cafeteria was a chaotic blend of frantic energy and the thick scent of overcooked food. Interns and residents buzzed around, trays piled high with something that was probably meant to resemble meatloaf and salad. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a break. A moment to breathe.

You sat at one of the corner tables, squeezed in between Levi and Taryn, your tray untouched as you poked at a sad excuse for lasagna. Your nerves were still fried from the OR. The way Natasha had let you struggle, the pressure, the thrill of finally getting it right..it was all still tangled up inside you.

“God, I feel like I haven’t sat down in days..” Taryn groaned, slumping into her chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Welcome to the glamorous life of a surgeon.” Levi muttered, shoving a forkful of something vaguely green into his mouth. “No sleep, no social life, just patients and cafeteria food that will probably kill us before residency even ends.”

“You can say that again..” Helm mumbled, her eyes half-closed as she stirred her soup absently.

You tried to relax, but your mind kept circling back to the surgery, the look Natasha had given you when you’d finally gotten your shit together, the words that still echoed in your mind.

“I picked you because you were the best.”

You had barely let yourself believe it. But the way Natasha had said it..it sounded real. And then she had walked away with that other woman like nothing had happened-

“So, how’s it feel to be the golden child? First day and you get to assist in the OR with Dr. Romanoff? That’s like, a fast-pass to success.” Levi said, nudging your elbow, snapping you out of your spiral.

You felt your stomach twist. “I-I wouldn’t call it that..” you muttered, trying not to sound so defensive. “I was just…in the right place at the right time.”

Levi snorted. “More like the right place under the right person, from what I’ve heard.”

Your fork clattered to your tray. “What?”

Taryn laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, come on. You seriously don’t know?”

“Know what?” Your voice came out smaller than you intended.

Helm looked up from her soup, eyes wide. “You don’t know about Dr. Romanoff? The hospital’s very own predator?”

Your blood chilled. “Predator??”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Not like that. Just…you know. Romanoff’s reputation.”

“I’m…I’m new. I don’t know anything.” And you felt stupid admitting it. But the truth was, you’d been too focused on your work to care about hospital gossip.

“Let’s just say,” Helm said, lowering her voice, “she’s got a habit of screwing her way through half the staff. Nurses, residents, other attendings..doesn’t matter. She’s…ambitious.”

“She’s a damn heartbreaker.” Taryn added. “Uses people for fun, then drops them like they never existed.”

“Like last week!” Levi piped up, his voice dripping with intrigue. “That poor nurse..Jessica, I think? Came out of the on-call room crying. And then there’s-”

“Definitely Romanoff’s doing.” Taryn said, shoving her salad around her plate. “I mean, we’ve all seen her. She’s hot, yeah, but she’s a goddamn nightmare. The woman’s probably slept with more people than we’ve met in our entire lives.”

You tried to swallow, but your throat felt too tight. Your chest ached, and you hated yourself for it. Because why should you care? You didn’t want Natasha Romanoff. You didn’t want the trouble, the games, the constant battle for control. And yet…

The idea that Natasha had only taken you to bed because you were just another notch in her belt… because you had been convenient..because you were just another one-night distraction…it made something in your chest feel painfully hollow.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t want anything from Natasha. But that didn’t make the bitter, unwanted sting of rejection feel any less sharp. Levi kept rambling, but the words were just a blur of white noise.

Your eyes dropped to your tray, your appetite completely gone. Was that all it had been? Just fun? Just something Natasha would toss aside, like she did with everyone else? And why did that thought make you feel so stupidly worthless?

You clenched your fork until your knuckles turned white. You needed to forget this morning. Forget Natasha. Forget everything. But the words kept repeating in your head, over and over.

——

You threw yourself into your work. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that kept your head above water when everything else felt like it was dragging you down. The whispers in the cafeteria, the rumors about Natasha, the doubt, it all needed to be buried under something real.

So you worked. And for the most part, you were good at it. You were making rounds, running small procedures, and interacting with patients with a calm that felt like a miracle after your complete breakdown in the OR.

“Ah, Dr. Y/l/n, good to see you again!” your current patient beamed, a sweet elderly woman recovering from a hip replacement.

“Mrs. Hernandez.” you greeted her with a genuine smile, pulling up her chart. “And how are you feeling today? Any pain?”

“Oh, always pain, honey. That’s just getting old for you.” the woman laughed, eyes crinkling warmly. “But it’s better. You were right about moving around. Took a little walk with the physical therapist this morning.”

“That’s amazing.” you said, your eyes brightening. “That’s exactly what we want. I told you, you’re stronger than you think.”

“I don’t know if I believe you..” Mrs. Hernandez chuckled, “but you’re pretty enough that I’ll pretend I do.”

You laughed, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Just keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll be out of here before you know it.”

You made a few more notes on the chart, gave Mrs. Hernandez some updated pain management tips, and left the room with a little more confidence in your step. For the next couple of hours, things were…good. You changed dressings, assessed post-op patients, gave instructions to nurses, all with a focused clarity that you desperately clung to.

Because as long as you were working, as long as your hands were moving, your mind couldn’t drift back to what had happened. Or who you had overheard. But of course, the universe had other plans.

“Can you check on Mr. McCarthy in Bay 4? He’s complaining of shortness of breath.” A nurse called as you passed by.

“On it.” you replied, tucking your clipboard under your arm and heading down the hall. You were reviewing his chart as you pushed open the door, already running through possible complications in your mind.

“Mr. McCarthy, good morning. I hear you’ve been having a little trouble breathing?”

“Yeah..” the man grunted, his voice raspy. “Feels like someone’s sitting on my chest.”

“Let’s have a look.” you said, moving closer to examine him. You placed your stethoscope against his chest, listening intently, your brows furrowing. “Breath sounds are diminished on the left side. You’re post-op for a pneumothorax repair, right?”

“Yeah. Feels like it’s getting worse.”

“We’ll get you sorted out.” you promised, forcing yourself to remain calm. “Let’s get a chest X-ray ordered. And I want another set of vitals.”

“Look at you, all professional and bossy.”

The voice sliced through your concentration, deep and undeniably amused. Your spine went rigid. Of course..

The older woman strolled into the room like she owned the place, eyes already locked on you like this was her personal entertainment. Your pulse spiked. Your fingers fumbled as you tried to scribble down notes, your handwriting coming out as little more than a tangled mess.

“Need me to hold your hand, Dr. Y/l/n?” Natasha asked, her voice like silk wrapped around steel.

Your jaw clenched. “No. I’m fine.”

But the way Natasha looked at you made you feel anything but. You tried to focus on the chart, tried to ignore the heat of Natasha’s gaze boring into you, tried to pretend you were still in control.

But your body betrayed you. Your hands were shaking, your grip on the pen clumsy. You went to place it on the counter but missed, the pen clattering to the floor.

“Smooth.” Natasha commented, one eyebrow arched, her smirk sharpening.

You bent down to grab it, your cheeks burning. “It’s…it’s nothing.”

“If nothing means sweating like you just ran a marathon, then sure.”

“Dr. Romanoff.” you said, your voice coming out weaker than you intended, “I’ve got this handled.”

“Oh, really?” Natasha’s eyes gleamed with something like amusement, but also something else. Something more unsettling. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re about two seconds away from passing out.”

Your lips tightened. “He needs a chest X-ray to check for recurrence. His vitals are all over the place and I was just about to order a blood gas to make sure we’re not missing something.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you, almost like she was daring you to break. But instead of commenting, Natasha turned her attention to the patient. “Shortness of breath, pressure on the chest, pain radiating anywhere?”

“No, just feels like I can’t breathe.” Mr. McCarthy croaked.

Natasha’s fingers moved to the man’s side, pressing gently but firmly. “Pain when I do this?”

“Yeah. Right there.”

“Sounds like your lung’s reinflated poorly or you’ve got fluid building up.” Natasha said smoothly. “Dr. Y/l/n, what’s your plan?”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing to catch up. “I…I think we need a thoracentesis to relieve the pressure.”

Natasha’s eyebrow arched, her smirk returning. “Good. And who’s going to do it?”

You blinked. “I-uhm-”

“Exactly, you.”

Your heart stuttered. “Me?”

“Yes. Now, not later. Unless you want him to crash before we get him upstairs.”

You forced your body to move, your hands still trembling as you prepared the procedure. Natasha’s gaze remained on you the entire time, scrutinizing every movement, her presence unrelenting.

“Your grip’s too tight.” Natasha commented. “Loosen up or you’ll miss the right spot.”

You did as instructed, your pulse hammering in your ears, your breathing shallow. “Better.” Natasha said softly. “See? Not that hard when you stop freaking out.”

The procedure went smoothly. The patient’s breathing eased, his color slowly returning to something resembling normal. But your nerves were still frayed, your hands clammy, your heartbeat still erratic. And Natasha just kept smiling.

