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yoomiwrites · 10 days ago

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My Superstar

Summary: Buggy has a fan. A very, very odd fan. (g/n) Reader is way too stubborn to give him up anyways.

Note: He is a dork. I wanted to give more updates today, but didn't had the time to proof read the other ones, so I can only give u this one.

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The town was still reeling from the mess Buggy’s crew had left behind — confetti stuck in the gutters, banners half-tangled in the rigging, the faint scent of cannonpowder still hanging in the air.

Most people were cowering indoors, or muttering behind closed doors about the "clown pirate menace" that had docked for the day.

But not you. Oh no.

You’d been practically glowing the moment you caught sight of him.

And now, leaning far too close to his personal space, eyes wide and sparkling, you rattled off yet another string of praises like you were reviewing the world’s most thrilling performance.

"—and that bit where you split your arms mid-air to catch two swords at once? That was genius! I mean, I always thought you were cool, but seeing it up close? You’re amazing!"

Buggy, who had fully expected fear, maybe awe with a side of self-preservation, stood there frozen. His jaw opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

"Uh— I— of course I am!" he managed, puffing up his chest, but it lacked his usual bite, his brain still struggling to catch up.

It wasn’t the first time you’d cornered him since the show. You had followed him — entirely uninvited — from the square, through the alley, back to the dock, and now onto a barrel by his ship, kicking your legs like an overexcited kid while grinning at him like he’d just rewritten the skies.

Most people flinched when he bared his teeth. You? You just smiled even brighter.

"And your laugh? It’s honestly charming. Not scary at all!" you added, head tilting, eyes soft like you meant every single word.

Buggy froze. Charming.

That wasn’t usually a word people tossed at him. Words like "crazy" or "freak" or "what the hell is that?!" were more his brand. But charming?

He tugged at his scarf awkwardly, feeling the heat crawl up his neck, trying to brush it off with his usual bravado.

"You've got great taste, sweetheart," he huffed, wagging a finger at you, "I’m the star of every show, after all!"

But you only leaned in closer, resting your chin in your palm, gaze soft but gleaming.

"I know."

Two simple words, but they hit like cannonfire. His face flushed redder than his nose, and for once, Buggy was the one fumbling. Hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them, eyes darting anywhere but at you.

Why weren’t you backing off? Why weren’t you laughing at him, or running? The more he tried to be "himself" — the chaotic, over-the-top Buggy the Clown — the more smitten you seemed.

"Y-You’re really something, you know that?" he grumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "Most people would’ve screamed and run the other way by now."

You shrugged, lips quirking up.

"Why would I? I like you."

That did it. His brain short-circuited entirely, and all that bravado crumbled into a half-choked sound somewhere between a laugh and a flustered wheeze.

"...Y-Yeah. Well. Of course you do. I’m... me."

But even as he tried to play it cool, his hands fidgeted at his sides, his heart hammering so loud he was surprised it didn’t burst out of his chest.

And you? You just kept smiling, swinging your legs, perfectly content to stay wrapped up in his messy, chaotic orbit — utterly unfazed and completely smitten.

You had a habit now.

One Buggy had noticed, whether he meant to or not.

Every evening, right before the moon sat at its highest, you’d wander back to the ship, plop yourself down on a coil of rope or lean against a crate — no grand plans, no questions this time — just… being there.

At first, he thought you were tailing him out of boredom or some weird crush phase that’d wear off once you saw the less “showy” parts of him.

But days passed. You never flinched at the bad jokes. You never mocked the parts others would whisper about. And you didn’t run.

If anything, your fondness only grew.

And Buggy?

Well, he was starting to feel the kind of warmth that wasn’t usually part of his act.

Tonight, he caught you again. Sitting cross-legged on the deck, staring up at the stars, humming a little tune to yourself. The sight tugged something sharp and unfamiliar in his chest.

"You’re back," he blurted, more awkwardly than he meant to. "What, missed your favorite superstar?"

You tilted your head toward him, giving him that bright, easy smile. "Always."

The words hit harder than a cannonball (again). He froze, fingers twitching at his sides, feeling heat creep into his face like he’d caught a fever.

"You’re lucky I’m such a generous captain," he grumbled, flopping down dramatically next to you. "Other people would’ve thrown you overboard for being this clingy."

"Would you?" you asked softly, resting your cheek against your knee, looking at him sideways.

Buggy clicked his tongue, but the usual snark was missing. His voice came quieter, a little more real.

"...Nah. You kinda grew on me."

You blinked, surprised by the honesty. He scratched the back of his neck, scowling at the horizon like it had personally offended him for making him feel all... weird.

"I don’t know what your deal is," he mumbled, voice gruffer now, "but no one sticks around like you do. You’re either the biggest idiot I’ve met or—"

"Or I like you." You finished for him, simple as breathing.

He went silent. No comeback, no flashy joke, no wild gesture. Just that stunned, overwhelmed pause.

You nudged his shoulder, leaning in a little. "And not because of the ‘star of the show’ stuff. Just... you."

For a guy who spent his whole life in the center ring, he’d never felt so exposed in his entire life. His throat worked around words he couldn’t quite spit out, and finally, with a sharp exhale, he reached over, giving your hair the lightest, clumsiest brush with his fingers.

"You’re really something, y’know," he muttered, softer than you’d ever heard him. "The joke’s on me, huh? I thought I had you all figured out."

You tilted your head, eyes curious. "And do you?"

Buggy let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Not even close."

But as the night went on, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he sat a little closer. His hand stayed, fingers occasionally brushing against yours, and his voice — usually sharp and showy — dropped into something quieter, more honest.

For once, the great Buggy the Clown wasn’t the one stealing the spotlight.

And somehow, he didn’t mind at all.

At the next day, the market was buzzing with noise, sailors and traders weaving through stalls, bargaining over everything from dried fish to gaudy trinkets. You’d only meant to browse, stretching your legs while Buggy and his crew dealt with supplies, but somewhere between looking at bracelets and laughing at a stuffed parrot, someone had wandered into your orbit.

A smooth-talking stranger — the kind with an easy grin and practiced flattery. One compliment, then another, and another. You weren’t even fully registering it, just your usual polite smile and chuckles.

But from across the street, Buggy saw the whole thing.

At first, he told himself it was nothing. You were social. You liked people. No big deal.

But then the stranger leaned in. Close. Too close. His hand brushed your arm, and you laughed — soft, the way you did when you were being your usual, sunshine self.

Something inside Buggy snapped like a frayed rope.

"Oh, hell no," he muttered, already stomping across the street, his gloved hand twitching at his side like it was ready to detach and strangle somebody.

