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yoomiwrites · 2 days ago

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Sweet Innocence⁷

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: Okay, so, I usually don't write smut / nswf. Which is why I also tried to keep it "calm". It is marked, so you will see when it starts and when it ends — in case you want to skip it.

Other than that, again, heavy themes. Next chapter after 45 reactions (due to Tumblr warning me that this post is boosted by "shady movement") or after a week.

And THANK you all for your love.

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. Sex.

Niji didn’t move closer—at least, not yet. Instead, he leaned back slightly, letting you feel the weight of his presence, his gaze boring into you. Every muscle in your body tensed, but no matter how much you tried to resist, the magnetic pull between you made it impossible to step away.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low, mocking, “all flustered, all desperate. It’s… entertaining.” His smirk widened.

Your chest heaved. You wanted to argue, to push him away—but the closer he stayed, the more your thoughts scrambled. He leaned just enough that your arms brushed his chest, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you.

“You like this, don’t you?” he taunted, eyes glinting. “You like knowing I could end you anytime. Admit it.”

You shook your head, trying to form words, but your throat tightened. Instead, your body reacted on its own—leaning in slightly, as if challenging him, daring him, and perhaps confirming his accusation without a single sound.

He snorted, amusement flashing across his face, but there was an edge now—a subtle warning, a promise that the game could turn sharp in an instant. “Bold,” he said. “I’ll give you that..”

And then he tilted his head, letting the smirk drop into something darker, something teasing and cruel. “But don’t get too cocky,” he whispered, leaning closer so that your foreheads nearly touched. “I decide how this ends. Not you.”

You wanted to hate him, but there was something addictive in the tension—the thrill of the game, the way your mind screamed one thing while your body betrayed you. And deep down, somewhere buried beneath the anger and fear, you realized you enjoyed it far more than you would ever admit.

Niji pressed slightly, enough to make you stumble backward onto the bed, but never crossing a line. He was testing, teasing, seeing how far he could push you before you broke—or surrendered.

And just as your thoughts spiraled, just as your pulse threatened to betray your composure completely, he leaned back, chuckled, and let you breathe. But his gaze never left you, always calculating, always teasing.

“You don’t even know how much fun this is for me.”

Now that you were sitting on the bed, he looked even bigger. His hand went to his hip as he looked at you, but the sunglasses hid his exact focus.

"Undress, will you?"

It didn't sound like a question, almost like an order, and even though you were scared—almost uncomfortable because your naked body was usually all yours—you started to work on your dress. It wasn't easy, normally you had help and Niji noticed that too.

With an annoyed grunt, he leaned forward, his hands gripping the fine fabric, and with surprising accuracy, he helped to loosen the dress and pull it off your body.

What remained was your undershirt, a simple white top and the underpants that reached to your knees, white and light, so transparent that he could see the outline of your panties without effort.

"Mhhhm...go on, or are you a baby who needs to be helped?", Niji prompted you again.

Your palms started to sweat as you slowly took off your top. Instinctively, one of your arms went to your chest, as if hiding yourself would do any good now.

Niji snorted, his knees lowered to the mattress, his hands grabbed your arm and he pulled it away—further onto the bed—to trap you beneath his body.

His attention seemed to be on your breasts, a smug grin on his face. "Princess...you could have told me that you wanted me that much."

His free hand mended your nipple, mockery in his voice at the fact that your nubs were already hardened. However, his patience seemed to be wearing thin too, as he leaned down, his lips meeting your pulse point at the nape of your neck.

All tension faded and was replaced by pain as he bit into your flesh, marking your skin shamelessly. So high that most of your clothes would barely cover it.

Niji hummed with satisfaction, stroking the sore spot with his thumb and immediately deciding that it would not be the last. One followed the next—in an agonizing way—while the nervousness in your stomach took over.

It took so long.

Why did it take so long?

You had assumed Niji would take you, quickly and roughly, but he didn't.

You didn't know why. Maybe the heat that was bubbling in your body. The expectations you had of him or the fact that it was a stupid decision – one that would rob you of your first time.

After all, it wouldn't be Zaeng that you would give this opportunity to. This was an act of rebellion, nothing more.

"You're so quiet, princess," Niji murmured against your skin, his breath brushing your left breast. By now he had let go of you– you wouldn't run away, he knew that.

"I'm not."

"Mhhhmm~?"

He chuckled deeply, harshly, and also kind of viciously, as if he was going to put you out of your misery and kill you any second.

But instead, he took your left nipple in his mouth, sucked on it, let his warm tongue play with it.

This was—regardless of your experience of pleasuring yourself—a completely new feeling. Was it good? Was it bad?

What was bad—at least for what little ego you had left—was how passive you were. You felt like a dead fish underneath him.

No sooner had the thought occurred to you than you put your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Despite the fact that he could have resisted without effort, it was easy. He let you do it to him. It even amused him.

But Niji wouldn't be Niji if he wasn't always more than you. Doing more than you.

His right hand slid down your stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of your pants. His head lifted, so far that he could look into your red face again. "Scared? Or what, do you still like it? The way I'm going to ruin you, so soon before we get married?"

The last words had slipped from his lips as his index finger slid over your folds. Slowly. Testing.

That was the moment you turned your head away. Niji didn't like that – he turned your face back towards him, his expression almost pissed. "Look at me."

His index and ring fingers found your clitoris, where they started circular movements. He always kept an eye on you. Every time your breath hitched, he applied more pressure. Every time your eyes fluttered, he slowed down...and when the first moan left your lips, he grinned so wide it scared you.

"Come on, Y/N, don't be shy now," he whispered into your face, licking his lips a moment later. He wanted nothing more than to focus on himself. Your lust—your pleasure—shouldn't matter to him.

But there was the problem.

The way your expression changed, your breathing, your pulse...Niji liked it all. He wanted to see more. To see everything.

"Nhhhhghnn...haah..." you whimpered, your hands gripping his collar harder, your nails pressed into the skin of his neck. Even that didn't seem to bother him at all.

Niji let his fingers slide deeper, pressing his index finger roughly against your opening and pushing inside. Your back lifted a little, your mouth open without a sound coming out of your throat. Shit.

He was impatient, but at a pace that was surprisingly...calm. Calmer than you'd expected, anyways. His thumb continued the circular motions on your clit while his middle finger joined his index finger.

He stretched your walls, pressed against your flesh and tested. Or tortured?

"Ni-Niji..." his name rolled over your lips, so wonderfully sinful that the bulge in his pants became almost painful.

"Mhhm? What? If you want something, say it, princess."

His fingers moved faster. Each time his fingertips scratched the spongy spot that made you moan. By now you could feel his movements becoming shamelessly easy – no wonder, with all that slick covering his fingers.

"M'want more... " You gasped.

The man leaned back, pulling his hand out of your pants—which had you grumbling almost in offense—only to pull the last of your clothes off you.

Naked. You were completely naked underneath him.

He? Still fully clothed.

Niji looked at you as if he wanted to store every detail of you in his subconscious. You were uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you wanted to press your legs together.

He was quicker and grabbed your knees, holding them apart.

"Ah, ah, princess. I want to see everything. Or what? You think you're special? You're just like any other woman."

It hurt. At the same time—as strange as it was—his statement also calmed you down.

Because for Niji, you were one of many. He had already seen countless women naked. You would be no different. Your body was your body.

If he had found you repulsive, he would have stopped long ago.

With a low humming sound, he reached for his belt. Click.

You didn't want to look, didn't want to be as shameless as him. But you did. Your eyes were on his pants as he pushed them down far enough to slide his hand into his boxers and pull his dick out.

You had no comparison. It was, after all, the first time you'd seen a penis up close like this and Niji noticed, his chest puffing out almost proudly.

"You like it? Keep staring and I'll have to assume you're a pervert.”

Your eyes snapped up to his face, full of panic.

"I- I don't think-"

"That's it, you don't."

Niji leaned forward again, one hand beside you on the bed, the other on his length.

You felt his tip pressing against your entrance—slipping up and down—almost as if he were teasing you.

You had no idea how this was supposed to work.

Niji had no sympathy for you. He had warned you—not because he was nice, but because he knew how important your family was for GERMA—and you had wanted it.

Lest you demand that he stop after all, he pressed his lips to yours again. Rough, messy and with way too much salvia.

His cock pushed harder and harder, slowly sliding into your hole, deeper and deeper. It hurt. It hurt so much that tears rolled out of the corners of your eyes and your scream was barely muffled by the kiss he planted on you.

Only when Niji was satisfied—and three-quarters into your womanhood—did he lean back. "Fuck, relax.”

“Mhhhghnn….Ah…it…hurts…”

"Of course it does, you stupid woman. If you don't loosen up, it'll hurt even more," he snorted.

The tight grip your pussy had on him seemed to bother him.

You had once overheard your father's guards saying that there was nothing better than a tight, fresh woman — the Vinsmoke above you seemed to disagree.

"Hah...but...why...nhhhn...", you whimpered as you noticed he didn't move an inch.

Niji just seemed...angry?

Tense?

With a grunt, he tore his shirt off his body, threw it away and grabbed your hands to position them on his chest.

"Are you a toddler? Go on."

You were overwhelmed—by him, your feelings and not knowing what he wanted—yet your hands slid over his hard skin.

That did the trick. Niji had almost guessed it. As focused as you were on the sex. Now that your attention was more spread out, he could move without any problems.

Less than two minutes later, all that filled the room was volume. Wet sounds, clapping sounds and—how could it be otherwise—your moans.

Everything around you was a blur as Niji increased his speed by the second, almost abusing you. In the good way, anyways.

His dick had carved the perfect path, your walls had completely molded to him, covering him in slick.

You couldn't keep your body still for even a second. Your hips, your back, your toes and fingers.

"Aaaah~!"

Niji had his hands left and right of your face, his sweat dripping down on you, mingling with your own.

"You look hot," he whispered to you.

It was probably the first compliment you could buy. He meant it.

But you couldn't—or didn't want to—reply. Especially not when Niji moved his hips in a rolling motion and one of his hands moved to your clit again.

You barely noticed the satisfaction on his face when he saw how overwhelmed you were. You only felt his weight, which was soon too much for you. His warmth, his loud breathing and god, was it normal for your pussy to sound like that?

"Ni-Niji...This...ah...Mhhhghnn...is strange..." you admitted, your voice no more than a whisper.

"Let it all out, Princess, will you?"

This—as you called it—strange feeling in your abdomen overcame you. Everything became bright, light and unspeakably hot.

You had already touched yourself a few times, but an orgasm? Somehow you had never achieved it. Perhaps you never invested long enough.

Everything inside you screamed and trembled, your body spasmed and shook. Niji grunted next to your ear.

Not amused. Not full of scorn. But strained.

With a squelch, he pulled his dick out of your hole just as his orgasm rolled over him and he came on top of you, huffing.

Warm, sticky fluid squirted onto your stomach, just below your breasts.

Your vision was blurry and yet you noticed him leaning back and looking down at you with blue eyes.

Blue, huh.

You wondered where his glasses were.

Even his hair looked awfully messy.

Under other circumstances, that would have amused you.

But now?

Now you just felt unspeakably tired.

Niji, on the other hand?

He didn't stop you from falling asleep in the warm, messy bed – his bed.

The first thing you felt was the ache.

It wasn’t sharp, not like a wound, but a deep soreness that ran through every part of your body, reminding you with every twitch of your muscles that last night hadn’t been a dream. You blinked, disoriented at first, your eyes stinging from the thin strip of daylight filtering through the shutters.

You shifted, groaning quietly, and then froze.

The blanket slipped, just enough to expose bare skin—your bare skin. You yanked it up instantly, clutching the fabric to your chest as if it could shield you from the reality clawing at the edges of your memory. The sheets felt too warm, too heavy, too foreign.

And then the flashbacks hit.

His hands. The weight of his body pressing you down. The sharp taste of his kiss, mocking even as it consumed you. The sound of his laugh, low and cruel, when you trembled beneath him. Every detail seared into you, coming back in fragments that made your stomach knot.

You curled tighter under the blanket, as if hiding would erase it, but the soreness between your thighs was undeniable. It had happened. This time, it really happened.

You glanced around the room, heartbeat hammering. The walls were bare metal, polished but cold, reflecting a faint gleam of the morning light. The bed was wide, the sheets tangled, and a chair was shoved carelessly to the side. But the room was empty.

He was gone.

Relief washed over you, followed almost immediately by something sharper, uglier. He hadn’t even stayed. Not that you wanted him to, not that you could bear facing him after last night—but the fact that he had simply left, as though you were nothing more than a discarded toy, left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you, burying your face in the rough fabric. It still smelled like him.

Why had you done it?

You tried to piece together your own thoughts from last night, but they scattered like smoke. You remembered the anger, the desperation, the way you wanted to scream at Zaeng and your father and Judge and everyone who was forcing your life into a corner. You remembered Niji mocking you, pressing close, his words sharp and cutting.

Your cheeks burned hot, your stomach twisting with humiliation. What kind of madness had made you do that?

You had wanted to prove something, maybe. Or maybe you just wanted to escape, to drown out the helplessness that had been suffocating you for days. But now… now you had nothing but regret and a body that wouldn’t let you forget.

You sat up slowly, clutching the blanket around you. Every movement sent a wave of soreness through you, making you wince. Your skin prickled under the cool air, covered in faint marks—his teeth, his hands, his claim. You hated yourself for noticing them, for feeling the ghost of his touch when he wasn’t even here.

Your eyes flicked toward the door. It was closed, but unlocked. Anyone could walk in, see you like this, see the truth written on your skin and the sheets. Your throat tightened.

And worst of all—this time, Niji wouldn’t need to say a word.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor biting against your bare feet. For a moment you just sat there, staring at the ground, your heart racing too fast to let you breathe properly. You wanted to cry, to scream, to tear the room apart, but your body felt too heavy, as though all the fight had drained out of you overnight.

You dragged yourself to your feet anyway, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like armor. Each step felt unsteady, but you forced yourself to move, forced yourself to prove that you weren’t broken, that last night hadn’t destroyed you.

Still, when you caught sight of yourself in the polished metal wall, you almost didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Hair a mess, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. A girl who had crossed a line she could never uncross.

You pressed your forehead against the wall, eyes squeezing shut.

You hated him. You hated yourself more.

The memories wouldn’t stop circling. His smirk when you trembled. The way he mocked you, even as he touched you like he owned you. The way you hadn’t pulled away—not once. No matter how much your mind screamed at you, your body had betrayed you, leaning in, following him, wanting more.

A sob clawed at your throat, but you swallowed it down. You couldn’t cry. You wouldn’t. Crying meant weakness, and weakness was what had led you here in the first place.

Instead, you straightened slowly, the blanket slipping just enough to reveal the marks he’d left along your collarbone. You stared at them, jaw tight.

And yet, deep inside, a voice whispered the truth you didn’t want to face: a part of you had wanted it.

That was the cruelest part of all.

You sank back down onto the bed, clutching the blanket like it was the only thing holding you together. The silence of the room pressed in around you, too heavy, too suffocating.

Where was he now? Laughing with his brothers? Training? Eating breakfast as though nothing had happened? You wanted to believe he was thinking of you, that you haunted him the way he haunted you—but you knew better.

By the time you slipped out of Niji’s room, every nerve screamed that someone would see, someone would know. Your clothes clung wrong against your body, the collar high, sleeves tugged low to hide the marks, but it felt useless. Every brush of fabric against your skin whispered they’ll see it, they’ll know.

So you walked carefully, back stiff, eyes sharp for servants, guards, anyone. The corridors of GERMA's ship were alive with footsteps, voices, but somehow you managed to avoid them, slipping down narrow passageways, breathing shallow as if sound alone would betray you.

You just needed to reach your family’s ship. You just needed to breathe.

But you didn’t make it.

The heavy doors to the deck slid open, and the morning air hit you sharp with salt and metal. And there they were.

Judge. Your father. Zaeng. And Niji.

The four men stood gathered at the deck’s center, their voices low, the weight of their conversation heavy enough that even the GERMA soldiers nearby gave them a wide berth. Zaeng’s laugh carried though, oily and unpleasant, grating against your nerves before his eyes even found you.

When they did, your stomach flipped violently.

“Ah,” Zaeng drawled, his crooked smile splitting wide. His nails—long, yellowed, curling—drummed against the head of his cane. “There she is. My little bride.”

You stopped in your tracks. The urge to spin and run was overwhelming, but your father’s sharp gaze cut into you. Judge’s, too. And Niji—he leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at his lips as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Come here,” Judge said, tone clipped. It wasn’t a request.

Your legs felt made of stone, but you forced them to move, each step echoing in your ears. When you reached them, Zaeng’s eyes dragged over you slowly, too slowly, and you clenched your jaw to keep from gagging.