The morning after was a whirlwind of chaos. You had barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Natasha Romanoff’s smirk haunted you, her taunting voice echoing in your head, telling you that you were falling apart, sweating like a sinner in church, unable to keep up.

But you had gotten through the day so far. Kept yourself busy with routine cases, kept your hands steady, kept your thoughts away from the mess you had walked into when you arrived at Grey Sloan Memorial. Everything was going fine. Until it wasn’t.

“Dr. Y/l/n!” a nurse called out, hurrying over to you. “We’ve got a situation. Ambulance just brought in a trauma patient. Gunshot wound to the chest. Low pressure, shallow breathing. Trauma bays are full and the OR is prepping for him now.”

Your pulse quickened. You were still only an intern, barely starting to find your footing. And now they were trusting you with a gunshot wound? But then the nurse’s words replayed in your head. “The OR is prepping.”

That meant Natasha would be there. Of course. Of course, she would be. And if you walked in there, stumbling over yourself, hands trembling like you were about to collapse…

No. You couldn’t think about that. This was about the patient. “Where is he?” you asked, your voice slightly strained but functional.

“Coming in through the west entrance. Bay’s prepped. You’re taking him up.”

“Right.” You adjusted your gloves, swallowing your nerves as you hurried to the entrance where they were rolling in a bloodied, unconscious man strapped to a stretcher.

“Brian cooper, gunshot wound to the left side of the chest.” the paramedic called out as they wheeled the stretcher in. “Through and through. BP’s dropping fast. Systolic’s down to 80. Breath sounds diminished on the left side.”

The man’s chest was soaked in blood, the shirt shredded where the bullet had torn through. His skin was cold, clammy.

“We’ve got to get him up to the OR.” you said, your voice growing steadier with each word. “Page Dr. Romanoff. She should expecting him.”

“Already on it.”

They transferred him to a gurney and started pushing him toward the elevator. You held onto the rail, your mind running through the necessary steps, clinging to the structure of the routine like it was your only lifeline.

“Come on Brian, stay with me.” you murmured as the doors slid shut and the elevator jerked into motion. But the progress was slow. The patient’s blood pressure continued to drop, his breathing growing more labored. And the elevator wasn’t moving fast enough.

Too slow. Way too slow. The numbers blinked sluggishly above the door. Three. Four. Five-

A horrible lurch. The lights flickered. The soft hum of the elevator motor stuttered. And everything stopped.

“No. No, no, no, no…”

You stabbed the button for the surgical floor, your fingers frantic. You hit the emergency button, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“Come on, come on!” You slammed your palm against the control panel, your other hand reaching for the emergency button. “Is anyone out there?! The elevator’s stuck, and I have a critical patient! I need help!”

The only response was the shrieking of the heart monitor. “Oh god. No, no, no… Stay with me, Brian. We’re almost there. They’re gonna fix this! You just need to hang on a little longer!”

But his breathing was barely a gasp now, his chest heaving shallowly, each breath a struggle. His lips were starting to turn blue.

“Hey! Can anyone hear me?!” Your voice cracked, the panic strangling you, your fingers still jabbing the buttons like it would somehow force the elevator back into motion.

Suddenly the door opened a crack “Hold on, here is-” The voice cut through the fear like a razor. “Natasha!” you gasped, hope was evident in your face.

“What the hell are you doing in there?” Natasha’s voice was thick with irritation, and something else, something sharper, almost panicked. “The patient was supposed to be brought straight to the OR.”

“I was- He-” Your words stumbled over each other, your throat tightening. “It…it just stopped! I can’t get it moving. He’s crashing, Natasha.. His blood pressure’s bottoming out, his pulse is through the roof, and I…I can’t-”

“Stop. Breathe.” The tone shifted, a blade honed to precision. “Tell me what you see.”

You glanced down at the gurney. Blood soaked through the man’s shirt, the makeshift bandages drenched, the cloth useless against the bleeding. His chest barely rose with each strained breath.

“Gunshot wound. Through and through. Entry point near the left collarbone, exit just above the lower ribs-“

“He’s bleeding internally. He’s going to be dead before the elevator even moves.”

“Okay, but..I can’t just…what do I do?” Your voice came out as a desperate whimper.

“What you do is not panic.” Natasha’s tone was brutal, unrelenting, and somehow, exactly what you needed. “Listen carefully. I’m right here. I’ve got the tools you need, but I need you to be ready to use them. Understand?”

“I- Yes. I understand.”

“Good. I’m pushing the surgical kit through the gap. You need to grab it. His heart’s already struggling to beat.”

You shoved your fingers into the narrow space between the elevator doors. Through the crack, a metal case was shoved toward you, the scraping sound making your teeth clench.

You dragged it inside, your breath coming out in harsh, shallow bursts. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Open it. You need to access his chest. And I don’t mean some tiny needle procedure. I mean a thoracotomy. You need to get your hands in there.”

“Wait, what?! No- no, I can’t. Not alone! There should-”

“Yes, you can. Because if you don’t, Brian’s going to die, and you’re going to have to live with the fact that you could’ve saved him. Now, do you want to be a surgeon, or not?”

Your fingers trembled as you flipped open the case. Inside, the scalpel gleamed, the bone spreader gleamed dully next to it, and there were clamps, gauze, suture kits. Everything you needed.

Except for confidence.

“What…what do I do?”

“First, you cut.” Natasha’s voice was low, brutal, and it forced you to move. “You need to make an incision. Anterolateral thoracotomy. Start at the sternum, follow the ribcage down to the mid-axillary line. You know the drill.”

“Okay…” Your fingers tightened around the scalpel.

“Now, cut. Clean, deep, and fast. Don’t half-ass it.”

Your fingers trembled, but you pressed the scalpel against Brian’s skin and sliced. The blade bit deep, a sickening give of tissue parting beneath your hand. Blood welled up immediately, a dark river pouring over his chest.

“Good. Deeper. You need to get to the ribcage. His heart’s being compressed by blood. You have to relieve the pressure.”

You swallowed, your stomach lurching, but your hands moved. You cut down, deeper, following the curvature of his ribs. Your gloves were soaked, sticky and warm with blood. The wound was wide, gaping.

“Okay…Okay, now what?”

“Bone spreader. You need to break open the ribcage. It’s the only way you’ll reach his heart.”

“Break-”

“Yes. Now.” Your hands shook as you picked up the bone spreader. You slid it into the incision, your fingers clenching so hard your knuckles ached. You began to crank the handle, metal forcing bone apart with a series of wet, horrible cracks.

The sound was nauseating. But there it was- the heart. Flickering weakly, struggling to beat against the pressure.

“Blood’s compressing his heart. You need to get your hands in there. Find the source of the bleeding and clamp it off.”

Your hands hovered uselessly.

“Listen. If you don’t do this right now, he’s dead. Your hands. In his chest. Now.”

You forced your fingers forward, sliding them through the gaping incision, your entire arm sinking into the wound. The heat of blood and muscle engulfed your hand. Your fingers scrambled, searching for the bleeder.

“Feel around the heart. You’re looking for the artery that’s been nicked. It’s like trying to find a crack in a dam. Small but deadly,”

There was an edge of urgency to Natasha’s words, her earlier anger now replaced with something sharper. Focus. Determination.

“I-I’m trying..!” your voice trembled, your breath coming out in ragged gasps. “I can’t- I can’t feel—”

“Yes, you can. Slow down. The artery will be hot, pulsing. Blood will be gushing out like a broken pipe. Just..move your fingers. And do it now.”

You swallowed the panic clawing at your throat and forced your fingers deeper. Your muscles strained, your shoulder aching from the angle. But then.. There. A horrifying gush of warmth poured over your fingers, thick and relentless, coating your hand in a surge of fresh blood.

“I-I found it! It’s…it’s torn. Oh god, it’s torn..”

“Good. Now, you need to stop the bleeding. You’re going to press your fingers around the tear. Pinch it. Like you’re clamping a hose. Do not let go. Understood?”

“Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” Your hand adjusted, your thumb and forefinger squeezing around the torn artery. The sudden pressure made the bleeding slow, the frantic beeping of the monitors easing just slightly.

“Okay…okay, I think…I think I got it..” you whispered, your voice hoarse and strained.

“Check. Don’t think, just do. Is the bleeding stopped or not?” Natasha snapped, her words a whip cracking through your panic.

Your gaze locked onto the open chest, your fingers still pressing against the clamp. The pulsing of blood had slowed, the river reduced to a mere trickle.

“Yeah…It’s stopped. Oh, my god, it’s stopped-“

“Uh, this is Maintenance. We’re here to get the elevator moving. We’re gonna need you to stay clear of the doors and just hang tight while we-”

“Definitely not!” Natasha turned to the voice. The sudden change in tone sent a chill down your spine.