The stranger barely had time to blink before Buggy popped up beside you, all teeth and wide grin — the kind of grin that had people backing up real fast.

"Well, well, sweetheart," he drawled, voice laced with mock-sweetness, "I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re already collecting strays?"

The stranger blinked, confusion flashing across his face. "Uh... we were just talking—"

Buggy slung an arm around your shoulders before the guy could finish, pulling you snug against his side. His gloved fingers tapped along your arm, casually possessive.

"They can talk to whoever they like, but don’t get too comfortable, buddy," Buggy grinned, though his tone sharpened like a hidden blade. "Y/N here’s got standards."

You glanced up at him, more amused than anything, catching the flicker of something more genuine under all the clownish bravado. The stranger, sensing the shift, muttered something awkward about "needing to check another stall" and beat a hasty retreat.

Only when the guy was out of earshot did Buggy finally let his arm relax around you, though he didn’t actually move away.

"You alright?" you asked, turning to look at him.

"Tch. I’m fine," he huffed, though his cheeks were slightly flushed, and his lips twitched between a scowl and a pout. "Could’ve handled that creep without me, huh?"

You tilted your head, smile soft.

"You were jealous."

Buggy stiffened, dramatically offended, arms flailing a bit. "What?! Me? Jealous? Please, I’m the star! I don’t get jealous!"

But the way his hand still lingered near yours told a different story.

You leaned in a little, lowering your voice just enough to make sure only he could hear.

"Don’t worry. There’s only one clown I’m fond of."

That shut him up. Entirely. His mouth opened, and for once, nothing came out. His hand finally gave in and found yours, squeezing your fingers in the smallest, quietest answer.

"...Damn right," he muttered after a moment, his voice softer now, eyes glancing away but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "And don’t you forget it."

At noon, the sky cracked open, heavy clouds rolling in like an angry sea. Wind tugged at ropes and flapped half-tied sails, rain spitting down in sharp little fits. Most sane people had already ducked into shelter, but you and Buggy were never good at "sane."

You’d found him on the dock, leaning against a crate, half-sulking, half-pacing — the sort of mood he got into when his own feelings cornered him. And lately? That happened a lot, ever since you wormed your way so easily under his skin.

He didn’t even notice you at first. Not until you were standing in front of him, soaked from the rain, hair sticking to your face, grin wide despite the storm.

"You okay there, superstar?"

Buggy blinked, caught off guard. His usual smirk faltered, slipping into something more unsteady.

"I was just— thinking," he muttered, scratching behind his neck. "About...stuff."

You tilted your head, teasing. "You? Thinking? That sounds dangerous."

A dry laugh escaped him, but his voice softened.

"Yeah. Dangerous is one word for it."

His eyes flicked toward you, his expression for once free of showmanship. The wind whipped around you both, and the way he was looking at you — like you were the eye of the storm — made something twist sharp and sweet in your chest.

The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated, mouth opening, then snapping shut. For all his flair and bravado, this part left him stranded.

You watched the battle behind his eyes for a beat, heart stammering in your chest, and then — without thinking, without planning — you closed the gap.

You kissed him.

Not soft. Not shy. Messy, urgent, like the storm itself had reached straight through you. Rain tangled between your lips, his nose smushing against your cheek, hands twitching with surprise before locking onto your waist.

When you pulled back, breathless and rain-slick, you couldn’t help but laugh.

Bright red lipstick — smeared across his mouth, crooked on the edge of his chin. His expression was stuck somewhere between stunned and lovesick, his brain still buffering.

You ran your thumb gently along the smudge on his lower lip, and his breath hitched, face absolutely radiating with color.

"Oops," you teased. "Guess I ruined your face paint."

Buggy swallowed hard, mouth still half-open, blinking like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

"You— you’ve got some nerve," he managed, voice cracking slightly under the usual cocky tone.

But then his gloved hand cupped your damp cheek, thumb brushing lazily over your skin, and his next words came lower, softer, unmasked.

"...but I kinda like it."

The storm roared around you both, and still, neither of you moved. His thumb drifted down along your jaw, his forehead resting lightly against yours, and he let out a small, breathless laugh.

"I was gonna tell you tonight, y’know," he mumbled, "that I’m stupidly, hopelessly into you."

You leaned in close again, lips brushing his ear, your voice soft but fierce.

"Beat you to it."

His laugh, this time, wasn’t sharp or mocking — it was warm. Real. The kind of sound that only came from finally, finally getting what you want.

And as the rain kept falling, and lipstick kept smudging onto his grin, Buggy couldn’t bring himself to care. Not one damn bit.

And so, as the next morning came...well.

The ship rocked gently, sunlight sneaking its way through the cracked shutters, painting soft stripes across the messy tangle of limbs and sheets.

It was the kind of morning that felt like the world hadn't fully woken up yet. Only the faint creak of the ship’s boards, the occasional gull outside, and the quiet sound of someone shifting — which, in this case, was Buggy.

And he was absolutely, utterly doomed.

Because you were still draped across his chest, your cheek squished lazily against him, and your hand loosely hooked into the lapel of his half-undone shirt. His hair was a wreck, makeup barely a faded memory, and there were faint smudges of your lipstick still haunting the corner of his mouth.

Buggy had always prided himself on keeping the upper hand — the witty comeback, the flashy exit, the dramatic effect. But here? Wrapped up with you, the night’s kisses still echoing in his mind, he had absolutely no defenses.

Not even his detached limbs could save him now.

He glanced down at you, lips quirking into the softest, most helpless smile, eyes lingering over your peaceful, still-sleepy expression. His heart gave that annoying little flutter again, and he let out a quiet breath, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

“… You’re really somethin’ else, huh?” he whispered, mostly to himself.

You stirred at the sound, mumbling something incomprehensible into his chest before shifting even closer, one leg sliding over his with thoughtless familiarity.

And Buggy? Yeah, he was done for. Fully, completely, hopelessly.

When you finally blinked awake, groggy and sun-dazed, you tilted your head up toward him, half-smiling in that still-sleepy way.

“Mornin’, superstar,” you mumbled.

He snorted, trying (and failing) to play it cool.

“You sure know how to wreck a man’s image, you know that? I’m supposed to be terrifying. A legend.”

You grinned, voice scratchy with sleep. “Legend, huh? I must’ve missed the part where legends get lipstick all over them.”

Buggy’s face flushed bright red, ears burning, and you laughed — soft, fond, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Guess the joke’s still on me," he muttered, flopping back into the pillow, arm pulling you snug against him again.

And if his crew walked past the door later and heard the soft sound of laughter and a quiet, lingering kiss — well.