“You’ve been avoiding us, child,” he said smoothly, though the bite in his voice was unmistakable. “That will not do. Not when today is… so important.”

You froze, a chill creeping up your spine.

Your father cleared his throat. “Lord Zaeng, perhaps this isn’t necessary—”

“Oh, it is very necessary,” Zaeng cut in, his voice sharp as glass. He gestured, and only then did you notice the man standing a little behind him. Thin, hunched, his face half-hidden beneath a hood, hands clasped around a worn leather case. The doctor.

Your throat tightened.

“It is time,” Zaeng said simply. “For her purity to be confirmed. A matter as serious as marriage requires proof. Don’t you agree, Judge?”

Judge’s jaw flexed, but he inclined his head. “Of course.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to vanish. You shook your head, your mouth dry, words stumbling out before you could stop them. “N-no, I don’t—”

“Silence.”

The hiss came from Zaeng, sharp, like a whip. His hand shot out, long nails brushing against your chin as he gripped your face with startling strength. The touch made your stomach lurch, bile rising.

“You will not speak without permission,” he said, voice low, controlled, yet dripping with venom. “Already, as my future wife, you have behaved disgracefully. That ends now.”

You jerked slightly against his grip, but his fingers dug in harder, forcing you still. Panic bubbled in your chest, but before you could break, Zaeng’s eyes slid past you. Toward Niji.

And you knew it—he knew. Or at least, he suspected.

His lip curled in distaste. “And yet… I suspect I will find disappointment.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Your father stiffened, Judge’s frown deepened, and the soldiers nearby seemed to look anywhere but at you.

Your eyes flicked to Niji, desperate, helpless. He hadn’t moved—still lounging against the railing, one eyebrow arched, expression unreadable. But the smirk was gone.

Just a shadow in its place.

Zaeng released you with a flick of his hand, wiping his fingers as though you were filth. “Doctor,” he said, voice cold. “Prepare your instruments.”

Your stomach dropped.

The walk to Zaeng’s ship felt like a funeral march.

You trailed behind, your feet dragging, while the men ahead moved with heavy, deliberate steps. The GERMA soldiers opened the way in silence, their eyes darting once to you and then quickly away. Everyone knew what this was. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

Zaeng’s ship smelled different—thick perfumes trying to mask rot, incense that clung to the back of your throat. His servants lined the corridors, misshapen figures with missing fingers, hollow stares, every one of them shrinking back at his passing.

You wished you could shrink, too. Disappear into the shadows.

But there was no escape.

They led you into a chamber—bare except for a single bed in the center, curtained with heavy red drapes. The sheets were silk, but stained in places, darkened with things you didn’t want to imagine.

The doctor was already waiting. Hood still shadowing his face, he set down his case on a small side table. The click of the clasps opening echoed through the room.

“Undress,” the man rasped, voice reedy with age. “Lie down.”

You froze. “No—”

Zaeng’s cane struck the floor, the sound sharp, final. His voice cut through the chamber like a knife. “You will obey. Or you will learn obedience.”

Your breath stuttered, panic swelling in your chest. You glanced toward your father, pleading, begging for help—but he wouldn’t even meet your eyes. His head hung, gaze fixed on the floorboards as though if he looked hard enough, he could disappear into them.

Judge shifted slightly, frown carved deep into his face, but even he turned his eyes away.

Only one pair of eyes met yours.

Niji.

He stood with his arms folded, his usual smirk ghosting his lips, but there was no humor in it. He was here against his will—you could tell. Dragged along by Judge as punishment. Still, he wasn’t looking away. Not like the others. His gaze clung to you, sharp, knowing, unreadable.

Your stomach churned.

You swallowed hard, legs trembling as you stepped behind the curtains. Every movement felt like it wasn’t yours—your fingers numb as they fumbled with your clothes, slipping fabric off your shoulders, tugging it down over your body. The air was cold against your skin, and for the first time in your life, you hated the sound of silk.

By the time you lowered yourself onto the bed, curling into the sheets that didn’t feel clean, your whole body shook.

“Spread,” the doctor said flatly.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. But Zaeng’s cane tapped again, a warning, and somehow your body obeyed before your mind caught up.

The curtain shifted as the doctor stepped in, his shadow falling over you. His hands were cold, clinical, tugging, probing—but it didn’t take long. Didn’t need to.

Because it was obvious.

The bruises on your hips. The raw ache still lingering in your body. The marks on your neck you hadn’t been able to hide.

The silence after was worse than any words.

Finally, the doctor straightened, voice flat and final. “She is no longer pure.”

The words cracked through the chamber like a gunshot.

You shut your eyes, gripping the sheets until your nails tore at the silk. Your chest heaved, shame and terror boiling into nausea.

Zaeng chuckled. Low. Cruel. Triumphant. “Just as I thought,” he purred, his long nails tapping against the head of his cane. “Filthy little liar.”

You dared a glance through the gap in the curtains.

Your father still stared at the floor, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone white. Judge’s expression had hardened into stone, unreadable.

And Niji—he was still watching. Still smirking, lips twitching as though amused by the cruel irony.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The doctor’s verdict still hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Zaeng’s laughter crawled over your skin like worms. Cane tapping on the floor as he stepped closer to the curtained bed. “Impure, disobedient, deceitful…” He clicked his tongue, long nail dragging down the polished wood of his cane. “No matter. A wife can be… broken into obedience. Taught manners.”

Your stomach lurched.

He turned his head sharply. “Out. All of you. Leave us.”

The words cracked like a whip. His servants bowed instantly, their ruined faces lowering as they scurried from the room. The guards hesitated, glancing uncertainly between their leaders.

Your father moved then, his voice strained but steady. “She is my daughter, Zaeng. I will teach her manners myself.”

It wasn’t a plea—it was a desperate shield. A way to keep Zaeng’s hands, his nails, his cane away from you.

But Zaeng sneered, the lines of his yellowed face deepening. “You failed already. She lies, she defies, she dirties herself before the marriage. No, no. This requires my hand. My correction.”

He stepped closer, the shadow of his robe brushing the edge of the curtain.

Your throat closed. Your nails dug into the silk beneath you. For a heartbeat, you thought—this was it. This was how it ended.

And then—

A sharp laugh cut through the chamber.

“Correction?” The voice was smooth, mocking, dripping with derision. “You talk like she’s already yours, old man.”

Zaeng froze, head turning.

Niji had moved.

The smirk tugging at his lips was cruel, taunting, but it wasn’t for you. It was aimed straight at Zaeng.

“She’s not your bride yet.” Niji’s tone was light, almost bored. “So unless you wanna explain why you’re pawing at someone else’s toy before the deal’s even sealed…” He tilted his head, a shard of blue hair falling in front of his glasses. “…maybe keep your hands to yourself.”

Zaeng’s nostrils flared, breath hissing through his crooked teeth. His cane struck the floor with a crack. “You dare—”

Niji’s grin widened, sharp and wolfish. “Oh, I dare. Trust me. You’ll know if I don’t.”

The air turned tense enough to choke on.

Your father finally raised his head, eyes flicking between Zaeng and Niji, seizing the opening. “She goes with me. Now.” His voice had iron in it, the first real steel you’d heard from him since this nightmare began.

Zaeng’s lip curled. His gaze lingered on the curtain—as though he could pierce through it and see your trembling form. You could feel his hunger in the silence, oily and suffocating.

But slowly, with visible effort, he leaned back on his cane. “Very well,” he hissed, though his tone was anything but yielding. “But next time—she stays.”

You nearly collapsed with relief.

Your father was already striding forward, pulling the curtain aside just enough to shield you from Zaeng’s leer. He offered no words, only his hand, helping you up with quiet urgency.

You clutched your clothes against your body, heart hammering, refusing to glance at Zaeng. You didn’t have to—the weight of his gaze burned into your skin all the same.

But when your eyes darted up by accident—just once—they found Niji.

He hadn’t moved. Still leaning there, arms folded, smirk tugging at his lips. But his gaze locked with yours, steady, piercing, unreadable.

And for the first time, you realized—mocking or not, he’d stopped Zaeng.

The deck was cold beneath your bare feet.

The cape your father had thrown around you was heavy, swallowing your frame whole, but it couldn’t shield you from the way the soldiers’ eyes flicked curiously as you passed, nor the way your skin crawled with shame.

You kept your head low, fingers clutching the fabric at your throat, too tight, too desperate.

Your father’s jaw was rigid, his hand on your shoulder, guiding you along. Judge approached as you neared the gangway, his cloak snapping with the salt wind.

“A word,” Judge said. His tone left little room for refusal.

But your father’s hand only pressed firmer at your shoulder. “Not now,” he bit out, steel in his voice that startled you. “I have to bring her back.”

You opened your mouth before he could say more, voice small, shaky. “I—I can go alone. It’s fine.”

It was a lie, and everyone knew it.

Your father hesitated, eyes narrowing at you, but with the weight of Judge’s stare and the unease gnawing at the edges of the deck, he finally nodded. His hand slipped away. “Straight to the ship. Do not wander.”

You nodded quickly, eyes on the wood grain.

The men turned. Judge’s cloak swirled, your father’s boots thudded, and the soldiers fell into motion. One by one, they left.

But not all.

When the silence settled, you felt it—felt him still there.

You didn’t have to look. You knew.

You kept your head down, clutching your father’s cape tighter. Your voice cracked. “You don’t need to—stay.”

A chuckle answered. Low, sharp, curling with that familiar venom. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You think I’m worried about you?”

You flinched, lips pressing together.

He pushed off the rail, boots clicking lazily against the deck as he closed the distance. “You look pathetic, you know. Wrapped up like some little lost lamb. Not exactly the firecracker that tried to strangle me in a kitchen.” His grin sharpened. “What happened to her, hm?”

You still didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. The nausea clung to you, thick and cloying.

He tilted his head, studying you. The smirk wavered—just for a second. Then it came back, thinner, edged with something heavier.

“Tch.” His tongue clicked, a sound more irritated than amused. “Damn it…” He muttered it low, almost to himself, eyes narrowing. “Why the hell did I even open my mouth back there? I knew what I was getting into.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sharp movements betraying his temper. “Could’ve just stood there, watched Zaeng drag you off like a dog on a leash. Would’ve been fun, wouldn’t it? Watching you squirm. Seeing what you’d do.”

His gaze cut to you, burning. “But no. I had to—” He stopped himself, teeth snapping together.

You blinked at him then, finally looking up, just enough to catch the rare flash of conflict twisting across his features.

He barked a laugh. Cold, mocking—but strained. “Guess your little mess is more entertaining than I thought. Can’t let it end too soon, can I?”

His gaze held yours, sharp and unrelenting. “That’s all this is. A game. Don’t forget it.”

And yet…

The words didn’t quite hide the truth.

Not from you.

Not from him.

He moved closer, boots striking the wood with the steady, unhurried rhythm of someone who had all the time in the world. The kind of rhythm that promised there was nowhere for you to hide.

You clutched the cape tighter around yourself, staring hard at the planks beneath your feet. But it didn’t matter. He stopped right in front of you, a looming shadow that blocked the dying sunlight.

“Silly princess,” he murmured again, voice lazy, but there was an edge beneath it this time, a curl of irritation that didn’t fit his usual mocking lilt. “Thought you had bite. Now look at you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat felt thick with everything you wanted to say, every scream and sob that had been clawing at your chest since Zaeng’s hand had touched you.

Then you felt it.

His fingers against your chin. Cold, sure, unrelenting.

He tilted your head up, forcing your face towards his.

The cape slipped lower against your shoulder, exposing the curve of your collarbone, the faint bruises that still clung to your skin from the night before.

You sucked in a breath, meeting his eyes at last. They glinted behind his glasses, sharp and cutting, the reflection of the sea flashing across the lenses as though even the ocean bent to his amusement.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the press of his fingers, the weight of his gaze, the way he studied you like a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet.

Then he smirked.

Slow, deliberate, curling across his face with the kind of cruelty that made your stomach twist.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” His voice dropped low, velvet over steel, teasing yet dangerous. “Do you want me to get rid of him for you?”

Your breath caught.

You froze, staring up at him, searching his face for some hint of what he meant.

Zaeng’s grotesque grin flashed in your mind, the doctor’s hands, your father’s averted gaze. The bile rose in your throat all over again.

But Niji’s smirk only deepened at your silence, his thumb brushing along your jaw as if he was testing just how much you’d let him do.

“What’s the matter?” he purred, tilting his head, studying the flicker of panic in your eyes like it entertained him. “Not what you expected to hear from me? Or can’t you decide if you’re more disgusted by the thought of him… or the idea of owing me?”

You found your voice then, ragged and thin. “Why would you—”

“Why?” He cut you off, sharp, amused. “Because it’d be easy.” His grin widened, wolfish, taunting. “One kick, one flash—Zaeng wouldn’t even hit the water before the sharks got him. Poof. Problem solved. You’d be free.”

The way he said it, so casually, so easily, made the hairs rise along your arms.

But before you could form an answer, he leaned closer, his breath brushing your skin, his glasses catching the light so you couldn’t look anywhere else but him.

“Of course…” He dragged the pause out, savoring it, “…then you’d owe me. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice out, though it shook. “You’re—playing with me again.”

He chuckled, low, the sound vibrating through his chest where it brushed yours. “Always.”

Then, sharper, his grin twisting meaner: “But don’t pretend you didn’t picture it. Don’t pretend the thought didn’t light you up, even for a second.”

Your lips parted—denial ready—but nothing came. Because he was right. You had pictured it. Niji’s speed, his cruelty, the blur of light and movement that had turned you inside out once before. You had pictured Zaeng falling, his scream swallowed by the ocean, his blood painting the waves.

And worse—you had wanted it.

Niji saw it on your face. Of course he did.

“Pathetic,” he murmured again, but softer now, almost—almost—like the word wasn’t for you, but for himself.

He let go of your chin, his hand dropping away as he straightened, breaking the heat between you.

The cold hit you instantly.

He leaned close one last time, his lips near your ear, voice a taunt wrapped in silk. “So tell me, princess. Do you want me to get rid of him for you?”

The question burned, heavy, terrifying—because for the first time, you weren’t sure if he was still joking.

And worse, you weren’t sure what your answer would be.

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

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yoomiwrites · 2 days ago

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Yoomiii what time is it for u rn,and when do u think you'll drop the next chp of sweet innocences

I'm in GMT+2, so it's 6pm soon! I just wrapped up work and will take my dog for a walk, after that I'll drop it :)

#askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 2 days ago

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YAYY SWEET INNOCENCES HIT 25 REACTIONS (I think if I know what you're talking about 😓)

Haha, yes!! I'll post the chapter tomorrow, since it's tad late for me now. But THANK YA'LL ♡

#askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 3 days ago

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Do you know by now which characters will get a x reader from you next year? I really would like to see Trafalgar Law

Not quiet! I THINK (One Piece wise) it's gonna be Killer and Paulie. Although Paulie's story is already finished (an old one from me, which I need to work on a bit, or else I will never publish it).

I usually don't write long stories for the fan-favorites, since there is plenty of them and I'd rather give the characters some love that— well—need it more.

However, if you’d like me to write one for Law, I wouldn’t mind. I mean, I even have Kikoku (his sword) on my wall — yes, it is a real sword but I only used it for pumpkin once.

So, if any of you has wishes for the upcoming works, hit me up! It doesn't need to be One Piece, obviously!

Much love to you!

#askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 4 days ago

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When will the next chapter drop?

For every chapter I have a certain reaction goal. If we hit that, the next chapter will be published at the same day or latest 2 days after hitting the goal.

Boring Love -> 30 reactions

Missing Ghost -> 25 reactions

Sweet Innocence -> 25 reactions.

But what if we don't hit the goal?

Then the next chapter will be released 14 to 30 days after the latest chapter was posted. I am currently working on finishing all stories, so that we have all three of them done by november.

Means: No worries!

Hope that helps some of the questions I got regarding that matter :)

#askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 4 days ago

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Sweet Innocence⁶

Notes: We hit the 25 reactions! This chapter is heavy. The next chapter will include sexual content (which I will frame so that everyone who doesn't want to read it, can easily skip it) and also quite heavy. Which is why I will warn you again:

If you feel sensitive or triggered by physical harassment and threats of sexual harassment, please do not continue reading this story.

There will be no rape whatsoever, but it will be implied. The heavy topics of that direction will be about 3 chapters long. I just wanted to yet again adress it, because I want everyone to feel comfortable with what you're reading.

Next chapter after 25 reactions. Or in about 2 weeks, should we not hit the goal due to the warnings.

And yes, I am too lazy for highlighting in bold and italic currently. Sorry ;-;

The dining hall of GERMA was too bright. The chandeliers overhead glowed with sharp, white light that made every surface gleam — every golden inlay in the carved pillars, every silver edge on the table, every polished plate that reflected a warped piece of your face. You wished for shadows. Shadows at least could hide.