“What?” The maintenance guy sounded startled. “Ma’am, we need to get the elevator moving. Just give us a few minutes and-”

“No.” Natasha’s voice was icy, each word dripping with authority. “You are not touching this elevator until I say so.”

“But, Dr. Romanoff, we were told-”

“I don’t care what you were told. What I’m telling you is to stay the hell away from that control panel. I have a terrified intern inside performing an open-chest procedure with nothing but emergency supplies and pure adrenaline. You interrupt her, you so much as make the lights flicker, and I swear to God, I will have you scrubbing bedpans for the rest of your life. Got it?”

There was a long, agonizing pause. “Uh…Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

“Good. Now shut up, stand back, and don’t touch a goddamn thing until I tell you to. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Clear.”

“Natasha?” you managed, your voice trembling. “What do I do now?” Your voice cracked, your entire body burning from holding your position, your arm cramping from the effort.

“You keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” Natasha said calmly. “Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Because now, I need him stable enough to actually save him once you’re out of that damn elevator.”

“But-”

“No buts. You keep holding on. They’re fixing the elevator now. You’ve bought him time. Now all you have to do is keep him from bleeding out before they can get you up here.”

Your entire arm was numb, the muscles cramping, your shoulder throbbing with pain. But your fingers stayed clamped around the artery, refusing to let go.

“Now.” Natasha continued, her voice lighter, almost teasing. “You need to stay exactly like that. Don’t even think about moving. When the elevator doors open, I’ll be right there. And I’ll take over. But until then, he’s yours. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.” Something about the praise made your entire body flush, but you had no time to think about it. Not when your arm was buried in a man’s chest.

There was a shuffling noise outside the elevator. And then a distant voice, Maintenance. The idiots who had nearly interrupted you.

“Dr. Romanoff? We’re ready to get the elevator moving. Just need your go-ahead.”

“Give me a second, Y/n.” She moved away from the door, her tone dropping to a sharp, commanding whisper. “Listen to me carefully. The intern inside is holding a man’s life in her hands, literally. If you make that elevator jolt, so much as sneeze near it, and she loses her grip, you’ll have his blood on your hands. You’re going to lift this elevator gently. Smooth. No hiccups. No sudden movements. Got it?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am. Got it. Gentle. We’ll be careful.”

“Good. Start moving it. Now.”

There was a faint groan of metal, the hum of the elevator finally coming back to life. It started to rise, slowly, carefully. But even that subtle motion made your fingers clench tighter around the torn artery, panic flaring in your chest.

“I’m still here.” Natasha’s voice came through the gap. “Just keep holding pressure. You’re almost there. And when you get here, I’ll take over.”

“Okay. Okay..”

“You’re not going to let go.” The elevator continued to climb, the seconds stretching into eternities. The tension in your muscles was agonizing, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Not when Natasha’s voice was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. The elevator gave a gentle, final lurch. Your eyes stung from the sterile lights of the hallway, your vision swimming as the faces of nurses, doctors, and maintenance workers blurred together.

But your eyes only locked onto one person. Natasha. She was standing right there, her scrubs spotless, eyes sharp and glittering with a mix of intensity and something else. Something almost like…pride.

“Don’t you dare let go.” Natasha warned, her gaze glued to the blood-soaked scene before her. Before you could respond, Natasha was inside the elevator, a presence so commanding that the rest of the hospital staff instinctively backed away, making space for her.

And then Natasha’s hands were on him. Replacing your fingers with practiced precision, checking your grip, making sure your frantic attempt to save him hadn’t been for nothing.

“Good.” Natasha’s voice was low, approval sliding through the harshness. “You’ve done well. He’s alive because you didn’t let go.”

The words sent a rush of heat through you, but it was overshadowed by the sheer relief of having Natasha there.

“What do I do now?” you asked, your own voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. Weak. Trembling.

“Now?” Natasha’s smirk returned, her eyes gleaming with something unsettlingly like amusement. “You keep holding pressure. Just like that. Because if you let go now, he’s going to crash before we even get him into the OR.”

“But… I thought you were-”

“Oh, I’ll take over. But you’ve already got your hands on the bleeder. Moving you out of the way would just make things worse. So…” Natasha’s gaze flickered down to her own hands as she adjusted one of the clamps. “You’re coming with me.”

Your throat tightened. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re not done yet.” Natasha’s voice was steady, assured, the tone of someone who expected to be obeyed. “We’re wheeling this guy into the OR, and you’re going to keep your fingers exactly where they are the whole way. If you let go, he dies. And I really don’t feel like losing a patient today. So hold on.”

“Okay… okay, I can do that.”

“Good.” Natasha leaned a little closer, her voice dropping to a silky purr. “And Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“You just proved you can handle more pressure than most of the idiots working under me. So don’t blow it now.”

There it was again. That stupid, ridiculous warmth blossoming in your chest, the way Natasha’s words somehow made you feel like you were capable of doing this. Like you weren’t just some scared intern with your hands buried in a dying man’s chest.

Natasha’s gaze flicked to the maintenance workers standing by, their faces pale with shock. “Alright, get this damn elevator moving. And do it smoothly. If I feel so much as a bump, you’ll all be applying for janitorial positions tomorrow. Got it?”

“Y-Yes, Dr. Romanoff. We’ll, uh, we’ll be careful.”

They were terrified of her. And somehow, you couldn’t blame them. The elevator hummed to life, the movement almost imperceptible. But you felt it. Your entire body tensed as the machinery groaned and lurched.

“Easy.” Natasha’s eyes never left you. “Keep your grip. Focus on his heartbeat, not your own.”

“I can do that.”

The elevator crawled upward, each passing second stretching into an eternity. Your arm throbbed, your muscles burning with the strain of keeping your fingers wrapped around the torn artery, holding life in your hand like it was something fragile and easily lost.

The doors finally opened to the OR floor, the sterile white hallway waiting for you like some cold, indifferent maw. But Natasha was already in motion.

“Move! Get him into the OR! You, stay exactly where you are. Hands still on the artery. You’ll let go when I say so. Not a second before.”

The gurney lurched forward, Natasha steering it with a ferocity that left everyone else scrambling to keep up. You stumbled along, your hand still buried inside Brian’s chest, the elevator and its nightmare feeling like some distant memory.

“Natasha, I-”

“Not now. Talk later. Right now, you hold on and keep doing exactly what you’re doing. You got this far. Don’t fall apart now.”

The OR doors swung open, the flood of light and frantic movement swallowing you both. Nurses, residents, everyone was waiting, their voices a blur of medical terms and questions.

But your focus was only on Natasha. “On my count.” Natasha ordered. “One. Two. Three. Let go. I’m taking over.”

Your fingers released, your arm finally jerking free of the gaping wound. Natasha’s hands replaced yours in a matter of seconds, her gaze never once breaking from the surgical field.

“Now get out of my OR before you collapse on my patient.” Natasha snapped, but her voice lacked the usual bite. She sounded almost…proud.

You stumbled backward, your own heartbeat roaring in your ears, your legs trembling as you practically fell out of the OR, your own blood-smeared hands shaking uncontrollably.

You felt like you were vibrating. Every nerve in your body was thrumming with an energy you had never experienced before. Your fingers still twitched, phantom sensations of blood and torn flesh still echoing through your nerves.

But you had done it. You had actually done it. Brian had been alive when they wheeled him into the OR. His pulse had been weak, thready, but there. Because of you. Because you had kept your hand buried in his chest, holding a torn artery together like your life depended on it.

And when Natasha had finally taken over, her movements swift, confident, unyielding, it had felt like the culmination of something impossible. Now, you paced the corridor outside the OR, your hands trembling, your chest tight from the adrenaline still pounding through your veins. Nurses and residents moved around you, but they were just shapes, voices blurring into nothing.

You couldn’t keep still. Couldn’t let go of the electric rush coursing through you. A few of your fellow interns gawked at your blood-soaked scrubs, whispering to each other with a mix of awe and horror. But you barely noticed.

All you could think about was what had just happened. Your pulse was still racing when the OR doors finally swung open. Natasha strode out, her scrubs stained with blood, hair a mess, eyes glinting with something hard and sharp and deeply satisfying.

She looked like she had just fought a war and won. You practically launched yourself forward. “Natasha! Oh my god. That was…I don’t even have words. That was insane!!”

Natasha’s gaze flicked over you, eyebrows arched in mild surprise. “You’re still here?”

“Yes, I- Are you kidding? That was the most intense thing I’ve ever done. I-” Your words tumbled out, uncontrolled, your voice pitching high and fast. “I had my hand in his chest, literally holding his heart. And I didn’t screw it up. You were right there, talking me through it, and I…I actually did it..”

Your hands made wild, frantic gestures, your eyes gleaming with something like triumph. “I mean, I was terrified, but it was incredible. And the way you took over? God, you were like a machine. Just..perfect.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. “You sound like you just won the lottery.”