That was his business, not theirs.

#one piece #one piece x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x reader

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yoomiwrites · 11 days ago

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New updates tomorrow!! :)

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yoomiwrites · 20 days ago

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Smoke without fire

Summary: (gn) Reader is kind. Kind enough to make Crocodile fall. Or sink. Deep.

Note: Enjoy! Don't have much to say, but this one is kinda mutual pining and, for Crocodile, maybe a bit soft.

You had known him for years.

Before the world called him a warlord, before his name carried weight like cannon fire, and long before you learned to read between the lines of his dry, rasping voice.

Crocodile had always been the same — all sharp edges and steady glances, slow to trust and even slower to admit he cared for anything, or anyone. He didn’t need to say much, and you’d never been the type to fill silences with nervous chatter. That was why he kept you around, you figured. That, and your habit of never overstaying your welcome, even when you were probably the only person he could stand sharing a room with for more than five minutes.

You had a talent for existing quietly in his world, moving around his habits, knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. It was a game you’d long since mastered — long before you realized your heart had started to get tangled in it.

And maybe the bastard knew. Maybe he always knew.

The lounge of Rain Dinners smelled faintly of cigars and old paper, the desert winds rattling the windows as the afternoon heat began to settle. You were seated in your usual place — the chair facing the bar, a glass of watered-down whiskey in hand, fingers tracing the rim while your eyes skimmed through a half-read paper.

The heavy sound of boots against marble told you he was near before you even glanced up.

Crocodile stood there, leaning lazily against the bar, his hand around his cigar. His gaze slid to you, slow and unreadable, and he let out a single, amused puff of smoke.

“You’ve been here all day,” he rasped, voice as dry as the desert wind.

You hummed in response, lifting your glass lazily. “And you’ve been lurking all day. Guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

A corner of his mouth twitched — the closest thing you ever got to a smile. You’d learned long ago that the real words with Crocodile were the ones left unsaid. The smallest curve of his lip, the briefest softening of his gaze, all told you more than anything he’d say out loud.

The truth was, the two of you lived in a constant state of quiet orbit. Close enough to feel the weight of one another’s presence, never close enough to cross that last line.

But today, something in the air felt different.

Night fell heavy over Rainbase, the streets empty except for the occasional lantern flicker and the whisper of shifting sand.

You were still in the lounge, legs stretched over the low table, sipping the last of your drink when you heard the door close behind you. He didn’t knock, of course. Crocodile didn’t knock for anyone.

“You’ll dry out your throat if you keep drinking that garbage,” he remarked, setting a fresh glass beside yours, already poured.

You arched a brow, but accepted it. “You’re sound like you care about that.”

A soft chuckle, low and dry, rumbled in his chest. “If you dropped dead from dehydration, I’d have to hire someone new. Too much paperwork.”

“Sure.” You leaned back in your seat, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “That’s the only reason.”

The silence stretched, comfortable, but heavier than usual. His gaze lingered on you, longer than it should’ve, and your heart — traitorous, stupid thing — fluttered in your chest.

“You should leave this place,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “This town’s only good for rotting. You could’ve left long ago.”

You let out a breath, lips quirking just slightly. “And miss out on your charming company? Not a chance.”

For the first time, you saw it — the flicker of real emotion behind his eyes. The walls he kept up, always thick and unbreakable, looked thinner now, like a hairline crack had finally formed.

“You’re a fool,” he muttered, but there was no bite behind it. His eyes drifted to your hand on the glass, then back to your face.

You shrugged. “So are you. You haven’t told me to go, either.”

And there it was — the truth, raw and unspoken, hanging heavy between you.

His gaze softened, only slightly, and for the first time since you'd met him, he looked... unsure. Like the king of the desert had no idea what his next move should be.

But he didn’t need to say anything. You both knew.

This was mutual. It had been for a long, long time.

The days blurred, as they often did in Rainbase — the sun scorching the sand, the nights cooling the stone streets just enough for the desert to breathe. But something between you and Crocodile had shifted since that conversation.

You hadn’t named it, and neither had he.

But it clung to the air when you were around him. A heaviness in the glances that lingered too long. A softness in the way his voice lowered when speaking to you, even if his words remained dry and sharp.

The world might’ve called him a monster. You just saw a man trying very hard not to want.

It wasn’t until one night, at one of the more exclusive bars of Rainbase, that the line you two tiptoed finally began to fray.

You’d gone on Crocodile’s behalf — another business deal, another shady broker who was always just a little too eager to talk to you rather than him. Crocodile, as always, had stayed behind, leaving you to play the charming face while he smoked away in his office.

The meeting dragged longer than expected, the broker growing bolder with each drink, leaning in close with that brand of sleazy confidence that only men with no real power seemed to wear.

You should’ve seen it coming — the hand that drifted too close, the cocky lean toward you as he slurred some cheap compliment.

But before you even had the chance to shove him back, a shadow moved behind you.

The scent of cigars hit first.

And then his voice. Low, dry, and laced with enough danger to make the broker flinch.

“I suggest you take your hand off them. Before I decide to remove it for you.”

The man paled, stumbling back, and Crocodile didn’t so much as glance at him again. His eyes were on you — sharp, unreadable, but burning with something even the desert heat couldn’t match.

He didn’t speak until you were both outside, walking the dim alleys back toward Rain Dinners. The night wind played with the loose strands of your hair, and the silence between you wasn’t as comfortable as usual.

“You didn’t have to step in, you know,” you said after a while, voice quiet but steady. “I could’ve handled it.”

His only response was a quiet snort. “Doesn’t matter.”

You glanced up at him, trying to read the hard line of his jaw, the way his hand flexed slightly at his side. His usual mask wasn’t slipping, but there was tension in him — coiled and sharp.

And then, when the two of you reached your usual spot by the water, where the lights of Rainbase flickered against the surface, he finally spoke again.

“You don’t belong in places like that.”

You raised a brow. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “I don’t like it.”

Your chest tightened, the words cutting through the night air sharper than any declaration could. Crocodile wasn’t the type for pretty speeches. But this — this was as close as he’d ever come.

You tilted your head, studying him, lips twitching into a soft, almost sad smile.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I don’t like seeing you there alone, either.”

The silence returned, but this time it was heavier.

And then his hand lifted to brush a stray piece of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw, thumb tracing just lightly over your cheek.

It was the softest touch he'd ever given you.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, his voice low and rough.

“I won't be good with this..”

You smiled, leaning just slightly into his touch, unspoken words clear in the space between your heartbeats.

“You don’t have to be,” you murmured.