But nothing hid him.

Zaeng sat at the head of the table, his frame hunched yet looming, the air around him thicker than smoke. Exactly as you had imagined — or maybe worse. His skin sagged, pale with a sickly yellow tint, and when he lifted a hand, you saw the long nails, curved and dirty, catching the light like hooks. His hair clung to his head in greasy, matted strands, and his beard — patchy, unkempt — carried flecks of food even before the first bite touched his lips.

The smell of his perfume, heavy and cloying, mixed with sweat and oil. Expensive silk draped his shoulders, shimmering in hues finer than you had ever laid eyes on. The embroidery was meticulous, thread of gold glinting like sunlight woven into the cloth. The contrast made your stomach turn: luxury and rot stitched into one body.

You sat beside him.

Every muscle in your body screamed to move your chair back, to lean away, but your father’s hand had pressed you down before Zaeng entered, firm and commanding. Now you stayed locked in place, your palms damp against your lap, heart hammering as if it wanted out of your chest.

Across the table, Niji and Yonji — usually so quick to sneer, to challenge, to throw barbed words even at their own father — sat perfectly composed. Not a single slouch, not a single stray movement. Their gazes didn’t wander, their smirks vanished, and their hands rested on the table with a discipline that felt rehearsed.

That alone chilled you more than Zaeng’s smile.

Because if even they were cautious, if even they did not test the waters — then Zaeng’s shadow reached further than you had ever guessed.

He reached for a dish, long fingers curling, nails scraping faintly against the silver rim of the bowl. A servant immediately leaned forward to ladle meatballs onto his plate, trembling hands spilling sauce against the tablecloth.

Zaeng didn’t look at him. Not once.

He plucked one of the meatballs with those talon-like nails, piercing the soft flesh of the food. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it toward his mouth. Grease smeared against his fingers, sauce streaked across his skin. He didn’t seem to care.

The meatball vanished between crooked, half-missing teeth. His jaw worked, chewing wetly, the sound filling the silence like an obscenity.

No one spoke.

You tried not to stare, but your eyes betrayed you, flicking toward his servants standing behind him in a crooked line. Their presence made your skin crawl even more than their master’s.

They were broken men.

One with bandaged hands, fingers missing in uneven stubs. Another with a milky white eye, scar tissue curling down his cheek. A third with no nose at all, just sunken holes where one should be. Their clothes were plain, ragged compared to Zaeng’s, and their eyes never rose from the ground.

Fear clung to them like a second skin.

You swallowed hard, the sound echoing in your ears. Even Reiju, who had a knack for keeping her composure, pressed her lips together more tightly than usual. Hitomi sat stiff, her gaze fixed downward at her untouched food, as though if she didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t notice her.

The silence stretched. It pressed. It weighed on your shoulders until your spine ached from sitting so straight. You dared not shift, dared not break it.

Zaeng’s greasy fingers reached for another meatball. He speared it, lifted it. And as he chewed again, he finally turned his head.

Toward you.

Your stomach lurched. His eyes were small, yellowed, sunken into his wrinkled face. They crawled over you, not curious, not interested — just claiming. His lips curled, teeth glinting wet in the light as he chewed, slow and deliberate, as though savoring not the food but the moment.

He said nothing.

And that was worse than words.

The room, filled with wealth and shine and silence, became a cage. Every tick of the clock on the far wall was a hammer striking steel, counting down to something you couldn’t name. Something you couldn’t stop.

You had known silence could hurt, but it was the first words that truly cut.

“Who was it?”

Zaeng’s voice was high and nasal, yet deliberate, each syllable drawn out as though he were lecturing children in a hall. His hand, sticky with oil and sauce, moved toward you.

You flinched before the touch came.

But then his fingers were on your cheek, damp and clammy, pressing too firmly against your skin. His nails scratched faintly, and every instinct screamed to lean away — but before you could, his other hand shot up, clamping your jaw with surprising strength.

“You lean away, you insult me,” he murmured, so soft only you could hear — though the entire table seemed to hear it anyway. “Sit still.”

Your breath shuddered. You tried, tried to form words, some kind of defense, anything to push the oily weight of him off you—

But his grip tightened. His yellowed eyes narrowed, his voice slithered into a hiss.

“I did not allow you to speak.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

“As my future wife,” Zaeng continued, his fingers digging into your skin like claws, “you have already made too many mistakes.”

The room seemed to shrink around you. You could barely hear the scrape of his jaw working as he chewed another bite of food, the wet sound mixing with your pounding heartbeat.

Instinct, desperation, anything — your gaze darted sideways, to where Niji sat across the table.

And Zaeng noticed.

His head turned, slowly, following your eyes. His grip on your face didn’t loosen as he studied the second GERMA prince, then gave a low, disdainful scoff that rumbled like a cough caught in his throat.

“Ah. Him.”

The air bristled.

Niji didn’t move. He didn’t smirk, didn’t even toss one of his usual sharp comments. He simply sat there, jaw tight, one hand curling on the table as though resisting the urge to move.

Your father broke first.

“Lord Zaeng,” he said quickly, his voice straining toward calm. “Please, allow me to clarify. My daughter—”

Judge’s deep rumble cut over him. “These rumors are nothing but distractions. We will see to it that they die here. Nothing has happened that would threaten your agreement.”

Zaeng’s grip loosened finally, though his hand lingered far too long against your face, sliding down before pulling back. You felt the damp trace of his touch even after it was gone.

He leaned back in his chair, sneer curling at his lips, lifting a hand for a servant to wipe his fingers clean. “Rumors,” he repeated, dragging out the word as though savoring it. “Convenient. Always rumors, when it comes to daughters.”

Your father paled, bowing his head slightly, voice lower now. “She is young. Foolish, perhaps, but—untouched. I assure you. Nothing has happened.”

“And nothing will,” Judge added firmly, his tone bearing steel.

The men bent their words into appeasement, shaping them into fragile shields, desperate to cage Zaeng’s suspicion. Their voices filled the air, trading promises, bargains, veiled reassurances.

But you barely heard them.

Your skin still crawled where Zaeng had touched you. Your stomach twisted. Your hands clenched beneath the table until your nails bit your palms.

And across from you, Niji still hadn’t spoken.

But his silence wasn’t empty. His gaze flicked to Zaeng, to you, back to Zaeng. His jaw flexed again. His knuckles whitened where his hand curled against the tablecloth.

There was no mockery in his eyes now. No smug smirk.

Just a bad mood. A sharp, simmering tension that radiated like heat off stone. You weren’t sure who it was directed at.

The scrape of cutlery had just begun again when Zaeng lifted a finger, slow, deliberate. The servants stilled as if frozen, their eyes flicking to him with trained obedience.

“I have brought,” he said, his voice puffed up with pride, “the most skilled physician from my estate. He will examine her.”

The words struck like a slap.

At first, you thought you had misheard. That your ears, still ringing from his last hissed order, had twisted the sound. But then he leaned forward, his fingernail tapping the table near your plate, a wet, sticky sound that made your stomach lurch.

“Her purity,” Zaeng clarified, as though discussing the ripeness of fruit. “A simple matter. A physician’s word is law.”

You froze. Your throat went dry. You opened your mouth—

“I did not give you permission to speak.”

His tone sliced through you. Arrogant. Final.

Your lips clamped shut. Your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.

“Lord Zaeng,” your father cut in quickly, his voice trembling beneath forced civility. “Surely such… such a step is unnecessary. My daughter—”

Judge’s heavy voice thundered over him. “Your doubts are misplaced. The matter will be handled between families, not under a surgeon’s lamp.”

Zaeng turned his head slowly, like a predator indulging prey. His smile stretched, yellow teeth bared. “Families make promises. Flesh makes proof.”

Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you would be sick. A cold sweat broke across your neck. All the air in the grand dining hall seemed to vanish.

If he did this—if that doctor laid a hand on you—it would all unravel. Your lie, your stubborn pride, the fragile shield you had thrown up in desperation. You would be exposed, cornered, destroyed.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Your fingers curled into the tablecloth as you forced yourself to speak, voice breaking, “I—”

Zaeng’s head snapped toward you.

His chair creaked as he leaned closer. That damp, foul-smelling breath washed against your face. His eyes narrowed, glinting with satisfaction at your defiance.

“I warned you.” His voice was low, dripping venom. “Future wives who chatter without permission…” His lips twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl. “…tend not to last.”

Your stomach lurched again — this time, uncontrollably. The walls spun, the golden chandelier above seemed to sway, and heat and nausea surged all at once.

You shoved back from the table, stumbling to your feet. Your father’s voice rose in alarm, Judge barked a command, Zaeng hissed something you couldn’t catch—

But you were already moving, your chair toppling behind you. You clutched your stomach, bile rising, vision tunneling as you staggered toward the door.

You had to get out.

Out, before the doctor came. Before your father caved. Before Zaeng’s nails touched your face again.

The last thing you saw before pushing through the heavy doors was Niji — still seated, still silent. But his gaze had snapped to you, sharp, following your every step. And this time, his bad mood was unmistakable.

The heavy doors swung shut behind you with a hollow thud that seemed to echo through the hall. The scrape of your chair still lingered in the air, sharp and ugly. For a moment, no one breathed.

Then your father cleared his throat, the sound brittle, nervous. “I must apologize for my daughter’s behavior, Lord Zaeng. She… she has always been spirited, but—”

“Spirited,” Zaeng repeated, as though tasting the word. His lips curled. “A filly that kicks when bridled.” He plucked another morsel of food with those long, yellowed nails, then sucked it from his fingertip with revolting leisure. “It is of no consequence. I know how to break such habits.”

The chill in his tone sank like ice through the hall.

At the far end of the table, your mother stiffened, her hands folding tightly in her lap. She lowered her gaze, but the faint tremor in her shoulders betrayed her. Hitomi sat rigid beside her, eyes wide, lips pressed shut, as if afraid to breathe too loudly. Even Reiju, who rarely let discomfort show, shifted in her chair. Her smile was gone, her eyes sharp with unease as they flicked between the men.

Yet the brothers remained statues. Ichiji’s face was carved from stone, Yonji tapped a finger against his goblet with bored indifference, and Niji—Niji sat back, arms folded, a faint curl of disdain at his lips. Not one of them spoke.

Zaeng set down his cup with deliberate slowness, the porcelain clicking against the polished wood. “Your daughter is young. That makes her… pliable. She will learn. Or she will break. Either outcome suits me.”

The words slithered into the silence, heavy and vile.

Your father flinched, but forced another thin smile. “Of course. She will… she will adapt. She understands the importance of this union. I will speak to her personally.”

Judge gave a curt nod, as though that settled it. “See that she does. We cannot afford… further theatrics.”

Zaeng leaned back, smug and satisfied, and tore into his meatball with those crooked teeth. A fleck of sauce clung to his beard, gleaming red like blood.

And all around him, the air remained taut, suffocating.

The women lowered their eyes and said nothing.

The brothers kept their silence, unreadable.

And Zaeng smiled, like a carrion bird who already knew his feast could not escape.

Your shoes slapped against the stone floor, echoing in the high corridors. Servants paused mid-step as you ran past, their worried eyes following you, but no one dared call out. You barely saw them anyway. Your vision blurred, your chest heaved, and still you ran—through passageways that smelled faintly of oil and steel, past guards in shining armor who straightened at the sight of you, frowning.

“Princess?” one murmured as you barreled by. You didn’t answer.

You burst outside, the light hitting your eyes like a knife. The salty wind rushed against your burning skin, and you staggered toward the railing, clutched it, and doubled over.

Your stomach lurched violently. Bile scorched your throat. You retched again and again, your body shaking, your nails biting into the cold metal as if you’d be swept away otherwise. The sea churned below, vast and endless, and for a wild, fleeting moment you wished it would rise up and swallow you whole.

When it was over, you stayed there, hunched and trembling, your breath ragged. Tears stung your eyes—not the kind you sobbed out loud, but hot and silent, spilling before you could stop them. You pressed your forehead to the railing, the metal biting into your skin.

He still wanted you. Zaeng. That monster.

It didn’t matter that you’d lied. It didn’t matter that you’d tried to twist everything into your own favor. None of it mattered—because men like him didn’t care about truth or lies. They cared about ownership.

And your father… your father had sat there, nodding, apologizing, promising...A strangled sound tore from your throat, part laugh, part sob.

You slid down, your knees buckling until you were on the deck, curled tight against the railing. You pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, small as you could make yourself. The wind whipped at your hair, tugged at your dress, but you didn’t move.

How could you do it?

How could you walk back inside, sit at his side, pretend—pretend that this was survivable?

You had thought the lie was clever. You had thought the lie could change things. But now it was a noose tightening around your own neck.

The sea roared below. The GERMA ship creaked and groaned. Life around you moved on, soldiers patrolling, servants whispering in doorways. But you stayed still, a small figure curled at the edge of a kingdom that wasn’t yours, crushed under the weight of a choice that had spiraled beyond your control.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, curled against the railing. The wind grew colder, the sky shifted, the bright blues of midday softening into bruised shades of violet and rose.

Your body felt heavy, weighted with exhaustion, but your mind refused to quiet. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—Zaeng’s yellowed skin, his long nails pressing against the curve of your cheek, the way he looked at you like a prize he had already claimed.

You were still trembling when a soft voice broke through the wind.

“Y/N.”

You flinched, whipping your head around. Reiju stood a few paces away, her silhouette lit softly by the fading sky. She wasn’t smiling like she usually did—there was only a calm, quiet sadness in her eyes, the kind that made you want to crumble even more.

“I thought I might find you here.”

You didn’t answer. Your throat was too tight.

Reiju stepped closer, her boots silent against the deck. She crouched down, elegant even in the movement, and extended a hand. For a moment you only stared at it, then finally let her pull you up.

Your legs wobbled beneath you, and Reiju steadied you with a hand at your arm. “Come,” she said gently. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You didn’t resist when she guided you back inside, through the labyrinthine halls of GERMA’s ship. She didn’t speak until you reached her chambers—a room that smelled faintly of flowers, softer and warmer than anything else in this fortress of steel.

Reiju closed the door behind you, and only then did you collapse. The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“It was all a lie,” you blurted, your voice raw.

Reiju blinked, startled, then slowly came to sit beside you on the edge of her bed. She waited, her silence urging you to continue.

“I didn’t—I didn’t sleep with him,” you confessed, your hands twisting in your lap. “Niji. It was just… I thought if people believed it, then maybe… maybe I wouldn’t have to marry Zaeng.”

Your throat burned as the rest spilled out, everything you had held in crashing through like a storm.

“I thought if I lied, if I made it messy enough, my father would give up, or Judge would… I don’t know! I didn’t think it through! I was just so desperate. I couldn’t bear it. And now—now it’s worse. So much worse. Zaeng doesn’t care if I lied, he doesn’t care about anything except owning me. He brought a doctor, Reiju. To—” You gagged on the words, horror twisting in your stomach. “He wants to test me, like I’m livestock.”

Reiju’s brows furrowed, her calm breaking for the first time. But she reached for your hand, her grip firm, grounding. “Breathe,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”

You tried, shuddering, but the tears came anyway. “I thought I was clever. I thought I could change my fate. But all I’ve done is destroy it. And now—now I’ve dragged your family into it, and Hitomi, and my family, and—” Your voice cracked. “Everything is broken.”

Reiju didn’t flinch. She let you pour it out, every jagged piece of your panic and guilt, and when you finally fell silent, she squeezed your hand.

“You’re not broken,” she said softly. “You’re frightened. And you’re trapped in something you never asked for. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.”

You let out a bitter laugh, rubbing at your swollen eyes. “Human? I’d be better off if I wasn’t. If I was like your brothers. No feelings. No pain. Just… empty.”

Reiju’s lips curved into the faintest smile, sad and knowing. “You think that would make this easier?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Anything would be easier than this.”

Reiju shook her head. “No. It would only make you someone else. And believe me, Y/N—you don’t want that. I’ve seen what it does to them. To all of them. You don’t want to lose what makes you you.”

You swallowed hard, your heart twisting. “Then what do I do? He’s not going to stop. My father won’t stop. I feel like… like no matter how I fight, I’m already lost.”

Reiju was quiet for a long time, her gaze steady on yours. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than ever, but certain. “Then you don’t fight alone.”

The words sank into you like a balm, though you weren’t sure you could believe them. But in that moment, with Reiju’s hand still holding yours, you felt a sliver of air return to your lungs.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—not like it usually was when you sat with her brothers. This one was breathable, a pause filled only with the faint ticking of a clock on the wall and the soft scent of flowers drifting from the little glass vase by her bed.