“Because I did! Well, not really, but…I mean, you were there, right? I kept him alive. I kept him stable. I..I saved him..”

You could barely contain yourself. The rush was still thundering through you, a chaotic mix of pride, excitement, and something that felt dangerously like pure euphoria.

“I mean, I literally had a man’s heart in my hands..” you continued, your voice breathless. “And I didn’t panic. Not really. I did it.”

Natasha’s expression remained unreadable, her gaze flicking toward the OR doors, then back to you. “Yeah. You did.”

The words were slow, careful. But there was something in Natasha’s eyes- something not quite right. “What’s wrong?” Your smile faltered, the excitement thrumming through your veins suddenly too loud, too frantic.

Natasha took a slow breath, her shoulders sagging just a little. “Brian didn’t make it.”

The world seemed to lurch sideways. “What?” you whispered, the word feeling like broken glass in your mouth. “No…No, he was stable. He was alive when you took over. I did everything right. You said-”

“I said you kept him alive long enough to give him a chance. And you did.” Natasha’s voice was firm, her words precise. “But it wasn’t enough. His heart was too weak. By the time we started repairing the artery, it gave out.”

“No…” Your head shook violently, your mind refusing to process what you were hearing. “But…I-I held him together. I did everything right..?”

“And you did.” Natasha agreed, her gaze sharp, unwavering. “You kept him alive in that elevator. You kept his heart beating long enough for us to try. That’s more than most surgeons could’ve done.”

“But he’s…dead?”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes.”

All that adrenaline, that frantic energy, that surge of confidence-it all crashed down at once. Your knees felt weak, your entire body sagging as if someone had pulled the strings out of you. Your hands still shook, stained red from the life you thought you had saved.

“I…I really thought…”

“Welcome to surgery.” Natasha’s voice was blunt, but not unkind. “Sometimes, you do everything right and it’s still not enough. That’s just how it is.”

The rush of adrenaline was gone, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in your chest. The realization that you hadn’t saved him. That your first miracle had been nothing more than a temporary delay.

You had left the OR corridor as if in a trance, your legs moving purely out of instinct. Your hands still trembled, even after you had scrubbed them clean three times. The hot, sticky blood was gone, but you could still feel it.

Still feel the heat of Brian’s heart pulsing against your palm. Still hear the weak, desperate beats struggling to survive.

And then, nothing. You had failed. Your first real test, your first real moment to prove you were worth all the praise and expectation Natasha had thrown at you. And you had still lost him.

The days that followed were a blur. You pushed through your rounds with a mechanical precision, your movements robotic, your voice hollow. The other interns watched you like you were some kind of tragic legend already forming. The intern who had been buried up to her elbows in a man’s chest and still couldn’t save him.

Every time you passed Natasha in the hallway, the woman’s eyes followed you. Watching. Assessing. Like she was waiting for something to snap. But you didn’t snap. You just…shut down.

Days later, you sat at the far end of the cafeteria, a half-eaten sandwich lying forgotten on your tray.

“Y/l/n”

The voice startled you. You glanced up, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. “Natasha.”

The woman’s name tasted bitter on your tongue. Like something you’d lost the right to say. Natasha slid into the seat across from you, her expression calm but her eyes intensely sharp. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit.”

The word hit you like a slap. You stiffened, your fingers clenching around the edge of your tray. “Excuse me?”

“I said, bullshit.” Natasha repeated, her voice low, harsh. “You’ve been shutting down. Avoiding everyone. Burying yourself in mindless work like it’s going to make the guilt go away.”

“Why do you even care?” you shot back. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To push me so hard I’d fall apart? Congratulations, mission accomplished.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You think that’s what I wanted?”

“I don’t know. You threw me into the deep end and told me to swim, and I still-”

“No. You weren’t supposed to save him.” Natasha interrupted. “You were supposed to give him a chance. And you did. Sometimes, even when you do everything right, it’s not enough. That’s part of the job.”

The truth hurt. Because it was exactly what you had been refusing to accept. “I should have saved him..” you whispered.

“Maybe. Maybe not. What matters is you did everything you could. And most interns wouldn’t have even tried.” Natasha’s gaze held yours like a lifeline. “And you’re going to pull yourself out of this. Because you don’t have a choice.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then I’ll make sure you do. I pushed you because I know you can handle it.”

And for the first time in days, you felt something other than crushing guilt. You felt something almost like… hope.

Part 3

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader

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2b4st4r · 22 days ago

Note

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?!"

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.

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.

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.

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incorrectsmashbrosquotes · 1 year ago

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*The final battle is here. Miquella and his puppet against the Tarnished*

*Puppet-Radahn seizes the Tarnished, lifting them up to Miquella. Miquella reaches forward for their heart*

Miquella: I promise you, a thousand year voyage, guided by-

*There's a blast of blue light, burning Miquella's hand and throwing the Tarnished from his grip. Astonished, Miquella looks up... and sees that the moon is somehow, impossibly, in the sky, shinning*

???: My apologies, dearest brother.

*there's a shimmering blue light as a figure appears behind where the Tarnished kneels*

Ranni: But their heart is not thine to steal.

Radahn, SOMETHING breaking through the brainwashing: Sis...ter?

*The Tarnished rises, eyes blazing behind their helm, the Darkmoon Greatsword shining with light. the place where their heart lies iss glowing with moonlight*

Ranni: My dear Consort, eternal. This is mine charge.

*Ranni rises above the battlefield, hovering above and behind the Tarnished, framed by the full moon's light, it's baleful eye turned on those who would be Gods and Consorts*

Ranni: Free mine brothers, Mohg and Radahn both. Strike now, my beloved.

*Miquella shakes his head sadly and tightens his grip on Radahn. The momentary clarity in Radahn's eyes fades, and he roars, summoning up his power. The Tarnished brandishes the Darkmoon Greatsword in one hand, the Carian Regal Scepter in the other, and the place over their heart shines with their Lady's love. Earned, not forced*

*The battle is joined once more, Purple and Blue, Gold and White. Sun and Moon. Ranni and Miquella*

#incorrect quotes #Elden Ring #Shadow of the Erdtree #spoilers #shadow of the erdtree spoilers #Soulsborne #Shadow Soulsborne Ring #Ranni #Miquella #The Tarnished #Radahn #Lunar Princess Ranni #Miquella the Unalloyed #Starscourge Radahn #Tarnished x Ranni

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x4az · 15 days ago

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𐂅 — [TFP] Various! With A Carthetyia! S/O Who Had An Alternate Form Like Fleurdelys From Wuthering Waves.

— Reader: Carthetyia! Reader, GN.

— Warnings: A little few suggestive stuff that isn't obvious Nsfw! Reader is a Cybertronian that had a similar alternate form like Carthetyia! Reader, My bad at cybertronian anatomy 😭

— Characters: Megatron, Optimus Prime, Starscream, Soundwave. [Transformers Prime]

#TAGS: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic but can be interpreted as platonic, Potential OOC, Potential Subject would be changed in the future.

— Important Note: I had intentionally changed the original work into this because I've lost interest to Castorice so I rolled with this idea because it's more relatable to write, 😭 Due to the incomplete official canon of Carthetyia's backstory, I didn't put it all fully because the patch is still incomplete so I had to wait for more and cut the headcanons a little bit in half. (Special shoutout to my goat @soundwavesconjunx for giving me ideas 🙏)

— Megatron

— Finding out you have an alternate form? Oh, it'll definitely take a toll on him. Why didn’t you tell him earlier, right at the start of your relationship? And once he realizes how powerful you really are—expect some interesting changes.

— At first, he’s a little intimidated. What the frag do you mean you can slice the ocean with your blade? Potentially continents too?? AND SPACE? (Yes, Megatron. The ult had the longest range, and it aligns perfectly with the lore.)

— The more he processes it, the more it clicks. Yep—you’re the partner he deserves. He sees the resemblance: strong, commanding, powerful. Though… you might just be way taller than him, especially in your full chassis height.

— Suggestive part — Since you're potentially taller than him, he'll try to act like he isn’t constantly staring at your Fleurdelys form… but he absolutely is. You’ve definitely caught him more than once. He looks away and denies it every time.

— You wanna know why his optics don’t always sit straight? Because one’s tracking your movement, and the other is locked square on your chest like the down bad mech he is. 😭

— He would love to spar with you in your alternate form. A proper 1v1—Dark Star Saber versus your divine blade. (You both would have aura moments type shi) and going head-to-head until the match ends in a stalemate… until you activate all three Swords of Divinity. Then? He’s cooked. (But he’d enjoy it, not gonna lie.)