And for once, Crocodile let himself soften. Just for you. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and deep — not rushed, not desperate.

When he pulled back, he still hovered close, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, exhaling a quiet breath.

“I’m not letting anyone else have you.”

You huffed a soft laugh, brushing your fingers against his chest. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere, boss.”

#one piece #one piece x reader #crocodile #crocodile x reader

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yoomiwrites · 20 days ago

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Paper Cuts

Summary: Reader (g/n) always has to clean up Kizaru's mess. But to your surprise, he respects and likes you more than expected.

Note: Something light! Buncha teasing in this one, I'd say.

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It was always the same.

You cleaned his desk, corrected his reports, backdated his debriefs, and picked up after every single conversation he should’ve had but didn’t. Admiral Borsalino—Kizaru to most—floated through his days like he was made of mist and light, untouchable and unconcerned.

Meanwhile, you—the unfortunate assistant glued to his hip—drowned in his workload.

“I swear to the seas,” you muttered through clenched teeth, arms full of abandoned documents, “if this man forgets one more damn requisition form—”

The stack slipped. You caught it with your knee, nearly cursing out loud. Huffing, you shoved the door open with your shoulder, only to stop dead.

He wasn’t alone.

The door was cracked, and two familiar voices carried inside—his and Admiral Onigumo’s. You lingered. You really shouldn’t have. But something in Onigumo’s tone—sharp and dry like old steel—held your feet in place.

“You still dragging that assistant around like a shadow?” Onigumo sneered. “Tch. You really don’t have standards, do you?”

Your grip on the folders tightened.

“Hm?” Kizaru’s voice floated lazily. “They’re quite helpful, y’know…”

“Helpful?” A scoff. “More like clingy. All soft eyes and desperate little tasks—like a stray mutt begging to be noticed.”

You flinched.

Onigumo chuckled, low and unpleasant. “Bet they’d do anything you asked with a wag of your fingers. Pathetic. The Marines are too lenient. A thing like that should be on their knees, not your payroll.”

Silence.

Dead, heavy silence.

Then—

A sound like air being sliced apart. Fast. A blade? No—a paperweight, maybe. Something shattered.

“…Ah-ah~,” Kizaru said, his tone almost sing-song. But something was… wrong with it.

Not bored.

Warning.

“You’ve always been such a sharp tongue, Onigumo,” he said, still low, still calm—too calm. “But maybe you forgot who you’re talkin’ to.”

“Relax, Borsalino. I’m just sayin’—”

“You’re just runnin’ that mouth of yours,” Kizaru cut in, smiling. Still smiling. “But see… that mouth is gettin’ awful close to sayin’ somethin’ I don’t feel like lettin’ slide.”

The silence deepened. Onigumo bristled.

“You threatening me?”

Another soft hum. “Mmm… maybe. Or maybe I’m just remindin’ you that the last person who disrespected what’s mine stopped talkin’ permanently.”

Your breath caught.

What’s mine?

Your chest squeezed tight.

“I don’t share. I don’t forget. And I don’t forgive the kind of filth you just let spill,” Kizaru said with eerie finality. “So get the hell out of my office before I make a mess I won’t bother cleanin’ up.”

Chairs shifted. Heavy footsteps retreated fast—boots stomping in silence like even the floor knew better than to creak.

The door snapped shut.

You remained frozen in place behind the wall, heart pounding in your ears.

Kizaru didn’t get mad. Not in the way people understood it. He didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. He didn’t punch walls.

But right now, even the air was buzzing with static.

Something in you fluttered.

You slipped away before he could see you.

You were not sick.

And yet, for the third time this morning, you dropped a pen. It clattered noisily against the tile as you bent down with a sharp “sorry!”—earning a curious look from the clerk passing through the hall.

Your fingers trembled when you typed. You accidentally spilled coffee (on yourself), filed a report backward, and called Vice Admiral Doberman “Dogman.”

That last one got you a full ten seconds of silence before the man walked away shaking his head.

You’d been flawless for nearly a year—sharp, composed, efficient to the point of robotic. And today?

An over-caffeinated rookie with two left feet and a guilty conscience.

It was all his fault.

The memory kept replaying: “I don’t share. I don’t forget.” And—worse—“things I like.”

He couldn’t have meant you.

...Right?

You hugged the files against your chest tighter, slipping past the doorway into Kizaru’s office. He was leaned back as usual, sunglasses low on his nose, doing absolutely nothing.

At least, nothing you could see.

“Mm, mornin’~” he drawled, voice too smooth. “You’re late.”

You blanched. “I—I brought the updated mission logs from G-5.”

“Didn’t ask about the papers,” he said without opening his eyes. “I said you’re late.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

You were.

By six minutes.

You never were.

He sat forward slowly, long legs spreading slightly as he rested his forearms on his thighs. His face angled up toward you, lazy smile quirking at the corners.

“You alright, sweet thing?”

Sweet thing.

You dropped the files.

Clatter.

The silence was sharp.

“Okay, that’s the third thing you’ve dropped today,” he noted, brows lifting behind those amber lenses. “Might hafta call medical.”

You bent down quickly, trying to mask your face. “I’m fine. Sorry, Admiral.”

“Oh?” he said lightly. “So you’re not runnin’ a fever... not dizzy... not poisoned or possessed?”

“...No.”

Kizaru leaned back again, but his gaze followed you now—curious. Amused. Like a cat noticing a mouse starting to twitch.

“You’re actin’ mighty strange, y’know that?” he mused. “First time I’ve seen your hands shake. Usually you move like you’re runnin’ the whole system.”

You bit your cheek.

He was watching too closely.

You weren’t prepared for this.

And then—you caved.

You didn’t mean to. It just spilled out. Quiet. Awkward.

“I… might’ve heard what you said yesterday.”

Silence.

Kizaru didn’t move for a beat. Then a very slow, very smug smile pulled across his lips.

“Ooh~?” he said, drawing it out. “Now that explains the pink on your face.”

“I’m not—!” you started, then stopped.

Because you were.

He chuckled.

Low, rich, warm.

Then stood.

It wasn’t that he towered over you—though he did. It was how easily he took up the room, stretching and adjusting his jacket before approaching, hands casually in his pockets.

“So, you heard me threaten a man’s tongue for disrespectin’ you,” he said, voice like honey soaked in sunlight. “And now you’re droppin’ pens and bumpin’ into walls.”

You cleared your throat, backing up a step as he stopped just shy of your space. “You were angry. It doesn’t mean anything—”

“Doesn’t it?” he interrupted.

You met his gaze and regretted it instantly.

That look.