When she finally did speak, her voice was low. Thoughtful.

“You asked if being like them—like my brothers—would make life easier.” She looked at you, her gaze unreadable. “I’ll tell you the truth. Yes. In some ways, it does.”

You frowned, but you didn’t interrupt.

“They don’t cry at night. They don’t know fear, or guilt, or grief. When our mother died…” Reiju hesitated, something sharp flickering across her usually calm expression. “…they didn’t even blink. It was like she never existed at all. That kind of emptiness makes things easier. But it also makes them cruel. Detached. Less than human.”

You shivered.

Reiju’s gaze softened again, almost apologetic. “My brothers… they’re brilliant, they’re powerful, but they were raised in cages. Our father clipped their hearts so they’d never get in the way of his vision.”

She paused, a small, bitter smile curving her lips. “And I stayed. I stayed to clean up after them. To heal the damage they cause. I tell myself it’s mercy. But sometimes… I wonder if it’s just cowardice.”

You shook your head, surprising yourself with the firmness of your voice. “It isn’t cowardice. You’re—” Your voice cracked, but you forced the words out. “You’re the only good thing in this family.”

Reiju blinked at you, startled. Then she gave you a real smile, faint but warm. The kind of smile that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know about ‘good,’” she said quietly.

Your throat closed. The words you wanted to say stuck somewhere between gratitude and despair, and you didn’t have time to sort them out because suddenly—

The door swung open without so much as a knock.

Niji strode in, shoulders squared, expression sharp. “Father wants us,” he announced, his tone edged with boredom. Then his eyes landed on you.

And his lips curled into a sneer.

“Well, well. What the hell is she doing here?” His gaze flicked between you and Reiju, cold and cutting. “Didn’t know this was a charity ward.”

Heat flooded your cheeks—part fury, part shame. You opened your mouth to snap back, but Reiju’s hand on your arm stopped you.

“Niji,” she said warningly.

But he only smirked wider, folding his arms. “Relax. I’m just curious. Thought she’d be too busy crying over her little mess to come hide in your room. Guess I was wrong.”

The way he said it—casual, mocking, like your very presence was something laughable—ignited something deep in your chest. You wanted to scream at him, claw that smug expression right off his face.

But all you managed was a stiff glare, your nails biting into your palms.

Reiju stood, her calm presence suddenly sharper, colder. “Niji. Enough.”

He snorted, clearly unimpressed, but after a moment, he jerked his chin toward the hall. “Father doesn’t like to wait. Let’s go.”

Then his eyes slid back to you one last time. There was something in them, a flicker you couldn’t quite name—amusement? Disdain? Something darker?

Whatever it was, it made your stomach twist.

And you realized, with a sinking feeling, that the safety you’d felt in Reiju’s room had shattered the moment he walked in.

“Stay here.”

Reiju’s hand squeezed your arm one last time before she rose from the bed, her voice soft but firm. And just like that, she was gone, following her brother down the hall with a grace that only made you feel more small, more fragile.

You sat there, motionless, in the quiet of her room. The bedcovers were silk beneath your fingers, but none of it sank in. You only felt hollow. As if everything you had tried to fight for had already slipped through your grasp.

Zaeng’s face haunted you.

Your stomach turned again and you curled forward, clutching yourself. No. You couldn’t stay here. Not even in Reiju’s kindness. You didn’t want to drag her down into your mess.

So you stood, your legs weak but steady enough, and slipped into the corridor. The halls of GERMA were polished, clean, military sharp. But to you, every shadow stretched too long, every corner seemed to whisper your name.

You just wanted to vanish.

But fate never let you.

A voice cut the silence. “Tch. Look at you.”

You froze.

Niji leaned against the wall ahead of you, arms crossed, his sharp gaze catching you like a knife to the throat. He hadn’t been waiting long—you knew it by the casual tilt of his head, the deliberate way he blocked your path.

For once, he didn’t start with a smirk. His expression was flat. Cold.

You tried to pass him without a word, but his arm shot out, barring the way. “What’s the matter, princess? Run out of clever little bites? No fire left in you?”

You stared at him, lips pressed thin, every ounce of strength in you pouring just into standing upright. You had nothing left for him. No retort. No fight.

And that—of all things—seemed to provoke him.

Niji’s jaw flexed, his voice dropping lower, sharper. “Don’t tell me you’re going to crumble now. After all that noise you made. After dragging me into this little circus.” He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “What, you think pouting in silence will save you?”

Still, you said nothing. Couldn’t.

That was when his composure cracked—just a hairline fracture, but enough to see it. His hand slammed into the wall beside your head, making you flinch.

“Pathetic,” he hissed, though the word wasn’t filled with the amusement you were used to. No laughter. No game. Just raw irritation. “If you can’t even keep that stupid fire burning, then what the hell was the point?”

You shut your eyes, trying to will him away, to breathe past the rising panic.

But Niji didn’t leave. He lingered there, too close, his breath brushing against your ear. You could feel the tension in him, like a storm wound tight beneath the skin. “Don’t waste my time.”

Your body trembled as you held your breath, waiting for him to move, to laugh and walk away like always. But he didn’t. He stayed, looming over you.

The words clawed out of you before you could stop them. “Fine. You win. The lie’s a lie, and the doctor will see that. Wasn’t it enough fun already? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

The silence after felt heavier than steel.

Niji’s lips curled—first in disbelief, then in something darker. He pushed forward suddenly, his chest slamming against yours, his hand gripping the wall beside your head so tightly the steel groaned. Your lungs stuttered as his entire frame caged you in.

“Enough fun?” His voice was a low snarl, inches from your face. “Don’t flatter yourself.” His breath brushed your cheek, hot, sharp, unrelenting. “Don’t make me laugh.”

His other hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze up. He was close enough for you to see the faint scar along his jaw, close enough that his heat pressed through your clothes, searing.

And then, his grin widened, cruel and humorless. “Congratulations, princess. Because of your pathetic little game, Father’s decided I’m the one who gets to marry Hitomi.”

The words hit harder than his body against yours. You froze, eyes wide, your breath catching.

He leaned even closer, his nose almost brushing yours, voice sharp and venomous. “You hear that? Your precious sister. Mine. All thanks to you.”

Your stomach dropped, bile rising. You shook your head, but he only pressed harder, his forehead nearly bumping yours.

“This mess you made?” he sneered, his lips curling like a predator. “It’s your fault. And now I get chained to some whiny little girl I don’t give a damn about. So tell me—was it worth it?”

The weight of his body pinned you like prey, his voice dripping venom. Yet beneath it all, there was something else. A bitter edge in his tone, something that wasn’t amusement this time. Almost like hatred—for you, for himself, for the entire game that had gone too far.

Your hands were trembling, your lungs tight, but something inside of you cracked. Maybe it was the mention of Hitomi. Maybe it was Zaeng’s face still burned into your mind, his disgusting nails pressing into his meatball like it was your skin. Maybe it was simply that you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“YOU THINK I WANTED THIS?!”

Your voice rang down the corridor, sharp enough to make the guards outside shift uncomfortably. Your chest heaved, hot tears stinging your eyes, but you didn’t stop. Your fists collided with Niji’s chest, hard and frantic, again and again, like each blow could shatter the reality suffocating you.

“I never asked for Zaeng! I never wanted to be some old creep’s plaything!” You slammed your palm against him, and when his mocking smirk stayed carved in place, your hand whipped up on its own. The crack of your palm against his cheek echoed, leaving your skin burning.

Niji didn’t flinch. He didn’t stagger back. He just laughed. A low, breathless laugh that only sharpened the fury boiling in your veins.

“You think this is funny?!” Your voice broke, breath hitching as you tried to gulp in air. “You—your family—you’ve ruined everything! And now he—Zaeng—he still wants me! He’ll tear me apart to prove I’m ‘pure’ or—or—” Your words tangled into raw sobs, your nails biting into your palms as your body shook. “Do you get it now? I lied because I had no choice! Because it was either this or—”

You couldn’t finish. Your body was heaving, your voice gone ragged, your vision blurring with tears and fury and exhaustion.

Niji tilted his head, one hand rubbing absently at the reddened mark you’d left on his cheek. He was still laughing, shoulders shaking with it, his grin a blade.

“Oh, princess…” he drawled, voice cruelly smooth. “If you’re this much of a mess now, I’d pay good money to see you on your wedding night. With Zaeng.”

His laugh cut sharp and merciless, filling the air between you like a taunt you couldn’t silence. “What’s it going to be, huh? His wrinkled hands all over you—his crooked teeth at your throat—”

“STOP IT!” you screamed, shoving him with everything you had left. Your chest burned, your lungs raw, your entire body quivering.

But he only leaned back, smirk never fading, his voice low and venomous. “Guess you should’ve thought twice before you opened those pretty little lips and lied, hm?”

You were trembling, chest heaving, cheeks burning, but the anger didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened, turning into a reckless, impossible resolve. Without thinking, you closed the last inches of space between you and Niji.

Your lips crashed against his in a sudden, almost desperate kiss.

For a moment, he froze. Surprise flickered in his face as he instinctively tried to pull back. “What the—”

But you weren’t letting him. Every ounce of defiance, every shred of anger, fueled your forward motion. You pressed closer, lips stubborn against his, letting him feel the fire you’d been carrying.

Niji’s smirk faltered, replaced by a look that was part confusion, part…amusement? He tried to lean back, to reclaim control, but your hands gripped his shoulders, your body refusing to let go.

“Well, well…” he finally breathed, voice low and amused. “So this is how you play, princess?”

His tone dripped mockery, but his hands didn’t push you away. He tested the kiss lightly at first, almost as if to tease, but you didn’t relent. He blinked, then chuckled, his lips returning the kiss properly, amusement sharp in every movement.

It was chaotic, heated, unplanned—and somewhere deep down, you realized you were letting him in. Not just the kiss, not just the contact, but the thrill of defiance itself. And Niji, for once, seemed genuinely entertained.

He pulled back just slightly, enough to rest his forehead against yours, still smirking. “Hah… not bad,” he whispered, voice low and teasing.

Your chest heaved, breaths ragged, eyes blazing. You didn’t respond with words. You couldn’t.

You stayed pressed against him, heat blazing between you, and your chest heaving. Finally, unable to hold back the words, you whispered, voice raw and defiant:

“Take me.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

Niji froze, a smirk twisting his lips. “You… really think I’d want you? You’re funny, princess. I don’t see any appeal in you—or in your body,” he said, voice low, mocking.

You refused to step back, refused to let him see hesitation in you. “I don’t care what you see. Take me. Do whatever you want. I’m done playing,” you spat, breathless and stubborn, letting desperation show.

For a heartbeat, his amusement faltered. He stared at you, expression sharp and calculating, as if trying to decide whether to call your bluff. Then, almost reluctantly, a flicker of something like intrigue passed through his eyes.

He finally let out a short laugh, turning his back to you. “Hah… stubborn little pest. Fine.” His steps were slow, deliberate, teasing as he started to walk away, his back rigid with that familiar arrogance. “Follow me. Don’t get in my way—or trip over your own stupidity.”

Your chest pounded, but you didn’t hesitate. You followed him, letting him lead, every step a mixture of fear, frustration, and some wild, intoxicating thrill that made your pulse race.

Niji, as ever, seemed entertained by your persistence. But behind that cruel, mocking exterior, there was a sense of challenge he couldn’t ignore—and that only stoked the fire burning inside both of you.

He led you down the dim corridor, each step echoing in the silence of the GERMA ship. Your pulse raced—not just from anticipation, but from the knowledge of how reckless you were being. Why were you even doing this? You should be running, escaping, hiding. Every rational thought screamed at you to turn around.

Niji, of course, noticed. He glanced back at you, his smirk sharp and knowing. “Nervous?” he taunted, voice low and dangerous. “Thought you were all courage before. Looks like the little princess is scared now.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, and you clenched your fists. You wanted to reply, to tell him he didn’t know anything—but he didn’t give you the chance. He stepped closer suddenly, closing the gap between you. His lips found yours again, firm and relentless, and your thoughts scattered into oblivion. Every fear, every plan, every shred of logic dissolved under the weight of that kiss.

He pulled back only slightly, just enough to let you catch your breath, yet kept you pinned in place, one hand steadying you by the wall. His eyes glimmered with amusement and challenge, and it was maddening. You wanted to pull away, to remind yourself of why this was wrong—but you couldn’t. Not really.

When he finally led you into his room, the familiar space seemed charged in a different way now. The bed, the quiet, the shadows—everything felt like it was pressing down on you, warning you and teasing you at the same time. He stopped at the doorway and looked at you, letting the tension stretch unbearably.

“You know you could still run,” he murmured, voice teasing but low, dangerous. “But somehow… I doubt you will.”

And you didn’t. Your legs moved on their own, following him closer to the bed, heart hammering, mind screaming contradictions. And when he leaned in again, silencing your thoughts, pressing you against him with a confidence that was maddening, you felt every rational argument fall away.

For now, you were caught, willingly, helplessly, and dangerously close to the very person you’d been trying to outwit—and he knew it.

#one piece #one piece x reader #niji vinsmoke x reader #niji vinsmoke #vinsmoke reiju #vinsmoke ichiji #yonji vinsmoke

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yoomiwrites · 8 days ago

Text

Missing Ghost¹⁰

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past.

Note: What??? A new chapter already? Yeah, duh. I have chapter 11 and 12 finished as well, but these two will have to wait a bit longer. Because I have to be mean (and give me time to prepare), so the next chapter will come after 25 reactions! Spoiler: chapter 12 includes what the two of em started in this chapter.

Female Reader. Memory Loss. Slow Burn. Dark Themes. Psychological Manipulation. Violence. Blood. Death. Mentions of past intimacy. Power imbalance. Obsession. Slow-building tension. Emotional distress. Amnesia. Enemies to lovers. Gore. Gaslighting. Kidnapping. Torture. Isolation. Betrayal. Hints of sexual content.

The festival lights still clung to your vision, trailing across your eyelids like fireflies even after you’d left the crowd behind. Music thudded in your skull long after the last drumbeat, long after the fiddles and tambourines faded.

You weren’t sure how many drinks you’d had. Two? Four? More? The sweet fermented fruit the locals poured into cups had tasted so light, so easy, like juice kissed with fire. You hadn’t noticed how fast it burned through your veins until now — when the ground felt like it wouldn’t stay still beneath your feet.

You staggered forward, clutching your own wrist to steady yourself. “Just the pub. Just the room. Easy.”

The night air was cooler than you remembered. The festival was still alive behind you — laughter echoing, bursts of music spilling into the streets, voices shouting names you didn’t know. But here, where the lamps burned dimmer, the world seemed quieter. Narrower. The path stretched like a winding ribbon, but your legs didn’t want to obey. Every step tilted, as if the earth rolled under your bare feet.

You laughed softly to yourself, the sound strange, almost too loud in the silence.

And then — a hand.

Firm, calloused, steady. Fingers wrapping around your arm, halting your stumble mid-step.

Your breath caught, a thousand thoughts buzzing at once, until his voice — low, steady, familiar — cut through the haze.

“Pathetic.”

You turned your head, vision swimming. The outline was unmistakable even if your eyes struggled to focus — broad shoulders, black coat trailing behind him like a shadow, that presence that filled every space without effort.

“Mihawk,” you mumbled, half a smile tugging your lips before you could stop it. “You’re… here.”

“Unfortunately,” he muttered, his tone dripping with quiet disdain. His grip tightened just slightly, enough to stop your swaying.

You blinked at him, trying to make your eyes focus. He was close, too close — and yet your head was spinning far enough that he seemed both a step away and a mile. His golden eyes didn’t soften; they cut right through you, sharp as his blade.

“You can’t even walk a straight line,” he said, voice calm, cold. “What a waste of breath you are.”

You let out a small laugh, half nerves, half wine. “Ohhh, don’t… don’t pretend you don’t enjoy saving me.”

His brow twitched, barely, but his eyes narrowed. “Don’t confuse my tolerance with enjoyment.”

The words should have stung. Maybe they did. But in your haze, they only made you giggle. “Mhm. Tolerance. Sure.”

Your knees wobbled again, and this time you leaned into him without thinking. His hand shifted from your arm to your shoulder, steadying you before you could fall.

“Careful,” he said flatly.

You tilted your head back, peering up at him. His face was carved from stone, expression unreadable. No one would ever call him kind. But his hand didn’t leave your shoulder. His steps adjusted to match yours when you stumbled forward again.

The pub wasn’t far, but the walk stretched long with your unsteady pace. Lantern light blurred in your eyes, turning into halos that swam and doubled. You caught yourself staring at his profile in that faint glow — the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the way his eyes stayed fixed forward, as though he wanted nothing more than to get this over with.

“You…” you started, voice softer, words slurring together. “You watched me. Earlier. At the festival.”