— Optimus Prime

— If you want to include where you like playing puppets the same way carthetyia does, He finds that adorable. He’d absolutely melt if you made a puppeteer version of him for your story scenarios. <3

— Even though your servos are larger and more structured than his, he loves holding them. He loved the feeling of holding yours when you let him, like pressing your palms together during quiet times whenever you are both alone, appreciating the different textures of your gloves that wielded your divine blade with might, Somehow, his gentle grip always finds a way to intertwine with yours.

— Intimate pressing helms together even though it may be awkward because of your horn so he goes a little under it and make it work by tilting his helm against yours so you can resonate with him, your tacet mark glows without any trouble and then closing your optics together as your resonance intertwined with his EM field, that is your language of "Forever." <3

— You two have definitely tried dancing before. At first, it was awkward—missteps here and there—but eventually, you both got the hang of it. Now it’s become a regular thing whenever you’re both free. Moments like these are considered dates in their own right.

— He’d absolutely want to learn more about you and your lore. Being isolated for 20 years before meeting him? That means you’ve got stories— a lot of them. He’d sit and listen without complaint, always attentive. Your world fascinates him, especially its cultural diversity. Rinascita, your homeland, would capture his interest the most—particularly the 'Echoes' that surround Whisperin Haven. :D

— Starscream

— Oh, this backstabbing little slabber. At first, he just thought you were small... until you proved him completely wrong. 💀

— He was definitely intimidated at first—but slowly, it started to turn him on.

— Like Megatron, he stares. A lot. Especially if you’re towering over him in your alternate form. He tries not to stare down your chassis, but you always catch him doing it.

— He’ll never admit it, but he likes it when you hold him like that. It bruises his pride, sure—but he never resists. Let him rest his helm against your chest when he’s tired; he won’t say it, but that’s his safe place.

— He can somehow relate to your appearance in terms of your horn, in which you sometimes would bump it into his red one as a gentle nudge during times whenever you both tease each other.

— He’d lose his shit when he finds out you can walk on water. But even with all that shock, he never looks away. And when you try to dance? He’ll act like he’s going to laugh—but secretly, he finds it endearing as hell.

— Soundwave

— Soundwave had your frame recorded in 100x detail the first time you transformed. You may not have noticed, but he absolutely stored that footage in his processor. He won't admit it, but he is interested in every detail of your framework and how it functions.

— Same goes for holding servos—except with his datacables. They wrap gently around your wrist and pull you just a little closer. Just enough for him to feel the texture of your hold, syncing with your energy through physical touch.

— Laserbeak? Obsessed with your thorned crown. It's basically his favorite nesting spot now. Wherever you go, he’s chilling up there. You’re basically wearing a living hat.

— He’s relentlessly protective. Even though you can handle yourself, he needs to make sure you're safe. That means monitoring you when you're outside—or discreetly sending Laserbeak to keep an eye from above.

— He's fiercely defensive of your space and your image. If someone insults you—or questions your divinity—expect that person (or bot) to mysteriously disappear the next day. (Starscream is sweating oil by now.)

— Much like Optimus, Soundwave would quietly research your origins—if you permit him. He’s deeply curious about how you came to be the "Blessed Maiden," and your ties to the Imperator and the Leviathan. This is his way of loving: silent, observant, devoted. He stores it all in his private database—never sharing a single detail. Your story belongs to him and him alone.

— And you can't tell me that Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, would definitely carry you like this if you are Fleurdelys! Reader lmao

#transformers #cybertronian reader #tfp optimus x reader #transformers x reader #tfp megatron x reader #tfp starscream x reader #tfp soundwave x reader #megatron x reader #optimus prime x reader #starscream x reader #soundwave x reader #megatron #optimus prime #starscream #soundwave #transformers prime #tfp #wuwa x reader #wuthering waves x reader

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httpsoftbunni · 3 months ago

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🖼 art by @odlnus

The Leper King's Personal Struggles

Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, remembered by history as the Leper King, ruled from 1174 to 1185 AD. His reign was defined not only by external threats from the Muslim world but by an internal war, one that ravaged his flesh and sought to break his spirit. Diagnosed with leprosy at a young age, Baldwin's journey to the throne and beyond is a study in endurance, dignity, and the kind of strength the world cannot always see.

Baldwin's Early Life

Born in 1161 to King Amalric I and Queen Agnes of Courtenay, Baldwin was raised with the expectations of nobility and the education befitting a future leader. His tutor, the archbishop and chronicler William of Tyre, soon noticed something strange about the young prince. During play, Baldwin would laugh when the other boys pinched or struck him—“he seemed not to feel pain like the others,” William noted. This lack of sensation, particularly in his right arm, led to the realization that Baldwin had contracted leprosy.

Though the disease was still in its early stages, the implications were clear: Baldwin would be disfigured, disabled, and in the eyes of many, unfit to rule. And yet, “his mind remained bright, his wit untouched, and his strength of will surpassed that of many healthy men,” William wrote. This diagnosis, rather than ending his royal prospects, became the crucible in which his reign was forged.

The Physical Toll

Leprosy in the medieval period was viewed not merely as a medical illness, but as a moral and spiritual sentence. Those afflicted were often shunned, forced to live in isolation, considered cursed or unclean. And yet Baldwin, rather than being hidden away, was crowned king at just thirteen years old following his father’s death. He took the throne not with the confidence of youth, but with the weight of suffering already pressing on his shoulders.

As the years passed, the disease took its toll. His fingers curled in, his limbs grew weak, and his face became marked by the scars of decay. By the end of his reign, he could no longer walk, ride, or even sit upright without assistance. Despite these limitations, Baldwin continued to lead. “He was carried on a litter to council meetings, eyes clear, voice firm,” one chronicler wrote. The body failed, but the king remained.

In 1177, at the Battle of Montgisard, Baldwin led his outnumbered forces against Saladin’s army. He had to be physically tied to his horse to remain mounted. Even so, he inspired his knights to victory in one of the most astonishing triumphs of the Crusader states. His mere presence rallied the troops. “They looked upon him and saw not disease, but valor.”

Political Challenges

Baldwin’s reign was far from peaceful. The nobility of Jerusalem was rife with factionalism, competing interests, and disloyalty. His illness only added to the political instability, as nobles speculated over the succession, fearing a power vacuum. Baldwin understood this well and worked tirelessly to manage the crisis.

Rather than cling desperately to his title, he acted with wisdom and selflessness. When he could no longer manage the full responsibilities of the crown, he appointed his young nephew Baldwin V as co-king and established a regency to preserve order. He disapproved of Guy of Lusignan, his sister’s husband, fearing his arrogance and ambition. Though pressured to accept him as heir, Baldwin’s discernment proved prophetic—after Baldwin’s death, Guy’s poor leadership led to the fall of Jerusalem.

Even while bound to his bed, Baldwin negotiated truces, approved treaties, and issued laws. His mind, though enclosed in a failing shell, remained sovereign. He was no puppet king, but the true helm of the realm. His leadership wasn’t defined by pomp or spectacle—it was measured by perseverance, prudence, and the willingness to sacrifice his comfort for the sake of his people.

Suffering and the Christian Soul

To understand Baldwin’s reign is to enter into a deeper contemplation of Christian kingship and sanctified suffering. Leprosy, which was terrifying to those around him, became for Baldwin not only a physical affliction but a means of spiritual refinement. While many rulers gloried in their strength and health, Baldwin ruled through brokenness. He bore his disease publicly, not hiding it, not shrinking from its humiliation. This act alone took more courage than many battlefield charges.

He bore what Orthodox theology calls podvig—a spiritual struggle, a voluntary carrying of one’s cross. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Baldwin lived this reality. His kingship, far from being diminished by his condition, was made noble through it. The humility, patience, and quiet strength he displayed served as a witness to what true leadership looks like in the eyes of Heaven.

Unlike the crowned tyrants of later history, Baldwin ruled not for glory, but for duty. He served until his last breath, dying in 1185 at the age of twenty-four. His death left a void that no man filled. Within two years, Jerusalem fell to Saladin, and the fragile Christian kingdom began to dissolve.

Yet Baldwin’s legacy endures. His reign was not defined by conquest, but by constancy. Not by wealth, but by wisdom. Not by power, but by pain willingly borne.

Supported Readings and Sources

William of Tyre – A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea

Bernard Hamilton – The Leper King and His Heirs

Steven Runciman – A History of the Crusades

Ernoul and Bernard the Treasurer – Chronicle of the Crusades

Malcolm Barber – The Crusader States

Christopher Tyerman – God’s War: A New History of the Crusades

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a-very-tired-jew · 1 year ago

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Conversations with a younger colleague about I/P conflict

In my department there is a grad student who is friendly with myself and a few others of the openly nerdy ecologists. We actively talk about anime, video games, TTRPGs, etc... We've also all collaborated on research together because we generally study the same thing, and being a grad student we are also letting them helm their own research to carve their own path. The research topic that links all of us is decomposition ecology.