Sharp as glass and smooth as a lie. But there was something behind it—something molten, something that had always been there, maybe, only now you could finally see it.

“You thought I never noticed, didn’t you?” he murmured, voice low. “The way you’d brush off compliments from anyone else but never from me. How you always made sure I had coffee—no sugar, extra hot—even if I didn’t ask.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in just slightly.

“I’ve noticed every little thing you’ve done for me. Every way you tried not to care too much. Tried not to be obvious.”

He smiled.

“And now look at you. Can’t even hold a pen.”

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to argue, explain, or breathe.

But before you could speak, he plucked the folder from your hands, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I’ll read through this later,” he said smoothly. “Don’t worry—I’ll be real thorough.”

Then he winked, turned, and walked to his desk.

As if your whole world hadn’t just tilted.

But you swore you’d act normal today.

Back to business. No nerves. No more heart-thumping meltdowns over that ridiculous, molten-voiced menace you called your superior officer.

You were composed. Sharp. Dry-witted.

Except you weren’t.

Because he was everywhere.

You rounded a corner? He was there, arms crossed, leaning lazily on a wall like he owned time.

Walked into a meeting room? Already lounging at the end of the table, sunglasses down, grin lazy as ever.

You tried not to look at him—but your eyes always found him.

And the worst part?

He knew.

You could tell. He’d smile a little too wide when you stumbled over a sentence. Make a humming sound every time your hands fidgeted. You were going to combust at this rate.

By the time mid-day rolled around, you were half-certain he was doing it on purpose.

And you were right.

You were in the office again. Alone—for five precious seconds.

You exhaled, eyes shut, repeating your internal mantra: You’re fine. He doesn’t know. You can—

“Y’know~”

You jolted, nearly throwing the stack of documents you were holding. “A-Admiral!”

Kizaru was at your side.

You didn’t hear him come in. He was like a damn shadow—if shadows were six-foot smug mirages wrapped in black and gold.

He raised his eyebrows slowly, clearly amused. “That’s three days in a row you’ve flinched when I speak. Makes a man think he’s scary.”

You opened your mouth to lie—to deny it all, to retreat behind your usual sarcasm—but he cut you off.

“You weren’t like this before,” he said softly. “Somethin’ changed.”

You stiffened.

“…I don’t know what you mean.”

He smirked. “Oh, you do.”

He stepped a little closer.

You stepped back.

It became a pattern. One he indulged in, slowly, predatorily—closing the space between you like a dance. Lazy, warm, and deliberate.

“And now,” he continued, “every time I call you sweet thing, your face goes all pink.”

“It does not!”

“Ohhh~?” he cooed, clearly enjoying himself. “Guess I should say it more often then.”

Your brain was melting.

Then he leaned a hand on the wall behind you—textbook cornering, except it was somehow worse because he didn’t need to.

“You know,” he murmured, voice like warm syrup, “I’ve been thinkin’ about what I said.”

Your breath caught. “W-What part?”

“That I don’t forget things I like.”

You stared up at him, completely still.

He hummed thoughtfully. “Didn’t say it lightly, y’know.”

The silence stretched.

Your heart was hammering. You were very aware of his scent—like ozone and something clean, cold—his presence overwhelming. His mouth was close enough that you swore you felt the warmth of it when he spoke.

“You know what else I don’t forget?” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “…What?”

He smiled.

Then leaned back.

“Lunch breaks.”

You blinked.

“What—?”

Kizaru straightened, brushing his coat sleeve smooth as he turned toward the door. “Takin’ mine now. I suggest you do the same. You’re twitchin’ like a faulty den den mushi.”

And then, just before leaving, he looked over his shoulder and added:

“Oh. And don’t bother with your usual order from the commissary.”

He winked.

“Already took the liberty. Hope you like salmon rice.”

You stood frozen.

You did like salmon rice.

You liked it too much.

You didn’t know what was worse—that he noticed…

Or that you liked that he noticed.

Lunch was a mistake.

Not the food—it was perfect, of course. Salmon rice, made just the way you liked it. You didn’t even know they made it like this in Marine HQ.

No, the mistake was agreeing to eat in his office.

You should’ve known. You did know. But you said yes anyway.

Now, here you were. Cross-legged on the rug in front of his floor-length window, a bento half-eaten in your lap, while Borsalino freaking Kizaru sat across from you, slouched like a damn cat, golden coat draped behind him like it had never once seen a wrinkle.

He looked dangerous.

Not in the way the Wanted posters described. No—this was worse. He looked comfortable.

Comfortable around you.

And you… were not.

You kept fidgeting. Picking at your food. Not meeting his eyes.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, resting his head against the wall. “That’s new.”

You tensed.

“I’m just thinking.”

He made a soft “hmm” sound. “About?”

Your jaw worked. You hadn’t meant to answer honestly. But the pressure had been building since yesterday—since his voice dipped, since he cornered you, since he brought you lunch.

And now, with only three feet of space between your knees and his, no desk to hide behind, no stack of paperwork to keep your hands busy…

You finally snapped.

“You’re playing with me.”

The words came out too fast. Too sharp. They surprised even you.

His gaze—calm and unreadable—didn’t shift.

“…Am I?” he said, voice quiet.

You felt your throat tighten. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You flirt. You smirk. You watch me like you know what I’m gonna say before I say it. But you never say anything real. It’s all a game to you.”

Silence.

You should’ve stopped. But your heart was pounding now—racing, furious—and it all came tumbling out.

“I can’t tell if you’re being kind or cruel. And it’s driving me insane.”

He set his empty bento down.

Then stood.

You froze.

He crossed the space slowly, crouching in front of you. His knees brushed yours, close enough that your breath hitched. You tried to look away—don’t, your instincts screamed, don’t let this mean anything—but his fingers caught your chin.

Gently.

Firmly.

He tilted your face toward his.

And when he spoke—low, even, and dead serious—it didn’t sound like a joke.

“You think I’d let anyone else talk to me like that?”

Your lips parted. Your voice caught.

“I don’t…” you tried.

“You think I let people in like this?” he asked again, the edge of his voice dark and warm. “Let them close?”

You blinked, stunned. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying—”

He reached for your hand.

You let him.

He brought it up—slow, deliberate—and placed it against his chest. Right over his heart.

Beneath the layers of uniform and silk undershirt, you could feel it.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Not slow.

Not lazy.

Fast.

Strong.

It made your stomach twist.

“I feel it,” he said softly, like a truth dragged from deep waters. “Same as you.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes—deep brown and golden with the window light—held yours without blinking.

“I don’t say it,” he murmured. “’Cause if I do, there’s no taking it back.”