He didn’t glance at you. “You’re careless.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled through his nose — not quite a sigh, not quite irritation. “You draw attention whether you intend to or not.”

You squinted at him, trying to read what that meant, but the alcohol fog made it impossible. Still, the thought of him standing there, watching, refusing to join but not leaving either… it made something warm stir in your chest.

“You could’ve danced,” you teased, swaying into him again as you nearly tripped on a loose stone.

“Do I look like a fool to you?”

You grinned, leaning your head a little closer to his arm. “Maybe. Just a tiny bit.”

His eyes flickered down to you briefly — sharp, assessing — then back to the road. His silence was answer enough.

The pub finally came into sight, lanterns glowing warmly at the entrance. Relief flooded through your chest, though your stomach lurched with another wave of dizziness. Mihawk’s grip tightened again, keeping you upright when your legs threatened to fold beneath you.

“Nearly there,” he muttered.

You smiled to yourself, the words echoing strangely in your ears. Nearly there.

When you reached the door, he pulled it open without releasing your shoulder. The noise from inside — laughter, footsteps, clinking mugs — washed over you, overwhelming after the quiet of the street. You stumbled slightly as you entered, the floorboards creaking beneath you, but Mihawk’s steady hand anchored you.

The innkeeper looked up, blinking at the sight of you and then immediately lowering his gaze at Mihawk’s looming presence. No questions asked. No words spoken. Just a stiff nod before going back to polishing mugs.

Mihawk guided you through the main room, ignoring the stares that followed. His boots were the only sound that seemed clear to you, steady, grounding, while everything else blurred into noise.

At the staircase, he finally spoke again. “Can you make it up the stairs, or must I carry you like a child?”

You giggled, swaying against the wall. “Wouldn’t that be funny? The great Mihawk… carrying me.”

His eyes hardened. “Amusing isn’t the word I’d use.”

Still, his hand didn’t leave you as you began climbing, gripping the railing with your free hand. The steps swam beneath your vision, shifting and tilting, but with his grip you made it — one unsteady foot at a time — until finally, mercifully, you reached the hallway.

He led you to your door, pulling out the key. With a quiet click, it swung open.

The room smelled faintly of the wood floors, of clean sheets and the faint remnants of the herbs the staff must have used. You stumbled inside, immediately leaning against the wall.

Mihawk closed the door behind you. His gaze lingered on you a moment — a long, silent moment — before he finally let go of your shoulder.

“You should learn to control yourself,” he said quietly. “A single night of indulgence, and you crumble.”

You met his eyes, the fog in your head warring with the flicker of defiance in your chest. “Maybe I needed it,” you murmured. “Just… for one night.”

His eyes flickered, barely. That hawk-like stare fixed on you, the silence stretching long enough for you to feel the weight of it.

Then you laughed softly — tired, tipsy, reckless. The sound startled even you, but you couldn’t stop.

“You always rescue me,” you blurted out, tilting your head at him with a lopsided smile. “Don’t deny it. You do. Again and again.”

His expression didn’t shift, but the silence deepened, sharp as a blade’s edge.

You pointed a lazy finger at him, your grin widening. “You like me. That’s it, isn’t it? Why else would you—Dracule Mihawk, the great warlord, the world’s strongest swordsman—be wasting your time saving a mess like me?”

His jaw tightened. A faint glint in his eyes, dangerous, sharp. “You mistake my restraint for affection.”

“Restraint,” you echoed, laughing again, the sound bubbling with wine and cheek. “Cold, cold Mihawk. Pretending he doesn’t care, but always there when I fall. Always watching. Always… catching me.”

You swayed closer to him, the world tilting but your smirk never fading. You tugged at the hem of the shirt you wore, pulling it slightly off one shoulder. Skin bared to the cool air. His gaze flickered there, brief, involuntary, before snapping back to your face.

“Ohhh,” you teased, words sing-song. “Did I break through that stone mask of yours? Just a little?”

For the first time, Mihawk didn’t move. He stood frozen, golden eyes locked on you, something unreadable sparking deep within them. The air between you thickened, taut, like the moment before a blade struck.

You slid the fabric a little further, reckless, emboldened by his stillness. “Admit it. You like rescuing me. You like—”

“Enough.”

The single word cracked through the air, low and sharp, silencing you.

In two steps he closed the distance, towering over you. His hand shot out — not rough, not gentle, but absolute — gripping the collar of the shirt where it slipped from your skin. With a swift motion, he pulled the fabric back into place, covering what you’d dared to bare.

His face was close now, so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the steel in his eyes.

“You think you can provoke me,” he said, voice low, deadly calm. “Play your little games. But I won’t.”

Your heart pounded, the alcohol in your blood suddenly not enough to mask the shiver that ran down your spine. Still, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips.

“You didn’t walk away though,” you whispered, leaning ever so slightly into his grip. “That means I won, doesn’t it?”

His gaze narrowed, golden eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t survive a victory against me.”

For a long, breathless moment, the world stilled. His hand lingered on your collar, anchoring you, his presence overwhelming. Then, with a controlled exhale, he released you, stepping back with all the finality of a blade sliding into its sheath.

“You’re drunk,” he said, his tone flat, dismissive. “Sleep before you say something truly foolish.”

And just like that, the game was over. He had decided it.

But even as he turned from you, retreating to the chair by the window instead of leaving the room entirely, your pulse still raced. Because you knew — for one fleeting moment — he had frozen. And that meant something.

You tried. You really tried.

You pulled the blanket higher, turned on your side, pressed your eyes shut so tightly that shapes danced behind your lids. But sleep wouldn’t come. Not with your heart still thrumming like a storm tide in your chest, not with his words echoing in your skull. You wouldn’t survive a victory against me.

And so you peeked again.

He hadn’t moved. Still seated in that chair, his wide-brimmed hat tipped forward, shadowing half his face. Yoru leaned against the wall beside him, black steel catching the faint flicker of lantern light. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, arms loose but not weak. Even like this — eyes closed, posture at ease — he radiated the same controlled menace as when his blade was at your throat.

But there was something else. Something your wine-fogged brain clung to. The sharp cut of his features softened slightly by the dim light, the long dark lashes resting against his cheek, the slow, even breaths that gave away he might actually be sleeping.

Heat coiled in your stomach.

You turned over again. And again. Frustration burned hotter than the alcohol in your veins until finally, silently, you pushed the blanket aside and swung your legs over the edge of the bed.

The floor creaked faintly beneath your weight, but he didn’t stir. You froze, heart hammering, then tiptoed forward. Each step was careful, drawn out, as if the air itself were a trap.

Closer.

He didn’t react. Not even as you moved into the dim circle of lantern glow that reached his chair. His head rested against the back, one arm draped across the armrest, fingers relaxed in a way you had never seen before.

You couldn’t stop staring.

At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his open shirt. At the pale lines of old scars tracing over skin otherwise flawless. At the strength in his shoulders, corded muscle even when slack. He was built for killing, sculpted by decades of war, yet sitting here, he looked—human.

Your breath caught.

You were close enough now that you could see the faintest movement of his lips with each breath, close enough to feel the weight of his presence wash over you even without his gaze cutting into you.

You tilted your head, gaze lingering too long on the strong line of his throat, on the way a lock of dark hair had slipped loose against his cheek. The air between you grew heavier, thicker, the closer you leaned.

Still he didn’t move.

Your pulse roared in your ears, wild and unsteady. A reckless thought bloomed, dangerous and impossible to uproot. What if I touched him? Just once. What would he do?

Your fingers twitched at your side.

You took another step. Silent. Careful. Yet it felt loud as cannon fire in your head, every motion reckless, every second borrowed time.

And still, Mihawk didn’t stir.

Not yet.

Your hand rose before you even realized what you were doing.

Fingers trembling, you hovered them over his chest, just shy of brushing the fabric of his open shirt. His steady breaths pulled you closer, your body leaning forward as if caught in his gravity. The heat in your stomach surged, crawling into your throat, making it hard to breathe.

Just one touch. That was all.

You let your fingertips graze the air above his skin—

And then a hand clamped around your wrist.

You gasped, the sound sharp in the silence. His grip was unyielding, not cruel, but absolute. His head tilted up, and beneath the shadow of the wide brim of his hat, two golden eyes pierced straight into yours. Awake. Fully aware. As if he had been waiting.

“Childish,” Mihawk said, his voice low, smooth, carrying that cutting edge you’d come to fear and crave. “Sneaking about like this. What were you hoping for?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Caught, burned alive beneath his stare, the heat inside you turned molten, messy.

“I…” you stammered, pulse hammering against his hold. You didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t know what you wanted. Only that you couldn’t stop staring at him — at the sharp lines of his face, at the faint curl of amusement tugging one corner of his mouth.

“Speak,” he ordered softly, his thumb brushing once against the inside of your wrist before tightening again, reminding you who had control. “Or perhaps you cannot. Was this your plan? To hover over me in silence like a lost child?”

Your face burned hotter. You tried to tug your arm back, but he didn’t let go. He was immovable, just like always.

“I don’t…” you whispered, then faltered. “I don’t even know.”

The faintest shift lit his gaze — a spark of something you couldn’t name, interest or disdain or perhaps both. His lips curved, dry amusement bleeding into his expression.

“So you stumble toward me without thought. Without reason. Driven by what, then?” His voice dropped lower, deliberate, dangerous. “Lust?”

Your heart stuttered violently.

He tilted his head, watching the way you froze, the way your breath caught. He saw through you — every crack, every tremor. He always did.

You wanted to deny it. To say something sharp, anything at all. But the words tangled in your throat. You felt hot, restless, exposed under his gaze.

His smirk deepened, sharp and mocking.

“Weak,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair, though he still hadn’t released your wrist. “Flushed and trembling because you crept too close. You remind me of a child playing with fire.”

“That’s not—” you tried, but your voice broke, weak, defensive.

He arched a brow. “Not what?”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. He looked utterly at ease, as if your turmoil amused him. Maybe it did.

“I just…” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I just can’t stop—”

Your throat clenched shut. You bit the rest back, horrified at how much you’d already let slip.

But Mihawk’s eyes gleamed. Sharp. Knowing. Amused in that cold, terrifying way.

“You burn without knowing why,” he said quietly. “Pathetic, yet… entertaining.”

Your knees almost gave out at that, though whether from anger, humiliation, or something else entirely, you couldn’t tell.

He finally released your wrist, slow, deliberate, as if making a point. You staggered back a step, but his eyes followed, pinning you where you stood.

“Go back to bed,” Mihawk said, his tone returning to flat command, though that faint curl of amusement lingered at his lips. “Before you burn yourself further.”

Your wrist throbbed faintly where his fingers had been, the ghost of his grip burning hotter than fire. You should’ve listened — gone back to bed, pulled the covers over your head, pretended none of this had happened.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you squared your shoulders, glaring at him though your heart hammered against your ribs. “You always think you’ve got me figured out,” you muttered, trying to steady your voice. “Like I’m some… pathetic little child.”

“Am I wrong?” Mihawk asked without hesitation.

Your cheeks flamed. “Maybe I’m not as weak as you think.”

The golden eyes narrowed, glinting like a blade under sunlight. He tilted his head, hat dipping just enough to shadow his gaze, though the smirk was still there, sharp and taunting. “Prove it, then.”

The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, but so was the amusement. You realized he was enjoying this — watching you squirm, watching you stumble forward without any idea where your steps would lead.

Your tongue felt dry, but you forced yourself to speak anyway. “Maybe… maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re doing. You keep rescuing me, don’t you? Always there when I should’ve drowned, when I should’ve frozen, when I should’ve—”

You waved your hand, drunk on your own audacity. “Why else would you bother? Maybe you’re in love with me.”

That got his attention.

The room went still, heavy. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, but you felt the weight of his stare crash into you, suffocating. Then, slowly, a low, dark chuckle slipped from him — humorless, sharp as steel drawn across stone.

“In love?” Mihawk repeated, mocking the words, tasting them as if they were a joke. “How little you understand.”

Heat bubbled in your gut again, but you pressed on, reckless. “What else could it be?”

He set his hat aside, deliberate, slow, the air thickening with each movement. “You believe this is love?” His voice cut through you, soft but lethal. “No. This is boredom. A whim. And perhaps…”

He rose from the chair in one smooth motion. Before you could react, he caught you by the arm again, dragging you closer with an ease that stole your breath. His strength wasn’t violent, but it was absolute. You stumbled against him, colliding with the heat of his bare chest.

“…perhaps a chance to teach you a lesson.”

Your mouth went dry. “W-what—”

He didn’t let you finish. With a fluid motion, he pulled you down, forcing you to straddle his lap as he sat back in the chair. You gasped, balance faltering, hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders. The sudden proximity, the sheer solidity of him beneath you, stole every thought from your head.

Your heart thundered. He was too close. Too warm. Too much.

“M-Mihawk—”

“Quiet.” The single word silenced you instantly.

One hand pressed firmly against the small of your back, keeping you in place, while the other slid deliberately up your arm, tracing a slow, taunting path until it rested lightly at the curve of your neck. Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just there, a reminder of his control.

You shivered violently. Your body betrayed you, heat surging, head spinning.

“This,” Mihawk murmured, gaze boring into yours, “is what you ask for without understanding.” His thumb brushed against your skin, featherlight, enough to make you dizzy. “You play with fire, yet cannot bear the burn.”

Your breath hitched, words tangled in your throat. You wanted to protest, to deny it, but your body arched involuntarily under his touch.

His smirk sharpened. “Overwhelmed already?”

“N-no—”

“Lies.” He leaned closer, his voice a razor against your ear. “You tremble, you flush, you can barely think. And yet you dare to provoke me.”

Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, not even realizing you were doing it. The heat, the closeness, the weight of his eyes — it was too much. You were spinning.

Mihawk’s hand at your back pressed harder, pulling you closer until your chest nearly touched his. “Mhmhm,” he whispered, though his tone dripped with amusement now. “You beg without words, yet you do not even know what for. Shall I spell it out for you?”

You shook your head, desperate, not even sure what you were denying.

He chuckled again, low and dangerous. “Exactly as I thought.”

And then, just as suddenly as he’d pulled you in, he released you.

You lurched backward, barely catching yourself on the armrest of his chair. He leaned back, utterly relaxed again, hat retrieved and lowered to shade his eyes, as if the entire exchange had been nothing but a passing whim.

“Return to bed,” he said, voice once again calm, dismissive. “Before you mistake your own weakness for desire.”

Your body burned, your breath unsteady, your mind spinning. He had won — of course he had. And worse, he knew it.

The first thing you felt was the pounding. Not the sound of footsteps, not the creak of the old pub floorboards, not Mihawk’s voice cutting like a knife. No — it was the steady, merciless pounding in your skull.

You groaned, dragging an arm over your face. Your mouth was dry, your tongue heavy. Every breath tasted faintly of wine and smoke. The room tilted when you tried to move, and you pressed your forehead into the pillow, waiting for the world to stop swaying.

Morning.

You blinked against the pale light filtering through the shuttered window. The bed sheets were tangled around your legs, twisted as though you’d been fighting yourself in your sleep. You sat up slowly, every movement setting off another sharp throb behind your eyes.

And then it hit you.

The chair. The heat of his body. Your knees straddling his lap. His hand on the back of your neck, on your spine, holding you down like you belonged nowhere else.

Your breath stuttered.

Had that really happened?

You pushed the covers back, bare legs brushing against the cool air of the room. Everything felt too vivid, too sharp to have been a dream, but still — you were drunk, half-dizzy, and your mind was a haze. Maybe it was nothing more than imagination twisted by wine.

Clutching Mihawk. Teasing him. Saying those words — maybe you’re in love with me.Your face burned hot just remembering. Idiot.

You dragged your hands down your face. Please tell me that was just a dream. Please, please—

But then your gaze fell to your wrist.

The skin there was faintly discolored, tender when you touched it. Not broken, not truly hurt — but the imprint of his strength lingered, as undeniable as a brand.

Your stomach dropped.

No dream.

The chair was empty now, Yoru gone. The room was stripped of his presence entirely, as though he’d never been there at all.

“Mihawk…?” you croaked, your voice raw. Nothing answered but the muffled chatter of the pub downstairs.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there for a moment. Last night clung to you like smoke. Shame crawled hot under your skin. What had you been thinking? Taunting him. Pressing him. Getting on his lap like that — like you wanted something you didn’t even understand.

You buried your face in your hands. “Shit…”

What if he was done with you now? What if you’d pushed too far? He’d said it himself: you were pathetic. Weak. A child playing with fire. Maybe he’d left you here as punishment. Maybe this was it — the end.

You swallowed hard, glancing at your wrist again.

Bruises. Proof.