Meaning, we study death, how it effects the environment, and all the things having to do with it. Often we have our own terms that we define and use, but we also work within the framework of various medical and legal definitions nationally and internationally. Recently this student has been talking to me about the I/P conflict because it has dominated their social media feed. Like many young adults, this is their first I/P conflict and their first exposure to anything regarding that region. As such, they have come to me to talk about things knowing that I am Jewish. Not out of maliciousness, but because I am the only person they talk to that has any sort of connection to it. Over these past months they have repeated the "genocide/Holocaust" rhetoric that we have seen Western Activists use to make the conflict the Worst Thing Ever. Our conversation went as follows: GS: I can't believe they're committing a Holocaust on them after what they went through. Me: How is it a Holocaust? GS: They're committing a genocide against the Palestinians. Me: They're not doing either one, but let's touch upon the first thing you said. How? GS: They're killing them in large numbers! Me: Oh...oh...that's not what made the Holocaust the Holocaust, you know that right? It was years of systematic dehumanization that culminated in what we know. There were death camps, torture, experimentation, and so much more than simple "killing in large numbers". GS: Damn public school education... Me: You didn't really go over it too much did you? GS: WWII was, like, a week I want to say. Me: *sigh* yeah, not surprised at all. GS: Okay, so a genocide then? Me: GS, what do we study? GS: Decomp Me: and that involves? GS: Death Me: One avenue of which is mass casualty events which a number of our friends have published on. GS: Yeah! I read those papers, they were really good. Me: They were, but do you remember conversations we had about them and what differentiates mass casualty events from one another? GS: Cause? Me: And...? GS: Shit. Intent. Me: Exactly. Has their been an official stated intent to commit any genocide? I mean, you've got the bigots in the government like Ben Givir and the shit they say, I'll give you that. But has the official stance been genocidal? GS: No. I don't think so. Me: What has it been? GS: To get the hostages back and get rid of Hamas. Me: Uh huh, and what has been Hamas's stated intent? GS: To kill Zionists. Me: And before 2017 when they changed the wording in their charter? GS: ah fuck...it's Jews isn't it? Me: Ding ding ding. GS: So that's why no one in the group has said it's a genocide... Me: Correct. Humanitarian crisis brought about by war? Yes. Mass casualty event? Certainly. But genocide? Well, there's a reason no one in our circle has endorsed the term. And remember, we're considered experts on death. GS: I got puppeted didn't I? Me: Yep. GS: Shit. The only reason this went so well is due to our friendship and mentor/mentee dynamic. They already trust me to not lead them astray, be informed, and address the holes in their knowledge. Hell, they help me be a better scientist as well with how they bring in new and novel techniques that I didn't know. But they're still getting a lot of their info from TikTok and IG, and they've talked about a lot of BS from those two particular apps these past few years. This is just the latest (they had a TikTok induced anti-GMO trend for a while, it was bad).

#jumblr #misinformation #I/P misinformation #Correct terminology #Death experts #Seriously - we have a precise definition for genocide and this ain't it

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thebetterfishgato · 5 months ago

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restocked get them while you can RAAHHHHHH

User: Munchkinnnnn

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justinspoliticalcorner · 4 months ago

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Decoding Fox News:

Last week the folks at Fox twisted themselves into knots to defend the actions of a maniacal corrupt billionaire hellbent on destroying entire government agencies without congressional oversight. They would never admit that their glorious leader, Donald J. Trump, was just a puppet for Elon Musk, a South African immigrant with extremist political leanings. During one of the celebrations involved with Donald J. Trump’s inauguration Musk performed a hand gesture that looked suspiciously like a Nazi salute. When Musk was criticized for it instead of apologizing or clarifying what he meant he posted several inappropriate jokes about Nazis on his social media platform X. Musk also enthusiastically backed an extremist staunchly anti-immigrant political party in Germany - the Alternative for Germany Party also known as AfD. At a recent rally for AfD Musk said, in an apparent reference to the Nazi era, "frankly too much of a focus on past guilt and we need to move beyond that." Musk has also publicly supported an extremist party in the UK. He’s also retweeted dozens of extremists on X (Twitter) as well as promoted several racist conspiracy theories. Openly pro-Nazi profiles have flourished on the X platform since Musk acquired it. Of course, no one on Fox News brought up Musk’s extremist political leanings. His actions to slash and burn entire government agencies were framed as saving money for American tax payers. [...]

Trump rewarded his benefactor with a position to helm the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE, a task force set up by the executive branch.

What is DOGE?

DOGE was created via an executive order on January 20, 2025

It is a task force not an official government agency

Elon Musk is a special government employee

This status means he is not required to file a public financial disclosure

He did not need to have a confirmation hearing by the House or Senate

This is no mechanism to prevent Musk from interfering with an agency that might benefit one of his six companies.

Musk is essentially policing himself.

Musk has billions of dollars of federal contracts with this companies SpaceX and Tesla.

DOGE seems to mirror many of the proposals in Project 2025

DOGE faces several lawsuits meant to limit its power

What Has DOGE Done So Far

Attempted to completely destroy USAID

Musk called the agency a criminal organization

Musk requested to cut off all payments to USAID four days into the Trump admin.

President Trump issued an executive order suspending all U.S. foreign assistance.

The Secretary of State Marco Rubio issued a stop-work order for the State Department and the U.S. Agency for International Development.

Dozens of USAID’s top leaders were placed on immediate leave

Hundreds of employees have been let go.

The USAID website was taken down

The sign on the building USAID operated in has been covered up.

Offered a buyout to federal employees

Ended all remote work for federal employees

Claimed to have found fraud in various agencies - provided no evidence of fraud

Musk has claimed payments from Health and Human Services to various groups around the country are illegal.

DOGE employees gained access to the Department of Treasury payment systems

A federal judge blocked DOGE from accessing them.

Decoding Fox News has an excellent article on Fox “News” shilling for Elon Musk and DOGE.

From the 02.12.2025 edition of Decoding Fox News:

#Decoding Fox News #Substack #Elon Musk #Musk Coup #DOGE #Department of Government Effiency #Trump Administration II #FNC #PBS NewsHour #PBS #NAFTA #USMCA #Juliet Jeske

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marshmallowprotection · 2 months ago

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I wanna give Ray a nice hand massage his palms and fingers and wrists are not doing so well with the hacking he needs it!!!

"Tell me if it hurts."

As you continued to smooth out circles into Ray's trembling palm, you weren't surprised by his occasional wince. He really didn't want to worry you, but that was why he had stumbled into this mess to start with! He bit his tongue when he needed to rest and pushed himself to do more and more when he needed a break more than anything else.

You had no idea he was pushing his hands above and beyond his limit, and for that part, it was no wonder why he struggled to type even though he yanked his gloves on tighter and tighter to keep his fingers rigid. He never let his hands relax. They were always tense... and they would remain that way as long as he continued to work as hard as he was.

Sure, you understood that he couldn't slow him even if he wanted to because of his Savior's orders, but there had to be a limit somewhere. It wasn't effective to work him into the ground until he couldn't do the next task! He was the only one who could handle his job, and if such a day ever came when he couldn't use his fingers anymore, this cursed place would come to a shrieking halt.

Which, frankly, wouldn't have been a bad thing because this wasn't by no means a paradise for anyone! But, with the Savior at the helm, Ray and everyone around him were nothing more than puppets who had to act until their ropes snapped.

You applied more pressure to his palm and carefully lifted your head to watch for his reaction. He didn't yank his digits away, but you knew from the way his eyes trembled that this was difficult for him. There'd been no warning, no explanation, and no guide to tell him how to use his hands without overextending them. He didn't even know he could stretch and massage his hands to help the pain!

"Ray," you tried again. "Does it hurt?"

"N-No," he muttered, wiggling his fingers to test their range of motion as you continued to massage the small space between his palm and thumb. "It aches... but not in a bad way. It feels no different than the pain I get when I spend all day walking and then sit down... I can feel it. I can feel my pulse."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No. It feels better because now I know my pulse bends to your gentle hands. If I knew my disgusting hands wouldn't scare you... I might've asked for this sooner."

"Oh, Ray," you cupped his cheek with your free hand and smiled as gently as you could manage. "Your hands are not disgusting. I don't mind holding them because they make me happy. I hope I can ease your pain soon."

"Being with you soothes my pain."

#sensetenou #mod kait #ask #mystic messenger #mysme #saeran choi #mysticmessenger #mm #choi saeran #ray choi #choi ray #ray mm #ray mysme #ray mystic messenger #mysme ray #mm ray #mystic messenger ray

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kitkatorin · 1 month ago

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PART 2 IS HERE!!!

We're starting to get to the good stuff, definitely watch out for the next part because I think it's going to get pretty crazy.