The weight of it crashed over you. You felt it in your chest. Your fingertips. The heat in your face. You hadn’t expected this. Not like this.

But he wasn’t done.

“I like you.”

The words were simple. But devastating.

Your eyes widened.

“I’ve liked you longer than I should’ve,” he continued, fingers still wrapped around yours. “And I thought if I joked, if I danced around it long enough, maybe it’d pass. But it didn’t.”

His voice lowered.

“And now every time you sigh, or snap, or throw a file at my head—I want more.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“Kizaru…”

“Borsalino,” he corrected gently. “Say it. Just once.”

You swallowed.

“…Borsalino.”

He exhaled like you’d pulled the trigger on something dangerous.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Controlled. Still with that quiet, calculated touch—like he knew exactly how much to give, how far to lean in. But his hand trembled slightly where it held yours.

You pressed closer.

And he didn’t stop you.

#one piece #one piece x reader #kizaru #borsalino #kizaru x reader

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yoomiwrites · 20 days ago

Note

Hey Yoomi do u have a playlist for writting? For Missing Ghost ? -🌸anon or Elizabeth u can call me whatever u want!

Heyyy Elizabeth!

I do have one, although it is still a big WIP to get me in the mood for it :)

0 notes

yoomiwrites · 20 days ago

Text

Sorry for no Update yesterday, but two of my cats had to go to the vet (they're fine, no worries) and I just forgot! I will post them within the next 30 minutes~!

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yoomiwrites · 22 days ago

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Sweet Innocence³

Summary: Princess Y/N’s kingdom is falling apart, and her family’s only hope is her marriage to a cruel, old king. Desperate, she makes a reckless choice one night—and wakes up in Niji Vinsmoke’s bed. Now, caught between a dangerous engagement and Niji’s growing interest, Y/N must navigate a deadly game of survival where one wrong move could cost her everything.

Note: Here we go! The next chapter will be the other pov, as promised, to try it out. Depending on how it feels and how you like it, we will stick to it or nah!

Attention, One Piece spoilers: As we know, Sanji now has the traits of his brothers. The theory went around that it was staggered in him - and in his brothers too. As he gets the abilities, they get more and more feelings. I really like that theory! At the end of the day, we all know that this storyline will have aspects where the Vinsmoke siblings will show and have feelings. But of course I'm trying to keep it realistic!

Third-person pov. Female Reader. Sensitive topics. Hard language. Slight Gore. Slow Updates. Enemies to lovers. Sex mentioned. Forced marriage. Death mentioned. Sensitive topics. Abuse. Blood. Mention of virginity loss.

The moment Y/N stepped back onto the familiar wooden deck of her family’s ship, her father exploded.

Not just with rage, but with something deeper—something desperate, furious, and unrelenting. The doors of the grand hall slammed shut behind them, cutting them off from the outside world. Only her mother and Hitomi remained, lingering near the entrance, their expressions unreadable.

But they didn’t interfere.

They didn’t stop him.

Because this—this confrontation—had been inevitable.

“You absolute fool!” her father’s voice roared through the chamber, his hands slamming against the long dining table. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her fingernails digging into her palms.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she said sharply, her voice unwavering. Her father’s entire body stiffened. And then—

“This isn’t about what you want!” he snapped, his hands curling into fists. “This is about our kingdom! Do you think I wanted this for you? Do you think I enjoy selling off my own daughter to secure our survival?”

His voice cracked slightly at the end—just barely—but Y/N heard it. Still, she refused to waver.

“Then let me marry someone else,” she countered. “Someone just as powerful, just as wealthy—but not a man three times my age who keeps burying his wives.”

Her father’s face darkened.

“He didn’t kill them,” he said through gritted teeth.

“But they still died.” Y/N’s voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “And I won’t be next.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant creaking of the ship. Her father’s chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

“You should never have done this,” he said, voice low, warning.

Y/N lifted her chin.

“I did what I had to.”

Her father’s eyes blazed with fury, but when he spoke again, his voice was eerily calm.

“You will never mention what happened with the Vinsmoke again,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

“You will pretend it never happened,” he continued, stepping closer. “You will go through with this marriage, and you will do your duty. For your family. For your people.”

But Y/N wasn’t listening anymore.

Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her skin burning.

Pretend it never happened?

After everything?

She lifted her chin higher, her breath steady, her voice dangerous.

“I’ll tell my future husband myself.”

The words cut through the air like a blade.

Her father stilled.

The entire room froze.

Her mother inhaled sharply. Hitomi’s fingers tightened against her gown.

“Don’t you dare.”

Her father’s voice was cold as steel, but Y/N refused to flinch.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

She just stared.

And for the first time, she saw it.

Not just anger.

Not just frustration.

But fear.

Fear for their kingdom.

Fear for what would happen if she ruined this deal.

But she didn’t care.

Not when she was the sacrifice.

Not when her future was on the line.

Before her father could say another word—before her mother or Hitomi could step in—

She turned on her heel and ran.

Past her mother’s concerned gaze.

Past Hitomi’s knowing stare.

She ran, her breath sharp, her heart racing—

And for the first time in her life, she really didn’t know where she was going.

The further Y/N got from the main deck, the harder it was to breathe. She had no desire for her home, no desire for her family’s ship, and certainly no desire for GERMA. But at this moment, anywhere was better than being near her father. Her hands trembled as she pushed past unfamiliar corridors of the GERMA ship, ignoring the murmurs of passing soldiers, the wary glances of servants. She kept her head down, walking with purpose, as if she belonged—

As if she wasn’t completely lost. The walls felt suffocating, the weight of her lie pressing heavier with each step. Maybe she should just admit the truth. Maybe Niji already had. Maybe he was laughing about it right now—mocking her stupidity, the ridiculousness of her thinking she could manipulate something as big as this.

But she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

She believed in this.

She believed that this one lie, this single act of rebellion, could be the difference between freedom and a life sentence.

So she clung to it.

Even if it made her foolish.

Even if it made her pathetic.

Her feet carried her through a dimly lit hallway, the metal walls cold and unwelcoming. She turned a corner, heart pounding, breath uneven, searching for anywhere she could be alone.

Somewhere she could think.

Somewhere she could be angry.

She found an alcove, shadowed and quiet, tucked away from the main passage. Her hands pressed against the cool metal, her head bowing as she sucked in deep, shuddering breaths.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

Damn him.

Damn all of them.

Damn this entire situation.

Her father expected her to pretend it never happened.

To erase it from existence—as if her choices meant nothing, as if she had no right to control her own fate.

No.

No, she wouldn’t let them dictate her life.

She refused to be a pawn in their game.