And suddenly, the weight of it all sank in like an anchor. You hadn’t imagined a thing. He had touched you. He had let you provoke him. He had shown you exactly how powerless you were, and you had fallen headlong into it, dizzy, desperate, stupid.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know if you were doomed because of what you did… Or doomed because, even now, part of you still wanted more.

Still, you forced yourself out of bed. The shower was brief this time, almost frantic, as if you could scrub the shame off your skin. Your wrist ached when the hot water ran over it, a dull reminder you couldn’t wash away. You dressed in the plain clothes you’d bought yesterday, while Mihawks now clean shirt was folded neatly, placed at the foot of the bed.

Your head still throbbed, stomach unsettled, but the thought of staying in the room another second made your chest tight. He was gone. You had to find him.

It was the third day. He’d said three days. That meant today… you were leaving.

You slipped on your shoes and stepped into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness. The streets were busy already — fishermen returning with their morning catch, shopkeepers shouting prices, children darting through the narrow alleys. For a moment, it almost calmed you, the life of the town carrying on like nothing in your world had shifted. But the moment passed quickly, replaced by a nervous pulse in your throat.

Where would he be? He wasn’t the type to linger idly.

You followed your own reasoning: if he intended to leave, he would prepare. Supplies. Food. Wine, probably. That thought steadied you enough to move, weaving through the crowd until you reached the market square.

And there he was.

You spotted him instantly — tall, unmistakable, the wide brim of his hat shadowing sharp features. He stood before a merchant’s stall, inspecting fruit with a look of clinical disinterest, as if every peach or apple were a weapon he might consider and discard. Yoru was strapped to his back, gleaming even in the dappled light that slipped through the awnings.

Relief surged through you, too sudden, too raw. “Mihawk!”

You stepped forward quickly, calling again, “Mihawk, wait—”

But he didn’t look at you.

He set a basket of dried goods on the counter, pulled out a pouch of coins, and tossed it down with a lazy flick of his wrist. The merchant bowed nervously, fumbling to gather the payment. Mihawk, without a single glance, turned toward another stall, cloak trailing faintly in the dirt behind him.

“Mihawk!” you repeated, louder this time, pushing past two women who gave you annoyed looks.

Still nothing.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard you — you knew he had. His eyes had flicked your way, just once, sharp as a blade, before sliding past you as though you were nothing more than one of the children running through the square.

Your stomach twisted. You followed anyway.

“Mihawk, stop ignoring me,” you hissed, catching up beside him. Your headache flared with your rising frustration, your voice ragged.

He picked up a bottle of wine from a stall, held it up against the sun, studied it, then set it back down without a word.

You clenched your fists. “I said something stupid.”

Finally, he let his gaze fall on you — a glance, measured, cool. His eyes lingered just long enough to make you feel small before he turned back to the merchant and asked for another bottle. His voice was calm, deliberate, as though your presence was less important than the price of wine.

Heat rushed up your throat. You wanted to scream. To shake him. To demand that he look at you, speak to you, acknowledge that you existed. But the market buzzed with laughter and chatter, and there he stood — composed, untouchable, ignoring you like the rest of the world did.

For a second, you considered walking away. Letting him prepare for his journey alone. Maybe he’d leave you here, maybe he wanted that. The idea of being abandoned made your chest ache, but the sting of his dismissal almost made it easier to bear.

But you couldn’t. Not yet.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “You can’t just… pretend last night didn’t happen.”

That earned you something — not a word, not a reaction, but the faintest tightening around his eyes as he accepted the bottle from the merchant and slipped it into his bag.

Then, cold and deliberate, he spoke without even looking at you.

“I can not?”

You refused to let his dismissal be the last word.

Your feet carried you after him, weaving between stalls as he moved with maddening calm. He didn’t hurry, didn’t falter, didn’t even glance back, but you stayed close enough to brush his sleeve if you dared.

“Mihawk,” you hissed again, jaw clenched, “you can’t just—”

“Enough.”

It was so soft you almost missed it, but the steel in his tone froze you mid-step. He adjusted the strap of his bag over one shoulder, continued toward the far end of the square.

You followed anyway. Your heart thudded, a cocktail of desperation and irritation pushing you forward. “No. Not enough. You keep ignoring me like I don’t exist, and I—”

Several heads turned.

Merchants paused mid-transaction, mothers tugged their children closer, whispers cut through the air like the rustle of dry leaves. They were staring — not at you, not entirely — but at him. The infamous Dracule Mihawk, warlord of the seas, being hounded by some girl.

And he noticed.

His jaw shifted ever so slightly, eyes sweeping the crowd before narrowing on you.

Then, before you could speak again, his hand closed around your arm — firm, unyielding — and he steered you off the main road with the kind of quiet authority that dared anyone to interfere. You stumbled to keep up, your heart racing, until he shoved you lightly but decisively into a narrow alley. Shade swallowed you both, the market’s buzz muffled by the walls.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“Enough,” he said again, lower this time, his voice a calm blade against your skin. “Keep drawing attention, and I will not be nearly this… accommodating.”

Your breath caught. The weight of his eyes on you was suffocating, and yet—

You swallowed hard. “I just wanted to say sorry. For last night.”

The apology tumbled out before you could stop it.

For a heartbeat, he simply studied you. His hold on your arm eased, but he didn’t step back. The corner of his mouth tilted, not quite a smirk, not quite anything warm.

“I don’t care,” he said finally, each word deliberate, cool. “Girls who try to climb into my bed mean nothing to me.”

Your mouth fell open. Heat flared up your neck, spreading fast, hot and furious. “What—? I didn’t—”

His gaze sharpened.

“You did,” he said, tone flat. “You may not remember it clearly, but I do. And I have no interest in entertaining such childish games.”

Childish. Again.

Your fists clenched, nails biting into your palms. “I am not a little girl,” you snapped, the words trembling with anger. “And I wasn’t trying to get in your pants. Don’t flatter yourself.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just looked at you as if weighing every flicker of emotion you betrayed. Then — slow, deliberate — he released your arm fully, stepping back just enough to give you air.

But the shadow of his presence lingered, pressing against your skin like the edge of a blade not yet drawn.

You were still bristling, your hands balled into fists, when he tilted his head, studying you with that predatory calm.

“No?” His voice was soft, cutting, threaded with mockery. “You weren’t trying?”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer. The alley seemed to shrink around him, shadows pulling in.

“You followed me,” he continued, his tone measured, lazy almost, as though pointing out something trivial. “You begged for my attention. You touched me in the night…”

Your throat went dry.

He leaned in, so close his breath brushed your cheek, and your resolve faltered. The scent of sea salt and steel clung to him, sharper than the wine he so often drank.

His lips hovered a hair’s breadth from yours. “And yet,” he murmured, eyes dark gold and unblinking, “you insist it meant nothing.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your body betrayed you, leaning into him, wanting—needing—something you couldn’t put into words.

It was obvious. Too obvious.

And that’s when he smiled.

Not kind. Not gentle. A slow curl of amusement, sharp and merciless.

Then he pulled back, a scoff leaving his throat as if the very idea of you had bored him. The space between you widened instantly, cold rushing in where his warmth had lingered.

You swayed, heat and humiliation clashing in your chest, and he turned his back on you as though you were nothing more than another noisy distraction.

Point proven.

Your hand shot forward before you even realized what you were doing. Fingers curled into the sleeve of his coat, the heavy fabric rough against your palm as though to anchor you.

He stilled.

The air in the narrow alley sharpened, thickened, though Mihawk didn’t turn right away. His back remained to you, straight as a blade, but the weight of his attention shifted, sinking onto you like a predator debating whether or not to indulge in the smallest flicker of prey daring to resist.

You swallowed hard, your voice low and uneven.

“And what if…?”

At that, he turned. Slowly. His eyes, that piercing gold, locked onto yours, and you nearly regretted the words before you could finish them. But the heat in your chest—the humiliation, the longing, the gnawing desperation of being lost and tethered only to him—burned too hot to stop.

“What if I can’t help it?” you pushed on, your throat dry. “What if I…cling to you? Because you’re all I know? Because I don’t remember anything else—anyone else?”

The words tumbled out, messy and raw. You clenched your jaw, staring up at him, defiance barely masking the tremor beneath it.

His silence cut deeper than any blade.

Then he exhaled, a short, amused breath through his nose, and his head tipped just slightly, as if examining an insect that had dared to crawl too close.

“Your memory will return,” he said evenly. “And with it, you’ll realize how temporary this attachment of yours truly is. Desperation does not equal desire.”

You flinched, but your grip didn’t loosen. The words struck like ice, but they also stoked something reckless in you. Something that had been building since the boat, since the dream, since the moment he dragged you from the ocean.

“What if it doesn’t?”

The words broke from you in a rush, harsher this time. “What if it doesn’t come back? What if all I have is…this?” You tightened your hold on his sleeve, voice cracking, though you forced the words anyway. “What if I do want you? What if I can’t stop wanting you?”

That earned you silence again. A silence that felt even heavier than before.

Mihawk studied you, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Then, in one swift movement, he stepped closer. You barely had time to gasp before your back pressed into the cold stone wall of the alley.

His height loomed, shadow falling over you as he leaned in, so close you felt the warmth radiating from his body, the faint brush of his breath against your cheek.

“What if?” he repeated, his tone flat, but his eyes glinted with something darker, something almost amused.

Your pulse thundered. You could barely think, barely breathe. His presence swallowed you whole.

“If you truly desire me,” Mihawk murmured, voice low enough to scrape against your bones, “then you will need to try much harder than this. A confession in a dirty alley does not sway me.”

Your mouth parted, breath shaky. The words should have crushed you, but instead, they lit something inside you. Challenge. That’s what it sounded like. Not a dismissal, not entirely—he could have ignored you, could have walked away and left you stewing in your own shame. But he hadn’t.

Your fingers trembled against his sleeve, but you refused to let go. “Then…then what would?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, though it didn’t waver this time.

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested a smile.

“That is not for me to tell you,” he said smoothly. “If you wish to play this game, then prove yourself worthy of it. Otherwise…”

His gaze swept down you in one deliberate, chilling motion before flicking back up.

“…remain the desperate little girl clinging to the first man who didn’t let her drown.”

The words cut sharp, deliberate, and your stomach twisted. But beneath the sting, your chest ached with something else—fire, defiance, need. He was daring you. Testing you. And you knew it.

“You’re cruel,” you whispered, though your grip still didn’t falter.

A low hum left his throat, dismissive, though not entirely unamused. “Cruel, or honest?”

You glared at him, heart pounding. “Both.”

His eyes glinted again at that, faint satisfaction flashing across his otherwise impassive face.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the market beyond the alley carried faintly, laughter, haggling, footsteps—but here, the world narrowed to nothing but your pulse and his shadow.

Finally, Mihawk leaned back slightly, giving you a breath of space, though his gaze never released you.

“You want to cling to me?” His voice was softer now, but no less sharp. “Then cling. But understand this—you’ll gain nothing from it unless you prove you can stand on your own.”

The way he said it—like a warning, like a threat, like a promise—set every nerve in you alight.

Your lips parted, but no words came. You could only watch as he straightened to his full height again, gaze still heavy on you before he finally turned, pulling his sleeve free from your grasp with casual ease.

You stood frozen, heart hammering against your ribs, your wrist tingling from where you’d held onto him.

Challenge.

That was all it had been.

And it was more than enough to set your thoughts spiraling, your stomach knotted, your body burning with something you didn’t want to name.

Mihawk didn’t look back as he stepped out of the alley, disappearing once again into the steady hum of the market.

But his words lingered, sinking into you like a blade left lodged between your ribs.

Try harder.

#dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #one piece x reader #one piece

25 notes · View notes

yoomiwrites · 8 days ago

Text

Boring Love⁷

Summary: (Y/N), a reserved shop worker, catches Hawks' attention as he seeks distraction from his hero duties.

Note: Here we go! I really wanted to just...let them talk. So yes, slow paced this time, much deserved after all the quick pace we had. I'm grateful for your support!! Again, the next chapter will be posted after 30 reactions! However, beware that it can not and will not stay this...well...calm and fluff! Also yes, I am lazy and stopped using bold and italic often. ;-;

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The calendar didn’t lie.

Y/N had stared at the little squares longer than she should have, a pen poised between her fingers but never quite touching the page. She wasn’t keeping track — at least, not consciously — but the numbers were there. Weeks slipping into a month, then more. A month and a half.

And in all that time, not a single day had passed without him.

Hawks.

The hero with the easy grin and the too-loud laugh, who made himself at home in her shop as if it had always been his place to perch. He breezed in with feathers at his heels, disrupting the quiet rhythm of her life, scattering it like papers in the wind, and then somehow convincing her it looked better that way.

And now…

Now she had regulars.

Not customers who cared about her crafts or her shelves of little things, no — fans. Young girls with glittering eyes, boys whispering behind their hands, even the occasional nervous adult, all lingering, pretending to browse but really craning their necks toward the door. Hoping. Waiting. Wondering why he came here, of all places.

She hated the way her stomach fluttered every time the bell jingled. Hated the way her heart betrayed her. Hated the way she wasn’t surprised anymore when his red wings filled the doorway, sunlight catching on every feather like fire.

By now, it had become a pattern, and patterns were dangerous.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. Nearly noon.

Lunch break.

Like clockwork.

The shop was emptier than usual, only one girl lingering in the corner, pretending to look at bracelets but too distracted by the sound of her own giggles. Y/N sighed, wiped her hands on the counter, and tried not to anticipate the inevitable.

The bell chimed.

Wings swept in with the crisp winter air, feathers scattering the quiet like a breeze that wasn’t meant to be indoors.

“Yo.”

His voice was light, familiar, infuriating.

The girl in the corner practically squealed, ducking her head as if she wasn’t listening to every word.

“Right on time,” Y/N muttered, not looking up as she pretended to rearrange something that didn’t need it.

“Punctuality’s important,” Hawks replied, smug. “Especially for lunch.”

And then he was there, leaning over her counter with elbows propped like always, golden eyes searching her face as if she’d been waiting just for him.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it escaped, a quiet sigh that earned a tilt of his head.

“What?” he asked, grin tugging at his lips.

“Nothing.” She set the items down a little harder than necessary. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Maybe.” She glanced up finally, meeting his gaze, and was startled by how close he was. “But… I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

Something shifted in his expression, just faintly, like the tilt of a feather in the wind. Not a smile, not a frown — something in between.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “Like how it’s been over a month since you started… this.” She gestured vaguely between them. “Since you made yourself part of my life.”

“Mm. Best decision I’ve made in a while.” He smirked, easy, too easy.

But she didn’t let him slide past this time.

“And how my shop suddenly has more customers — people who don’t care about what I sell, just… about you.”

He chuckled, unbothered. “Occupational hazard of being famous. Sorry about that.”

“And how,” she pressed, her voice growing steadier, “every single day, you show up. Same time. Like I should expect you. Like I should…” She hesitated, words catching. “Like I should be okay with it.”

His grin softened, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “And are you?”

The question landed heavy between them.

Y/N’s hands curled on the counter. She hated herself for the answer that slipped out.

“…I’m getting used to it.”

For once, Hawks didn’t laugh right away. His head tilted, wings folding closer to his back, and for the briefest moment, his eyes softened — like maybe he’d been waiting to hear that.

But she didn’t let him hold the silence for long.

“I don’t understand it,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out before she lost her nerve. “You said we’re friends. Fine. But friends actually… know each other. And I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”

He raised a brow. “Sure you do. You know my favorite word is ‘sweetheart.’”

Her glare was sharp enough to cut. “I’m serious.”

“…So am I,” he teased, but then let the smirk slip. His gaze lingered on her, studying her face, her stubbornness, her demand. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, a low sound.

“Alright. You want answers?”

She nodded once, heart pounding.

“Don’t expect a tell-all,” he warned, tone light but eyes serious. “Some doors don’t open.”

“I’m not asking for everything,” she said, quieter now. “Just… something. Anything. To make this feel less like a game.”

Another pause. He drummed his fingers on the counter, feathers twitching faintly, as if weighing what pieces of himself he was willing to hand over.

“…My childhood wasn’t easy.”

The words were soft, abrupt. He said them like they weren’t meant to be held, just dropped between them like pebbles.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t press. She only nodded.

He gave a small shrug, forcing a crooked smile back onto his lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I turned out great. But yeah… not a story I’d recommend.”

The weight lingered for a breath before he broke it, leaning back slightly. “Favorite food’s chicken. No surprise there.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He grinned, pleased at her reaction. “Grilled, fried, roasted… I’m not picky. Easy, fast, tastes good — what’s not to love?”

She shook her head, but the heaviness had eased a little.

“Color?” she asked, softer.

“Red.” He didn’t even hesitate, wings twitching as if to prove it. “Bit obvious, huh?”