In the meantime, enjoy this extremely drawn out foreplay session lol

「ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ」

ᴛᴀʀɴ x ᴄʏʙᴇʀᴛʀᴏɴɪᴀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Part 2/? (Read Part 1 here)

Word Count: 3.7k

SFW with Suggestive Themes

Cybertronian GN Reader, Decepticon aligned

CW: Violence, torture, injury, energon depicting blood/suggestion of blood kink, sadism, coercion/subjugation and manipulation, mind control if you squint, Tarn is still monologuing

---

Tarn's vocalizer softly hummed as he skimmed his digits over the inhibitors that restrained your arms. It was an uncanny echo of one of the melodies that had played moments ago, accompanied only by the near silent droning of the ship's engines and your shallow venting cycles. The tune still struck as familiar, whether played back as an audio recording or recited in a faint whisper, but your enervated processor was too occupied trying to regulate your vital functions to bother with trying to recognize old songs.

"We have no use for these right now." Tarn paused his recital to make the casual remark. "They were more of a formality, really. A tangible reminder of your vulnerability." With a few select inputs, the inhibitors hissed and clicked open, then further retracted into a condensed unit that swiftly released your bound forearms. Even with your servos free, you could hardly muster the strength or will to move them purposefully. Tarn expelled a sharp exhale in a scoff as he tucked the inhibitor unit away in his subspace. "Though I suspect you understand how futile it would be for you to resist, restrained or otherwise."

His hand reached out to the side of your helm, unhurried and deceptively tender. "It is truly satisfying to bring the stubborn and unruly into submission." He traced along your mandibular plate with his taloned digits, metal on metal faintly scraping until his path transitioned to your cervical mesh. "They think that they are beyond reach, that they are without consequence." His touch was initially light as he brushed along the thin integument. Gradually, his pressure deepened to feel the cabling roll beneath his fingers and the pulsing flow of your fuel lines. "But in the sweet, final moments of life, their haughty arrogance is reduced to sniveling trepidation."

It started to hurt, him squeezing down harder and his claws beginning to prod deeper into your neck. Receptors started to flash warnings of constricted flow and penetrating damage to your superficial lines. Here is when you weakly tried to squirm away, but his grip on you - physically and mentally - was too overpowering. "And when the facade of confidence is stripped away, even the most pretentious of individuals are nothing more than weak-willed drones, slaves to their own shallow desires."

Tarn's hand tightened around your neck with his claws digging even deeper. You felt a desperate need to cry out with the pain that flooded your systems, but your vocalizer only managed to produce asphyxiated gasps, still ladden with residual interference from your glitching vocalizer. Your servos pawed feebly at Tarn and your own digits slid off him without effect.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself."

It became all too habitual for Tarn to toy with your life like a puppet on a string, bringing you to very brink and then easing off at the last possible moment. Each time he put you through this vicious cycle, you felt less like a torture victim and more like an object of sick personal entertainment.

From the small punctures and scratches he inflicted, miniscule slivers of your circulatory fluids wept onto Tarn's hand, which was now in a relaxed grip around your cervical support.

"Subjugation is not achieved through sheer, indiscriminate torture. It is a dynamic art of discerning the transgressor's state of mind and responding accordingly. It is a dance between two minds, and it cannot be rushed." His loosened hand ghosted around to the back of your neck, and he allowed his sullied fingers to spread across the exposed area, leaving trace smears of energon and fluid upon the mesh.

"And like any dance, it flows all the better when the participants understand each other." Tarn had taken to a particular spot on your neck just below the base of your helm, massaging it in slow, circular motions. It made your equilibrium arrays spin, and the encroaching presence of his assertive EM field made your optics fuzzy.

"There is so much more I can learn about you, far more than any personnel record can dictate. And you wouldn't even have to say a word." He probed the pads of his fingers deeper into your cervical mesh. Whatever site he had focused on, the increased direct pressure stirred something in your core systems. It sent an undeniable impulse throughout your chassis and to each of your extremities. The reflex made you shudder even more with the intrinsically programmed urge to transform, but it wasn't quite strong enough to trigger your cog to spin fully. Tarn hummed in satisfaction, clearly pleased that he found the sensitive cluster on your form. He committed to keeping his hand in that area, still kneading upon your neck.

"For instance," his smooth voice carried on. "You can glean quite a bit from one's transformation." Despite being in a daze, your cogitator noted the sly connection between Tarn's topic of conversation and the reflex he just elicited from you. All of his actions were deviously calculated.

"This isn't to say that I learn just how useful you are based on your alt mode. No, that Functionalist nonsense was denounced long ago. But we, as a species, are defined by change. Transformation in itself is an integral expression of self that is often overlooked. From the design of the alt mode to the style of the sequence, it is a unique extension of the individual."

He leaned more into your space. With the one hand still pressed deeply and firmly on your neck, the other now appeared to slowly caress over your chassis, starting from extraneous kibble on your upper frame, then to your shoulder and traveling along your anterior plating. All the while, Tarn's unassailable EM field forced itself upon you, and it was threatening to meld with your own with how physically close he was.

"Think for a moment how it feels to transform. It's so second nature that we often don't take the time to appreciate how good it feels to take the form of something that grants capabilities beyond our root mode. It is a compliment to our existence; you can not deny that there is a certain irrefutable measure of satisfaction whenever you transform. You may simply not recognize it for what it is."

Tarn spoke softly, his voice once again seeming to echo within your audials. His fingers danced between the outer-most layers of your armor, skimming over edges and transformation seams that tremored from flighty nerve impulses.

"Hmm... how your cog thrums at the prospect of changing your form. Even when your senses elude you, your frame knows and yearns for that exclusive gratification." He trailed along the sensitive ventral plates of your abdomen, and his touch was barely registered as it brushed over your waist armor and thighs before eventually falling away just above your knees. His EM field faintly tugged at you with a tempting magnetism as he pulled away, enough to entice your form to physically gravitate toward him, but his touch did not return to you immediately. The fractional amount of distance between the two of you dissolved the entangled connections of your fields, leaving you cold and vulnerable as if you were ejected into the unforgiving void of space. Amidst the unsettling emptiness in your sensory fields, your cog continued to twitch with a restless need to fully trigger its sequences. Tarn was fully aware of how those anxious impulses were dialed ever higher with the ebb and flow of his attention to you, both physically and through the exchanges of the EM fields, and he was bent on exploiting that to the fullest extent possible.

"Indulge me, show me the transformation that Primus blessed you with."

Before you could process his words as a direct request, his optics flared like a flash of red lightning and his hand lashed out towards your neck and upper chest with predatory ferocity. His raw strength lifted and slammed you back against the hard wall behind you. At the instant of the violent impact, that hardwired impulse surged through you, similar to what Tarn stirred within you moments ago, but magnified a hundred times over. Your spasming T-cog jolted into unhindered, full revolutions, and Tarn pulled his servo away as your chassis complied and underwent near instantaneous transformation. In your thoroughly weakened state and how he had taken the meticulous effort to prime your systems, a hard enough blow to the general area of your neural cluster was enough to trigger the full reflex.

It took a few more microkliks than usual for your processor to reinitialize your sensory inputs in your alt mode since it was so abrupt. But in your fading disorientation, there was a low rumble in the air surrounding you.

"Exquisite..." Tarn's powerful tank engines revved in harmony with his voice. He shifted back so that he knelt predominantly on his other leg so as to study your alt form in full view. The hasty transformation left your axles off balance with the ground, so even if you had the strength to escape, it would be sloppy and ineffective. You were left to idle awkwardly before Tarn, his optics glazing over every curve and seam of your vehicle mode.

"Even in impulsivity, the sequence was a pleasure to behold." Remaining down on a knee, he straightened his postural struts and tilted his helm from one side to the other. "Watching how your joints rotated and hyperextended, your plates folded and expanded to permit extraordinary movements... the process never ceases to amaze me."

Hydraulic systems constantly attempted to readjust and compensate for your misaligned equilibrium, but still couldn't quite stabilize you properly. A neural cluster strike was disorientating enough, but it certainly didn't help that your circuitry had previously been overloaded with probably near lethal voltage. Through what contact you did make, you could feel the persistent low gear rumbling of Tarn's engines.

"And what an alt mode you have! It leaves no question for your sense of style." It almost sounded like a genuine compliment, but you were skeptical to accept it as such.

He reached out and raked his talons across your left flank, a light scratching that didn't particularly hurt, but no doubt took some of your paint. When he came to your hood, his gaze locked with the Decepticon insignia you had badged on your vehicular chassis. He sighed, as if reunited with an old acquaintance. "And here it lies, front and center, beckoning the universe to bear witness to your allegiance and subsequent acts of devotion." Tarn used the flat surface of his digits to gently trace over the edges and grooves of the badge. Even as your frame shuddered uncomfortably, it was like you momentarily didn't exist to him as he kept his optics fixated on it and the invisible patterns he drew.