The sound of distant voices echoed down the hallway, followed by the sharp click of boots against steel. Y/N inhaled sharply, pressing herself further into the shadows.

Y/N had no idea how long she stayed there.

The morning had long passed, and midday was already drawing to a close. She was lucky—no one had found her. No guards had demanded to know why she was lurking in a hidden alcove, no servants had questioned her presence. She had been alone, lost in her thoughts, stewing in the weight of her own decisions.

But eventually, reality caught up with her. Her stomach growled loudly, a sharp reminder that she hadn’t eaten since that disastrous breakfast. With a reluctant sigh, she pushed herself off the cold wall and began making her way back, her steps slower than necessary.

She wasn’t eager to return to her family’s ship—not with her father still seething and her mother and Hitomi watching her like she was a delicate thread waiting to snap.

But she also had nowhere else to go.

As she turned a corner, she nearly collided with someone.

“Ah,” a soft, lilting voice greeted her. “There you are.”

Y/N blinked, startled to see none other than Reiju Vinsmoke standing in front of her. Unlike the rest of her brothers, Reiju carried herself with a quiet grace. Her pink hair was styled neatly, and her expression, while unreadable, seemed far friendlier than what Y/N had expected from a Germa royal.

“I was just about to look for you,” Reiju said, her smile polite. “I thought you might have left completely.”

Y/N hesitated. “I was just—”

“Taking a walk?” Reiju finished knowingly. “Understandable.”

There was something in her tone—something that made Y/N wonder if Reiju knew exactly why she had been hiding. Before she could say anything, Reiju’s eyes flickered down briefly, as if noticing the way Y/N shifted uncomfortably.

“…You must be hungry,” she said instead. “Come, my family is about to eat. You should join us.”

Y/N immediately shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The last thing she wanted was to sit in a room with Niji again—especially after the stunt she had pulled. But before she could decline again, another voice cut in.

“I insist.”

Y/N stiffened as Ichiji stepped into view. Unlike Reiju’s polite warmth, Ichiji’s expression was cool and unreadable.

“We wouldn’t want our future sister-in-law starving, now would we?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. There was something pointed in the way he said it. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay composed.

“…Fine.”

The dining hall was far from quiet. With Judge Vinsmoke absent, the atmosphere was less formal, but not any less tense. Y/N sat beside Reiju, her posture straight, her hands resting in her lap as she tried to appear indifferent to the situation. Across from her, Yonji was talking—loudly, as if he needed the entire room to hear whatever story he was telling.

She wasn’t really listening.

Not to him, not to any of them.

But what did catch her attention was Niji.

Or rather—his complete disregard for her presence.

He was there, of course, sitting just a few seats away. He looked like he was listening to the conversation, but not once did his gaze flicker toward her. It was… strange. At least for her.

After everything—after the mess she had made that morning, she had expected something from him.

A sneer, a glare, some kind of smug remark about how her little plan had backfired.

But she got nothing.

Nothing at all.

Beside her, Reiju exhaled softly, shifting as if she was trying to ease the invisible tension in the air. It wasn’t working. And then, suddenly—

Ichiji moved. He stood from his seat, approaching Y/N’s side with slow, deliberate steps. When she turned her head to meet his gaze, she immediately regretted it.

His stare was cold. Calculated.

“I don’t care about whatever drama is happening between you and your father,” he said plainly, voice smooth and clipped. “But I will warn you now—don’t ruin this alliance with your nonsense.”

Y/N’s fingers twitched against her lap, her pride flaring at his tone.

“I’m not ruining anything,” she replied evenly.

Ichiji’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Then don’t make things more complicated than they need to be.”

He straightened, gaze flickering over to Niji next. His voice didn’t change—didn’t soften in the slightest when he spoke to his brother.

“And you—if you’re going to fool around, at least use your brain.”

Niji, who had been silent up until now, finally reacted. His jaw tensed, his fingers pausing mid-motion as he had been swirling the liquid in his glass. But when he looked up at his older brother, his expression was indifferent.

“Oh?” he drawled, leaning back against his chair. “And what exactly do you think I’ve done?”

Ichiji’s gaze remained sharp.

“If any Germa prince should have Hitomi’s attention, it’s you,” he said simply. “Don't waste time on her sister.”

The words were a clear jab—not at Y/N directly, but at Niji. And for the first time that evening, Niji’s expression flickered.

Not because of her, Y/N realized. No, he didn’t care about what was being implied about her. But he did care about the way Ichiji was talking down to him.

Y/N saw it in the way his grip tightened around his glass, in the way his lips curled just slightly, as if he wanted to smirk but was too irritated to fully commit to it.

Ichiji was trying to put him in his place. And that, apparently, was something Niji didn’t appreciate.

Niji's smirk didn’t waver as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with something that almost looked like amusement—if you could call it that. He took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze sliding over to Ichiji, a challenge in his eyes.

“I can fuck with whoever I want,” Niji said, his voice calm but cutting, his tone carrying an undeniable edge. He gave a small, dismissive flick of his fingers. “And that’s none of your business.”

Ichiji’s face shifted, the calm veneer cracking just slightly. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightened, and the usual coolness in his gaze turned to something colder, sharper. His posture stiffened, and for a moment, he looked like he was about to retort with something venomous. But instead, he just inhaled, trying to control himself.

It wasn’t that he was offended by what Niji said—it was more the principle of it, the insolence. The fact that Niji was outright challenging him, openly, in front of everyone. That was the kind of thing Ichiji couldn’t let slide. He wasn’t about to back down, not with his pride on the line.

Y/N, on the other hand, had no idea what the hell was going on. She could feel the tension between the two brothers, but why wasn’t Niji denying anything? He could have just said he wasn’t involved with her, could’ve said nothing happened. But instead, he was being blatantly cocky about it—like he was proving a point that didn’t even seem to matter. It didn’t make sense. But she quickly brushed the thought aside. Didn’t matter anyway.

Then Yonji—oblivious as always—cut through the silence with a loud, mocking laugh. He leaned in, almost enjoying the chaos unfolding around him, clearly entertained by his brothers' exchange.

“Well, if it were me, I would’ve done the same thing,” Yonji said, his voice a bit too loud for the room. He was clearly relishing the moment. “I mean, look at her. She’s kinda cute with her cheeks all puffed up like that.” He gestured at Y/N’s plate, where she’d been stuffing food into her mouth in silence, too distracted to notice what was going on.

Y/N froze mid-chew, her eyes widening in confusion. Cute?

She wasn’t sure if she should be angry or embarrassed. The comment felt so out of place, so absurd, that she didn’t know how to react. She glanced down at her half-finished plate, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Did they all just think of her as a joke?