“A little.”

“But it suits me.”

Y/N’s fingers fiddled with the edge of the counter, nails scraping lightly against the wood. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was a strange comfort in hearing him talk about ordinary things. Food. Colors. Things that tethered him to the ground instead of the clouds he usually soared in.

It made him feel… less like Hawks, the pro hero with wings that could cut through the sky, and more like—

Stop it, she scolded herself.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, so… red. Chicken. Childhood… not easy.” She listed them flatly, but her voice softened on the last one. “That’s not much.”

“Careful,” Hawks said, leaning closer again, elbows sinking into the counter. “You ask for too much, sweetheart, I might start to think you’re falling for me.”

Her cheeks burned, but she glared anyway. “Don’t deflect.”

He chuckled, unabashed, and for a moment she thought he would skate past again. But then his expression shifted — subtle, but enough to still her breath.

“I don’t deflect,” he said, tone lower now. “I choose.”

Something in the way he said it made her throat tighten. She swallowed. “So… choose to tell me more.”

He tilted his head, gold eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing her again. The smile stayed, but it was thinner, stretched over something she couldn’t quite name.

“…I grew up in a place where no one looked twice at you unless you were trouble,” he said finally. “Or useful.”

Her heart clenched. “That’s—”

“Stop.” He held up a hand, sharp but not unkind. “That’s as far as this door opens, alright?”

The air pressed heavy between them. She wanted to ask more — wanted to know what trouble had meant for a child, what useful had cost him — but the firmness in his voice stopped her cold.

And yet… there was no anger in his gaze. Only a quiet warning, and something almost protective.

She nodded, reluctantly. “Fine.”

“Good.” His smile softened just slightly, and the sharpness in his voice eased. “Glad we understand each other.”

But she wasn’t done.

“You still expect me to just…” She exhaled, hands clenching against the counter. “To let you into my life like this, and accept that I don’t know who you really are.”

He studied her for a long beat, feathers twitching faintly at his back.

“Sure I can.”

Her jaw dropped. “You—”

“Because you do know me,” he interrupted, voice frustratingly light again. “Not the file version. Not the headlines. But me.” He tapped his chest with one finger, slow, deliberate. “This.”

Her pulse stumbled.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she whispered.

“It makes perfect sense.” He leaned in closer, so close she caught the faint warmth of him, the trace of cedar and leather that clung to his jacket. “You’ve seen me here, every day. Talking. Eating. Laughing. That’s more of me than most people ever get. That’s the real stuff, Y/N. Everything else—” He flicked his fingers as if scattering dust. “—is just noise.”

Her breath stilled. She hated that his words made sense. Hated that he was right.

But still—

“Then let me ask the noise,” she murmured. “Just a little. You don’t have to tell me everything. But something. Anything. A real answer.”

His lips quirked, amused despite himself. “…You don’t let go, do you?”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, he looked almost… proud.

“Favorite season’s fall,” he said suddenly, tone casual. “Best skies for flying. Not too hot, not too cold. Wind’s sharp, keeps me awake.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“…You fly for fun, not just work?”

“Of course.” His grin widened. “Can’t waste these beauties on just patrols and missions.” He stretched one wing slightly, the motion smooth, feathers catching the light. The girl in the corner gasped quietly, but Y/N barely noticed.

Instead, she asked, quieter: “Does it ever feel lonely? Up there?”

Something flickered in his gaze. He didn’t answer right away.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. Being above it all. The quiet, the view… it’s freedom.” His voice softened on the last word, almost reverent. “And trust me, freedom’s addictive.”

Y/N stared at him, heart aching unexpectedly. There was something raw in the way he said it, something that told her he didn’t just like the sky — he needed it.

She looked down, her voice small. “Maybe that’s why you keep coming here.”

He tilted his head. “How do you figure?”

“Because this place… it traps you. Keeps you grounded. Maybe you need that.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before, but different. It wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t awkward — it was weighted, charged, like the pause between lightning and thunder. Finally, Hawks gave a slow smile. Softer than usual. Less for show.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you know me.”

Her breath caught.

And just like that, he leaned back again, breaking the moment with a laugh, as if he hadn’t just unraveled her chest with a few words.

“Anyway,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together. “You still haven’t told me your favorite food.”

She blinked, startled. “W-what?”

“Fair’s fair.” He grinned, playful again. “If I bare my soul, you gotta give me something back. Don’t tell me it’s boring like… salad.”

Despite herself, she huffed a laugh. “It’s not salad.”

“Good. I was gonna have to stage an intervention.”

The tension eased, just a little, but it lingered beneath the surface — humming, waiting. Because the conversation hadn’t just been about food or seasons or colors.

It had been about opening doors. And though he had drawn a line, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d managed to slip a hand through the crack anyway.

The little bell above the door had long gone quiet. The lunch rush never really happened here — the shop was too small — and Y/N preferred it that way. But today, with Hawks sprawled at the counter, wings folded neatly against his back, the silence felt louder.

The take-out container in front of him was already half empty, chopsticks clicking rhythmically as he polished off another bite of stir-fried noodles. He ate with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times in a thousand different places — no hesitation, no nerves, just comfort in the ordinary.

Y/N wasn’t sure why she found herself watching him more than eating. Her own lunch sat mostly untouched beside her, a simple sandwich she’d thrown together this morning.

“You’re staring,” Hawks said suddenly, not even glancing up.

Her face heated. “I’m not.”

“You are.” His smirk widened as he finally looked at her, a noodle dangling comically between his chopsticks. “C’mon, sweetheart. You gotta at least try to hide it better.”

She rolled her eyes, snatching up her sandwich just to give her hands something to do. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mmhm.” He slurped the noodle, unbothered. “If you say so.”

For a few minutes, the only sounds were chewing, the occasional clink of chopsticks against plastic. It almost felt… normal. Normal in a way that unsettled her.

When she pushed the last bite of sandwich away, Hawks was already stretching, wings shifting, feathers rustling softly like a sigh. “You know,” he said lazily, “I could stick around a little longer. Help you out.”

Y/N blinked. “Help?”

“Yeah.” He gestured at the stacks of unopened boxes near the back wall — the weekly delivery of stock she hadn’t had the energy to tackle yet. “You’ve been ignoring those since monday. They’re starting to look offended.”

She frowned at him. “You don’t have to—”

“Didn’t say I had to.” He grinned, already sliding off the stool. “I want to.”

Before she could protest, he was standing among the boxes, rolling his shoulders like he was about to take on a villain instead of cardboard. With a flick of his fingers, crimson feathers detached and zipped neatly into the nearest box, slicing the tape cleanly before floating back to him.

Y/N gawked. “…That’s cheating.”

“Efficient,” he corrected smugly, lifting the box lid. “Besides, I figured you’d appreciate it. Work smarter, not harder, right?”

She shook her head but moved to join him anyway, tugging another box open the old-fashioned way. Inside were neatly wrapped sets of mugs, their glossy surfaces reflecting the light. She began lifting them out carefully, setting them on the counter.

They worked in silence for a while, side by side. She found herself slipping into her usual rhythm — count the pieces, check for cracks, sort them onto shelves. Her hands moved automatically, focus sharpening on the task.

And maybe that was why she didn’t notice.

One of the mugs tipped sideways as she reached for it, and her hand darted out quickly to steady it. Hawks reached too, reflexes faster than hers, fingers brushing against hers as they caught the same mug.

Her hand stayed there a beat too long. The warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his grip — it jolted through her before she even processed it.

She didn’t notice.

But he did.

Hawks froze, golden eyes dropping to their joined hands. Just for a second, his composure slipped. His ears — traitorously visible through his messy hair — flushed faintly red.

Then Y/N followed his gaze.

Her breath hitched, realization crashing in all at once. She jerked her hand back as if burned, the mug wobbling dangerously before she steadied it against her chest. “I—I didn’t—”

His smirk was already creeping back, though a faint pink still clung to his cheeks. “Easy, sweetheart. No harm done.”

“I wasn’t—” She struggled, words tangling. “It was an accident.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, clearly savoring her embarrassment. “Funny how accidents feel deliberate sometimes.”

Her stomach twisted. “You’re imagining things again.”

“Maybe.” His grin sharpened, but his eyes were softer, more searching. “But you noticed it too, didn’t you?”

She swallowed hard, unable to answer.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. She busied herself with the next box, pulling at the tape with more force than necessary, pretending her hands weren’t shaking.

Behind her, Hawks chuckled quietly. Not mocking — almost fond. As if he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

The afternoon light slanted golden through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the beams. Outside, the world carried on as always — footsteps, distant chatter, the occasional car. But inside the shop, it was just the two of them. Alone.

Y/N stacked another set of mugs onto the shelf, but her hands still felt clumsy, her chest too tight after what had just happened. She hated how aware she was of him now — the quiet shuffle of his boots against the wooden floor, the way his wings shifted, filling the small space like they belonged here.

Hawks had gone still behind her, no longer unpacking. She felt his gaze on her back before he spoke.

“You know… we don’t usually get moments like this.”

Her hands froze around the cardboard box. “…Like what?”

“Quiet.” His voice was lower now, rougher than his usual playful lilt. “No noise. No eyes watching. Just… us.”

Y/N turned then, unsettled by the gravity in his tone. His eyes met hers immediately — sharp amber, but not unkind. Something weighed there, heavy enough that she felt it pressing against her chest too.

“You’ve been careful,” Hawks said, taking a step closer. “More careful than before. You’re looking over your shoulder. Checking the locks twice.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door, then back at her. “That’s on me.”

Her throat tightened. She gripped the edge of the box for grounding. “…What are you saying?”

“I mean it’s my fault.” Another step. His feathers stirred faintly, restless. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me to show up, or to… stick around. But I did. And now…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Now, you’re in the line of sight for people you shouldn’t be.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier. Y/N wanted to move, to put distance between them, but her feet stayed rooted. “People?” she echoed softly.

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, as if he was fighting with himself. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t give you names. I can’t give you the whole picture. But I can tell you this much—” His eyes caught hers again, unwavering. “If anything happens around you… it’s because of me.”

Her heart stuttered.

Part of her wanted to demand more. To push until he cracked and spilled whatever truth he was carrying. But another part — the part that remembered the alleyway whispers, the sharp edge of fear when she heard his voice mingled with that stranger’s — knew she wasn’t ready.

Still, she found herself asking, voice quieter than she meant it to be: “…Why tell me this? Why not just… stay away, if you’re that dangerous to be around?”

For a moment, Hawks looked almost startled. Then he smiled, a small, crooked thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because I can’t.”

The words dropped between them like stones into water. Ripples spreading.

Y/N’s chest ached with confusion, with something heavier she didn’t dare name. She gripped the box tighter, grounding herself in its rough cardboard edges. “…You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head, studying her as if waiting for her to break. “But it’s the truth.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the faint sound of feathers shifting.

Y/N finally looked away, busying herself with the box again though her hands shook faintly. “So… what am I supposed to do with that, Hawks?”

His answer was immediate, steady. “Just be careful. Keep your head down. And—” His voice softened, the sharp edge smoothing out. “Trust me when I say I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her laugh came out strained, almost bitter. “You expect me to just… trust you? When you’ve done nothing but keep secrets?”

He smirked faintly, but it was gentler this time. “I expect you to trust that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t mean it.”

Her stomach twisted. She hated how his words slipped under her skin so easily. Hated that despite everything — the fear, the confusion, the unanswered questions — part of her wanted to believe him.

The cat meowed from its perch on the counter, startling her slightly. Y/N turned away, busying herself with scratching behind its ears, using the motion to hide the mess of her expression.

Behind her, Hawks’ feathers shifted again, a quiet whisper of movement, as if he was giving her space without stepping back. But even with the space, his presence filled every corner of the room.

The silence stretched until Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. She turned, still keeping one hand on the cat as if it grounded her, and fixed Hawks with a steady look.

“That night,” she said. Her voice was thin, almost breaking in the middle. “The one in the alley… when I heard you talking. Was that—” She hesitated, her lips pressing into a line before she forced it out. “Was that person… dangerous?”

Hawks’ expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The easy curve of his mouth flattened, his eyes sharpening like glass catching the light. For once, there was no lazy smirk, no teasing edge to hide behind. Just the truth pressing against the walls of his chest.

“Yes,” he said finally. One word, steady and unflinching.

The cat gave a soft purr as if mocking the heaviness that lingered between them. Y/N swallowed, her throat dry. “And if I’d been seen—” She broke off, unable to finish.

“You weren’t,” Hawks cut in quickly, voice firmer now, leaving no space for doubt. “I made sure of that.”

She searched his face, but his gaze didn’t waver. That same strange feeling twisted in her chest again, a knot of anger and… something else. Something she didn’t dare name.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Will I ever be safe again? Even without you here?”

Hawks blinked, and for the first time since stepping into her shop that afternoon, he looked… tired. Not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep could fix, but the kind that settled deep into your bones, carved by years of weight carried alone.

“That’s the goal,” he said quietly, almost like he was admitting it to himself. “To make sure you are. With or without me.”

Y/N felt her heart lurch at the way he said it — not a promise, not a guarantee, but a goal. Something he was striving for, but couldn’t claim yet.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, more for comfort than defiance. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

His lips quirked, the faintest ghost of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Maybe not. But it’s the best I can give you right now.”

The air between them thickened, every word pressing down heavier than the last. Y/N didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or simply laugh at the absurdity of it all — at how a man like him, with secrets stitched into every part of his being, had managed to wedge himself so deeply into her quiet little life.

And yet, even as fear curled cold in her stomach, warmth bloomed treacherously in her chest at the same time.

Hawks leaned back against the counter, arms crossing casually, though his eyes still carried that sharp weight from before. For a long beat, neither of them said a word. Then, in that way of his, he broke the silence with something that almost felt absurd.

“You know,” he began lightly, “I’d actually watched you before that night in the alley.”

Y/N’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?”

He smirked, rubbing the back of his neck with mock sheepishness. “Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy way—but hey, I’m a busy guy. If I’m choosing to waste my time, that says something, doesn’t it?”

Her stomach twisted. “You watched me?” The word felt wrong on her tongue, and her voice had that sharp edge of unease.

“Mhmm.” Hawks tipped his head, golden eyes glinting with mischief. “You just… stood out. Everyone else on the street was rushing, talking, calling, living. And then there you were, walking with your head down, glasses slipping, like the world was moving a hundred miles an hour and you were stuck in slow motion.”

Y/N stiffened, unsure if she was insulted or unnerved. “So what—you thought I was boring?”

His grin widened, unbothered. “Exactly.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “So boring… it was interesting.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You—” She cut herself off, cheeks warming in frustration. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does.” He straightened, feathers twitching at his shoulders like punctuation. “See, boring’s safe. Boring’s steady. I spend most of my life dealing with people who are anything but. And then there was you. Just living your little routine, with that stubborn look on your face, like the world couldn’t push you around. It caught my eye. And here we are.”

Her heart gave a traitorous skip. She hated that his words had a strange warmth tucked beneath the teasing. She wanted to stay annoyed, wanted to tell him to get out, but his crooked smile and that lazy confidence made it so much harder.

“That’s not a compliment,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“Sure it is.” He chuckled, soft but smug. “Besides, boring people don’t usually argue this much with me. So maybe I was wrong.”

Y/N told herself not to look away.

That if she held her ground, if she met his eyes, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how rattled she felt. But Hawks had a way of shrinking the space between them without even moving an inch. His grin softened into something sly, his gaze glinting like molten amber, and she swore she could feel the warmth radiating off him even from across the counter.

Then he moved.

Slow. Measured. Each step was deliberate, his boots barely making a sound against the worn wooden floor. Y/N’s heart thudded in her ears, the rhythm quickening with every inch he closed. She froze, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as if it could anchor her.

“What are you—”

Her voice broke off as he kept coming. Too close. Way too close. She could see the fine detail in his lashes, the faint scar nicking through his brow, the curve of his smirk tugging at his lips.

And then, he leaned in — his chest nearly brushing hers. Her breath hitched.

Something small clattered against wood.

Y/N flinched, only to follow his gaze just in time to see a tiny figurine — a delicate porcelain trinket from one of the shelves — teetering on the edge.

Her eyes flicked back to him, incredulous. He could have caught it with his feathers. He could have just—

Of course, he didn’t.

Instead, Hawks reached past her, his arm brushing her side, his presence so near that she could feel the air stir with the motion. His hand closed gently around the figurine, steadying it, and he placed it back on the shelf with exaggerated care.

“All that fuss…” he murmured, voice low enough that the sound curled along her skin. His lips were curved in that infuriating grin, so close she could count the teeth behind it. “…over something so fragile.”

Y/N’s pulse jumped, and she hated that heat rushed to her face. “You could’ve used your feathers.”