"A shame you disgraced such a beautiful symbol." He allowed his hand to close around the badge, claws digging into the welded metal that held it in place. It may as well have been held in place with rusty tin with how he easily ripped through it; he stripped it free from your chassis like a cheap decal when it had previously survived eons of war.

He turned the revoked badge over in his hand, occasionally holding it up to allow the iconic purple pigments to glisten in the low lights of the room. The backside still had remnants of your own frame from where it was once attached. The initial pain was quick, but catching glimpses of the raw metal still attached to the badge started making the electrodes in the bare spot throb and burn.

"I wonder..." Tarn fixed a hostile stare directly at you through your front windshield once he stored his trophy away. "when you fled that operation, did you use this alt mode to escape? Maybe you wanted to flee as fast as you could, or cover as much distance as possible."

His taunting rhetoric wasn't designed to get an answer from you, and he likely already knew the answer better than you could remember it.

"We must give Lord Megatron our due gratitude for enlightening us with the truth that we as individuals are more than our alt modes and their presumed utility." Tarn shifted forward so that his bulky frame hovered over you as he took a claw to the stipped metal on your hood. "We therefore show said graditude by serving as a vessel of obedience, regardless of what form we take." You internally writhed in pain as he mercilessly prodded at the sore metal, but it translated into indistinct shakes of your vehicle. Under normal circumstances, you would revert to root form to regain some semblance of control, but your morph core - along with the majority of your systems - remained in constant cycle of resetting and recalibrating. And the returning swell of Tarn's EM field like an insurmountable tide was quick to restaticize and muddle your processors even further. Though you were temporarily locked in your alt mode and your mind and senses were smothered into submission, he allowed just enough sentience for you to know how powerless you really were.

Tarn planted one arm firmly at your right side as he further suspended himself over you. With the other, he slowly guided his hand across the hood to the left leading edge, then let it dip down toward the side skirt of your frame. Your venting rhythm hitched when the the sharp tips of his digits teasingly probed at your sensitive undercarriage.

"And so I will take it upon myself to ascertain how we can best make use of this renegade vessel."

His large servo now wedging between you and the floor made your entire frame tilt to one side as he advanced further. Despite his size, he maneuvered his digits with skillful purpose as he ventured deeper into your underside. The dangerous contact to your internals that were otherwise hidden while in root mode mixed your fear with a steadily building arousal. Or was Tarn imprinting that emotional frequency on you through his EM field? Was he somehow able to manipulate your mental state so much that he could make you feel what he wanted you to feel in a given moment? You wrestled with the mortifying notion of becoming aroused at all in this compromising situation, but all you could do was spin your wheels vainly in the air from the intrusive stimulation.

His digits plunged between narrow crevices, and you could feel the sharp tips scratch and jab where they shouldn't. A general discomfort suffused your underside, peppered with jagged scraping in pinpointed areas.

"Pl...ease. S-ss...top. No-" Glitchy and dysfunctional, your vocalizer continued to struggle with even basic diction, even though you desperately wanted to scream and yell for Tarn to stop.

"Shhh... shhh..." Tarn leaned in even closer, warm exvents sweeping across the front and top of your vehicular chassis. "Do not waste your energy on frivolous words. Focus it instead on reconciling your spark, and relearning how your mind and frame can once again serve the Decepticon cause and atone for your sins." After being hushed like frail, pathetic sparkling, you could only manage to utter static whines through the pain. His hand could advance no further at a certain point, likely about knuckle-deep now in your undercarriage. He made a point to test how far he could spread out his fingers and further mingle with the hidden wires and cables of your delicate internals. Even the slightest flick was enough to make your weary engines throttle frantically and you tractionless wheels spin wildly in desperation.

As much as he enjoyed your physical responses to his blind perusing, Tarn reveled in the panicked, conflicted energies of your EM field like a hot oil bath. The subversive tinge of arousal in your fear enticed him, and your struggle to deny it made it all the more appealing to the sadistic mech. You could feel the swells of increasing heat radiating off his frame as he had your front end just between his inner thighs and his torso just above you while he kept you nearly suspended off the floor. The biolights of his waist armor pulsed in time with his vent cycles, slow and heavy.

"Worry not, you will have your own steps to take in this dance. But I will lead, and you will follow." His words felt like they were muttered directly into the metal of your frame with how close was. Even with the escalating charges, Tarn's voice remained steady and controlled.

Suddenly, there was a significant pop in your undercarriage that you felt and heard. The various alerts piling up in your display had long been neglected, so you couldn't readily make out what seal or gasket he may have broken or what line he may have punctured. Tarn must have felt it too, since his embedded digits went still. The fidgeting metal-on-metal grinding silenced and was replaced by a soft plit plat on the floor below. Tarn inconspicuously tilted his head to see for himself what kind of fluid he bled out of you. First he hummed quietly in bemusement, then it rolled into a dark chuckle that slowly filled the room.

Tarn thrusted his digits into your sore underside one last time, hard and relentless like he was checking for good measure if that was truly as deep as he could go. Feeling how your internals spasmed tightly in firm resistance, he retracted his servo from you with a groan. He was hardly as gentle as he was going in; where once he was almost painfully slow and precise with his probing, the carnal lust that overcame him made him remove his hand like he was ripping out one of your components. Violent pain shot through your systems, and when his servo fully pulled away, your frame dropped back down to the floor and further jostled your internals. The impact racked your systems and diverted some of the shock to your T-cog. The impulsive transformation back to root mode left you laying on the floor on the small puddle of what you now realized was energon that bled out of you.

Tarn was kneeling in front of you, and the digits of his right hand were lightly covered in your bright energon. You could hear his amped venting as he admired how your lifefuel continued to run down the back and palm of his hand. He raised his other servo to his mask and lifted it just enough to expose his oral intake. Deeply panting through his vents from the exhilaration, he brought his soiled hand close and let his glossa glide over and between his digits, then eventually dipped them inside his eager intake one and two at a time. You honestly couldn't tell if he was intentionally making a lewd show of the act to unnerve you or if he genuinely found pleasure in lapping up your energon on his servo like some messy, forbidden delicacy. You've witnessed some pretty gruesome acts throughout the war that would probably appall the average bot, but none that you could recall were on Tarn's level of sadism and bloodthirstiness - quite literally.

Everything in your logic programming told you to be disgusted with the gruesome, perverted horrors happening right in front of you, but it hardly mattered under Tarn's control. Your insecurities fed his sinful appetite and through his highly charged fields, he forced you to share in feeling the same growing heat in the gross bloodlust. The back reaches of your processor that he allowed to remain cognizant through it all could only send vague indicators of shame and embarrasment while the increasing charges made your frame squirm and an uncomfortable warmth begin to build in your interface array.

Tarn rose to his full height before you as he made the perfecting adjustments to his mask. He was already much larger than you in your root form, but his overpowering disposition further shrunk you to make you feel more like a minibot in comparison.

"Haaa... aaah yes, this will do nicely." Tarn swiped his glossa across his lips to savor the taste of your energon one last time. His digits were far from cleaned off, but he still used that hand to wipe his messy facial plate, which only served to smear the energon more. Then the same hand reached up to his mask to pull it back down over his face, leaving faint streaks on the lower half of his iconic accessory.

"The List is never short of perpetrators, and there is no limit to the creativity of our methods. It is rewarding in itself to exact vengeance upon Megatron's enemies." He closed the distance in a few steady paces. "But the nature of this important work requires exclusive diligence, often leaving other avenues and facets... neglected. Thankfully, I have found ways to indulge myself more personally while still carrying out my righteous duties."

His tone never betrayed a loss of composure, but there was a firey gleam in his optics that wasn't present before when he first apprehended you. You were no longer just another name to be crossed off the List, tortured and eliminated through cold violence. You had become a plaything for Tarn's sinister enjoyment and insatiable appetites, a helpless prey to be toyed with before your eventual demise.

His one energon-stained servo gathered up your forearms and forced you to your feet. Your legs failed to support you, so he kept you upright as he held up your arms and pinned them against the wall over your helm. You were near eye level with him, and it was impossible for you to look away. Tarn languidly tilted his head from one side to the other as he observed your fearful expression.

"Don't look so distraught, dear little miscreant. It's a great honor that your sanctification can be conducted through such an intimate method." He brought his masked helm close to your audials. Hot exvents and the low rolling of his engines enveloped your frame.

"I will have every circuit in your body cry for mercy, every actuator beg for relief, the very energon in your lines burn for absolution." Tarn's voice growled directly into your audial feed. "But you will only find your peace through my satisfaction."

---

To be continued...

#transformers #maccadam #maccadams #transformers mtmte #tf tarn #idw tarn #tarn #transformers idw #transformers x reader #mtmte tarn #transformers tarn #tarn x reader #cybertronian reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #rin's stuff #tarn fanfic #transformers fanfiction #fanfic #tf idw

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