Niji, though, did not find it funny. His lip curled with contempt, and he scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he shot a glance at Yonji.

“Cute?” Niji sneered, his expression clearly dismissive. “She’s ugly, if anything.”

Y/N felt like someone had slapped her. The insult landed right where it hurt—she knew she wasn’t the most delicate, the most refined. She wasn’t like Hitomi, who had the beauty and elegance that could win over any crowd. But hearing Niji speak about her so callously—it stung.

Yonji didn’t seem fazed by Niji’s remark. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, flashing a grin that clearly said, I’m enjoying this.

“Well, if she’s so ugly, then why the hell did you two have bedtime together?” Yonji said, his voice laced with amusement. He leaned toward Niji, clearly egging him on, wanting to see how far the game would go. His eyes sparkled, enjoying the tension more than the brothers ever could.

Y/N’s stomach tightened, not because of Yonji’s words but because of the implication. It was like he had just made a mockery of everything she had tried to hide. The embarrassment flooded her again, but she didn’t know how to react. She didn’t even want to react—she just wanted this conversation to end.

Niji stood up without any warning, his movements abrupt and strong. He wasn’t about to take any more of his brother’s jabs, or anyone else’s. Without a word, he reached across the table, his hand gripping her wrist with surprising force. It was almost as if he had planned this move for a while, waiting for the right moment to drag her out of there.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, his voice low and cold. There was no hesitation in his words, no room for argument. His hand tightened around her wrist, and without any other explanation, he yanked her from her seat.

“Wait—what—?” Y/N started to protest, but the words caught in her throat as she struggled to keep up with Niji’s long strides.

The entire room watched as he pulled her, forcefully, out of the dining hall. She tried to dig her heels in, to resist, but he was stronger, and his grip was unyielding. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words were lost in the blur of confusion and frustration.

Behind her, she could hear Yonji’s amused chuckle fading into the background as the door slammed shut behind them. The tension from the dinner, the weight of her embarrassment, and the strange situation with Niji settled over her like a suffocating fog.

She couldn’t tell if Niji was angry, if he was annoyed with her, or if this was just his way of putting an end to the chaos.

But either way, as they walked down the corridor, Y/N knew one thing for sure: she had just stepped deeper into a game she didn’t understand, and Niji was playing it by his own rules.

The hallways blurred past her as Niji pulled her along, his grip unrelenting, his pace swift. Y/N struggled to keep up, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Niji—wait—!” she gasped, but he didn’t stop.

Her wrist ached from his tight hold, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even look at her. His jaw was tight, his sunglasses hiding whatever expression lurked in his eyes. Before she could process what was happening, he yanked open a random door and shoved her inside.

She barely had time to catch her breath before her back slammed against a wall.

Niji pushed forward, caging her in, his hand slamming against the wall beside her head. The force of it rattled through her bones. His body was close—too close—and the anger radiating from him was thick enough to suffocate her. For the first time since she had met him, he looked truly pissed. His smirk was gone, replaced with something sharper, something crueler.

Y/N swallowed hard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed, his voice low, dangerous. His breath was warm against her skin, his presence overwhelming. “What kind of stupid, reckless game do you think you’re playing?”

Y/N pressed herself against the wall, refusing to shrink away even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. She lifted her chin, forcing herself to glare up at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her stomach.

Niji let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, don’t give me that shit.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle he had almost—but not quite—figured out.

And then he smirked. But it wasn’t amused. It was cruel.

“You think I don’t know why you lied?” he mocked. “You really thought you could get away with it? That you could just spread your little rumor and magically escape that pathetic marriage of yours?”

Y/N flinched, her nails digging into her palms. She didn’t answer, but the way her lips pressed together made it clear that he was right.

Niji huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. You really are desperate, huh?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, trying not to let his words get to her. She had expected mockery, but hearing it from him—from the one person who could completely unravel her lie—made her stomach twist painfully.

But she wouldn’t back down.

“So what if I am?” she snapped, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “What do you care?”

That seemed to amuse him. He leaned in just a fraction, tilting his head as if he were truly considering the question.

“What do I care?” he repeated. Then, with a slow, smug smirk, he said, “I don’t. Not really.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, but before she could respond, he continued, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper.

“But it’s pathetic, you know. Running around like some scared little girl, trying to fix your life with one little rumor.” He let out a fake, exaggerated sigh. “Tsk. What would your dear daddy say if he knew how weak you are?”

Y/N’s fists shook at her sides. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve, huh?” Niji grinned, his voice positively dripping with satisfaction. “Come on, Princess. Admit it. You lied because you’re scared. You’re too much of a coward to actually fix your own life, so you tried to drag me into it.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell quickly, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She hated how easily he could see through her.

She hated how right he was.

And worst of all, she hated that despite everything—despite his cruel words, his infuriating smirk, his entire damn presence—she couldn’t deny the truth.

Because yes. She was desperate.

And she had no idea what to do next.

Y/N’s nails dug into her palms as she forced herself to breathe through the anger. She refused to let him have the last word.

“So what about you?” she shot back, eyes narrowing. “If my little lie is so pathetic, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you just deny it right away? Why let your brother talk like that?”

Niji’s smirk faltered just a fraction.

It was brief—so quick that most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Y/N did.

For a second, she thought she saw something else in his expression. A flicker of something annoyed, irritated—maybe even defensive. But then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

And in its place was boredom.

Niji rolled his eyes, tilting his head back like she was exhausting him.

“Ugh,” he groaned, “do you always talk this much?”

Y/N clenched her fists. “Answer me.”

“I don’t need to tell you shit.” He leaned back slightly, giving her just enough space to breathe—but not enough to escape. His smirk returned, slow and lazy. “Besides, why should I? This is just a game for me, Princess. A little amusement.”

Y/N stiffened.

Niji’s grin widened as he drank in her expression.

“You think I actually give a damn about you?” He let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Tsk. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted, but she refused to show it.

“But hey—” he continued, “—since you seem so desperate to keep this going, I’ll play along.” He tilted his head, his voice turning sickeningly sweet. “For now.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“But you should know,” he murmured, voice dropping into something darker, something sharper, “the second I get bored of this? The second it stops being fun?”

He leaned in, his lips ghosting just past her ear.

“I’ll let everyone know the truth.”

Y/N froze.

Niji pulled back, flashing her one last smirk.

“Because at the end of the day, Princess,” he said, “I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”

And then, just like that, he let go of her and walked away.

#one piece #one piece x reader #niji vinsmoke x reader #niji vinsmoke

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