“I could’ve.” He leaned just a fraction closer, eyes bright with amusement. “But then I’d miss this reaction.”

Her cheeks burned. “Y-you—”

“Shh.” He smirked, as if savoring the way she stumbled for words, his breath brushing against her temple.

And just as Y/N’s nerves coiled tight, like a string pulled to its breaking point—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

The sharp vibration of his phone cut through the moment. Hawks sighed, glancing at the glowing screen, and Y/N swore she saw his shoulders tighten in the faintest way before the casual mask slid back into place.

“Duty calls,” he said lightly, his tone breezy but his eyes sharper, more focused. With one hand, he swiped the device up, the other still braced casually on the counter as though he hadn’t just cornered her there a second ago.

Her mouth opened, ready to demand an explanation, to ask why he had to leave now, but the words caught in her throat when she saw his expression. A flicker of something serious, gone in a blink.

He pocketed the phone, stepped back — and just like that, the suffocating closeness evaporated, replaced by the yawning space between them. Y/N hadn’t realized how much she leaned against the counter until he was gone from her side, and her knees threatened to give.

“Guess I’ll have to save the rest of that for next time.” He flashed her a wink, feathers rustling faintly as he moved toward the door. “Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.”

The bell above the shop door jingled, and in an instant, Hawks was gone.

Leaving Y/N gripping the counter, her heart racing so fast she wondered if it might actually give out.

The streets were quieter than usual that evening. A hush had settled over the city, broken only by the occasional hum of passing cars or the distant bark of a dog. Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself, the collar brushing her chin as she adjusted her hood. She didn’t like walking home in the dark. Not anymore. Not after what Hawks had said.

People were watching her.

The words stuck like a splinter in her mind. He hadn’t needed to say much — the flicker of seriousness in his eyes had been enough. Whoever that girl was from the other night, she wasn’t some passerby. She was dangerous. And if Hawks hadn’t shown up when he did… Y/N swallowed hard, refusing to finish that thought.

Her steps echoed along the sidewalk, cat next to her, her breath puffing out white against the evening chill. She kept her head down, but her eyes darted to every shadow stretching across the streetlamps, every movement in the corner of her vision. Was someone following her? Was it just her imagination?

She hated this feeling. The constant second-guessing. The way fear curled deep in her stomach, coiling tighter with every step. She hated that she didn’t feel safe in her own neighborhood anymore, in her own skin.

But most of all… she hated that the only thing keeping her from completely unraveling was him.

Hawks.

The memory of his voice came unbidden, light and teasing as always — but beneath it, she remembered the way his tone had dipped low when he told her not to worry. When he said he’d make sure she was safe. It had been the first time she’d heard something raw in his words. Not just charm. Not just playfulness. A promise.

And Y/N found herself clinging to that promise like it was the only thing left holding her together.

Her key scraped against the lock as she reached her apartment, fingers trembling more than she wanted to admit. She slipped inside right after the cat, shutting the door and pressing her back against it. The familiar clutter of her small space greeted her, but it didn’t chase away the unease.

Her eyes flicked to the window. Curtains drawn. Locks checked twice.

You probably shouldn’t walk alone in the dark anymore.

She bit her lip, hugging her arms around herself. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked for strange girls with twisted grins to lurk outside her shop, or for a Pro Hero with secrets deeper than the ocean to wedge himself into her life. She wanted normalcy. She wanted quiet.

And yet…

Her chest tightened as she thought of Hawks again. The easy laugh that seemed to slip from him at the strangest moments, the way his wings filled a room before his words even did, the infuriating habit he had of barging into her world and rearranging it without permission. He had tangled himself into her days so thoroughly that she almost couldn’t remember what her routine had been before him.

And despite her fear — despite the danger — Y/N knew one thing for certain.

She trusted him.

She didn’t know when it had happened, or how. But she trusted that no matter how dangerous things became, no matter who was watching, Hawks would step in. She trusted that he’d keep her safe.

Her cat shifted on the rug, curling into a ball with a content sigh. Y/N let herself slide down against the door, knees to her chest, staring blankly into the dim glow of her apartment.

It should terrify her, putting her safety into someone else’s hands.

But for the first time that night, she allowed herself a shaky breath.

Because no matter what, she believed he wouldn’t let her fall.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Tags: @justyna4a @f3r4lfr0gg3r

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #keigo takami #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader

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yoomiwrites · 9 days ago

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I can’t remember exactly where I saw it (or who wrote it), but I still think about this really, REALLY cool project on Tumblr from about 3–4 years ago.

Basically, three authors teamed up to write a connected x Reader story. Each of them took a different perspective: one was x Zoro, one x Sanji, and one x Usopp. All of the stories were intertwined, so you could read the whole thing from different points of view.

Of course, not all of them could just be “Y/N.” In each story, that person was the “main Y/N,” while in the other stories they appeared as B/F (best friend) or R/F (rival friend). At least I think that’s what the abbreviations were—my memory is a little fuzzy.

That’s the kind of project I’d love to try for next year: one story told from multiple perspectives. Maybe with co-authors like that, or maybe just written all by me—which would definitely be simpler.

I do have other projects coming up first, but this could very well become one of my early 2026 projects. If you have ideas for which characters would be perfect for something like this, let me know!

#one piece #one piece x reader #askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 9 days ago

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Goal reached!! Next chapter tomorrow or the day after, depends on how fast I manage to finish it :'D

Boring Love⁶

Summary: (Y/N), a reserved shop worker, catches Hawks' attention as he seeks distraction from his hero duties.

Note: Took me a while to write this. But please don't worry, the story will continue! It just wasn’t as easy for me as I thought it would be to start the progress of their relationship. Most of you enjoy the 3rd pov (she/her) the most, so, as for now, we will stick to it. This chapter has some jumps, since, as I said, Y/N & Hawks needed a realistic growth. The next chapter will be more detailed AND a bit more deep dive into the plot, the danger and more.

Next chapter after 30 reactions!

♡☆♡

There was something about quiet evenings that always made her feel a little heavier. Not in a bad way — just... slower. The sky was already turning grey-blue, the last brushstrokes of sunset fading behind the buildings as Y/N stepped out of her shop and locked the door.

Click.

One turn.

Then two.

She stood there for a second longer than necessary, keys still in her hand, the metal cool against her fingers. She didn’t know why.

Maybe because lately, she kept expecting something to happen.

Nothing ever did.

Except when it did.

She slipped the keys into her coat pocket, adjusted her bag over her shoulder — and lifted her eyes across the street.

Someone was standing there. It took her brain a beat to register what she was seeing. A girl. Maybe her age, maybe younger. She wore a pale coat, wrinkled like it had been slept in. Her hair was light, pulled up loosely, strands falling messily around her face. But it wasn’t the clothes. It wasn’t the hair.

It was her eyes.

Locked directly onto Y/N’s.

Wide. Bright. Too bright. Like they were studying her face and storing every detail.

Y/N froze.

She didn’t move.

The girl didn’t blink.

There was something off in the stillness. Not just eerie — wrong.

And then the girl smiled. Not the kind of smile strangers give when passing by. Not friendly. Not polite. A slow, curling smile that looked more like a private joke. One Y/N wasn’t in on.

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

She wanted to look away.

She couldn’t.

And then—

A hand touched her shoulder.

“Hey.”

Her stomach dropped — and for one terrifying moment she thought she was about to die — until she turned her head sharply and saw him.

Hawks.

He stood right beside her, hoodie on, golden eyes gleaming under the shadow of it.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t playful.

He just looked at her — steady, calm, composed.

And as her gaze instinctively flicked back to the other side of the street—

The girl was gone.

Y/N blinked. Her throat went dry.

Nothing.

No footsteps.

No retreating figure.

Just empty sidewalk.

“Who was that?” she asked, her voice thinner than she wanted.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Dunno,” he said finally. Too fast. Too smooth. “You okay?”

She stared at him, then slowly nodded.

But Hawks wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was facing the street now, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, body angled slightly in front of hers — like a shield. His posture was relaxed. His voice casual. But he wasn’t being casual. She knew it.

He turned back toward her, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You think your cat’s gonna yell at me again if I show up at your place?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Not that I blame it. Feisty little thing. Think it wants to be your bodyguard. Maybe it’s jealous.”

She stared at him for another few seconds, trying to push past the fog in her head. And then — before she could ask anything else — he nodded at her.

“Go home,” he said gently. “Lock the door. Curtains drawn. You’ll be fine.”

He started walking before she could reply. Hands in his pockets, head lowered like nothing in the world was wrong. But behind her, Y/N could still feel that smile. That grin. Etched somewhere behind her eyes. Gone now. But not forgotten.

The world didn’t feel right anymore. Not like it had ever really fit her — but now, it sat crooked on her shoulders, like a coat tailored for someone else entirely. Y/N walked home in silence. Not because the streets were quiet, but because her thoughts were too loud.

That girl.

That smile.

And then... Hawks.

Always appearing when things started to go sideways. Always knowing something he shouldn’t. And yet, acting like none of it was a big deal. Like this was normal.

The keys trembled slightly between her fingers as she unlocked her door. One turn. Two. Inside. Lock. Latch. Slide the bolt. She dropped her bag onto the floor and pressed her back against the door for a second, eyes fluttering shut.

It was quiet.

Still.

The cat — already curled up on the arm of the chair — barely stirred when she entered. One ear twitched, but that was it. Like it knew this routine already. Like he’d been coming and going often enough that it didn’t care anymore.

Y/N drew in a breath and remembered his words.

Curtains drawn.

She moved to the window, tugging the thin curtains shut. The cheap fabric barely helped, but it gave her a small illusion of privacy. Of safety. She flipped the light off in the kitchenette, lit one dim lamp, and slumped onto the bed. The silence stretched. The cat shifted, settling near her feet like it always did.

Time passed, but she didn’t sleep. Her eyes remained open, tracing the cracks in the ceiling, the chipped paint by the light switch. Anything to keep from thinking too hard.

And just as her mind began to dull, slipping into something like stillness—

Knock knock.

Her heart skipped.

She sat upright.

The cat lifted its head too, ears alert.

It knocked again. Two taps, unhurried. Like the person behind the door knew she was home. She didn’t have to ask who it was. Something in her bones already knew. She got up slowly, bare feet against cold floor, and tiptoed to the door.

She didn’t open it yet.

“…What do you want?” she called, voice steady despite the weight in her chest.

“Just let me in,” came the reply.

And before she could protest or even take a breath, a feather slipped under the door and slid the bolt from the inside.

Click.

He let himself in.

“Seriously?” she hissed, stepping back in disbelief.

Hawks — the Hawks — walked into her tiny apartment like it belonged to him. No wings again. Just the faint shimmer of feathers moving around his shoulders — helping themselves to her space. One closed the door behind him. Another floated toward her fridge. A few trailed after him lazily like they didn’t even need instruction.

He held a brown bag in one hand and looked… annoyingly comfortable.

“What are you—?”

“Relax,” he said, pulling open her fridge. “I brought food. Yours was empty.”

He didn’t ask permission.

He started unloading like it was the most natural thing in the world — eggs, instant noodles, some canned things, and a container of pre-cut fruit. Then a smaller bag with dry cat food, and a couple of those weirdly fancy pouches with pictures of tuna and salmon on them. The cat was already padding over, rubbing against his leg.

She just stood there.

Watching.

Words caught in her throat.

“What... are you doing?” she finally asked, her voice tight with disbelief. He looked over his shoulder and blinked, almost surprised she was upset.

“You didn’t have anything in your fridge,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “Not even expired ketchup. It was kinda sad, honestly.”

“That’s not your problem,” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks now. “You can’t just—just walk in here and act like—like this is your place!”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable look.

“I didn’t say it was mine.”

“Then why?” she asked again, more forceful now. “Why are you doing this? What is this? Some kind of… surveillance project? Is this part of your mission? Pity? Curiosity?”

Her breath caught on the last word, and she didn’t know why.

He didn’t answer right away. The room felt heavier with the silence.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he said, voice finally softer, losing some of that usual playfulness. “That’s all.”

She stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You don’t even know me.”

He looked at her for a long moment — like he wanted to say something else, something truer. But he didn’t.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “I don’t. But maybe that’s why I can’t leave it alone.”

That didn’t make her feel better. Not really. She turned away, arms wrapping around herself tightly, her back to him now.

A moment passed. Then she heard the feather-light sound of movement. His footsteps approaching slowly.

“I’m not here to mess up your life,” he said gently, just behind her now. “I’m not here to break anything. Or watch you like some science project. But…” He hesitated.

“You’re not okay.”

She flinched. Just slightly. But enough.

He didn’t press it.

Instead, she heard him move again. This time to the little spot where the cat was now batting at a feather in mid-air.

“Anyway,” he said, shifting tone again, lighter now. “Food’s in the fridge. Don’t die of starvation. I like knowing you're alive when I get bored.”

She turned, blinking. “That’s… not funny.”

He grinned. “Didn’t say it was.”

Then he headed for the door, feathers collecting behind him in that eerie, elegant way.

“I’ll let you yell at me more next time,” he added, cracking it open. “You look good when you’re pissed off. Fire in the eyes.”

“Get out,” she muttered.

“Already on it.”

And with a wink, he was gone.

The door shut.

Silence returned.

Only the sound of the cat, still purring and sitting near the bag of new food.

Y/N didn’t move for a long time. She just stood there. Trying to understand when, exactly, this had stopped being her life. And become theirs.

Keigo pov.

She reminded him of a place he never wanted to go back to.

That was the problem.

The real one.

Keigo stood on a rooftop two blocks from her building, the wind tugging gently at the hem of his coat, his hands buried in his pockets, feathers quietly orbiting his back like lazy stars. The city below bustled and buzzed, unaware of him. That was the way he liked it. Hawks was always seen, always known — the charming number two with the smug grin and fast words — but Keigo?

Keigo was good at staying invisible.

He’d been trained to be. Conditioned. Engineered.

And still, he hadn’t been prepared for her.

Her tiny, cold apartment.

The nearly empty fridge.

The half-broken radiator and too-thin walls.

All of it had stung — sharper than he’d expected.

He’d laughed it off in front of her. Played it cool. Too cool. But the truth hit him like a sucker punch the second he stepped inside her life: he recognized it.

He recognized her. He’d lived that life. Once. Frozen toes. Cramped rooms. A silence that felt like a second skin. No parents worth remembering. No warmth unless it was stolen from someone else.

And worst of all — that empty fridge.

She was surviving. Not living.

Just like he used to. And maybe that was what made it so hard to walk away. He knew he should have.

From the very beginning, he’d known. She wasn’t part of the job. She wasn’t some intel asset or villain contact. She wasn’t a witness he needed to protect.

She was just... there. Across the street. Ordinary.

Almost too ordinary.

And somehow, that had made her stick in his mind.

Because Keigo had spent so long pretending he didn’t miss ordinary.

Then she looked up. One day. Just once. And her expression didn’t change. No awe. No flustered admiration. No shy fawning. Just a polite glance and a return to whatever she was doing. That shouldn’t have affected him. But it did. He wanted to understand her. And now… he wanted more than that.

He’d told himself he’d only watch her from afar. Boredom, that’s all. A dumb habit to kill time between missions. A curiosity. A passive thing.

But the truth was never passive. Not with her.

Not after he saw her in that alley — real fear in her eyes, the cat clutched to her chest like a lifeline.

Not after he heard her breath hitch when she recognized his voice.

She knew.

And that changed everything.

He should have erased himself from her life right then and there. For her safety. For his mission. For everything he was tangled in with the League of Villains.

But Toga had looked at her. And Hawks had seen it — that glint in Toga’s eye. The obsession. The hunger. That particular flavor of dangerous interest she developed when someone caught her attention. She’d smiled like a wolf.

He couldn’t let that happen.

And maybe that was the moment he knew it was too late. That he'd stepped too far in. Because he didn’t just want to protect her.

He wanted to know what she dreamed about.

What made her laugh.

What made her angry enough to raise her voice like she had earlier when she told him to stop acting like her apartment was his.

He liked her like that — fiery.

Not scared. Not closed off.

He wanted to get under her skin.

He wanted her to let him in.

Not as Hawks.

Not as the winged hero or the League’s shadow spy.

Just… Keigo.

The one she didn’t know.

The one no one ever got to know.

But that was the danger. Wasn’t it?

Because if he let her in, if he lingered too long in her life — then the whole house of cards he’d built would tumble. She’d get pulled in deeper. And this time, there wouldn’t be a cat to warn her, or a hero to swoop in at the last second.

And yet…

When he saw that cheap little fridge empty, the mess around her apartment, the bags under her eyes — the way she didn’t even flinch when he raised his voice just a little too loud —

He realized she wasn’t scared of him. She was scared of being seen. And Keigo knew that kind of fear too well.

It had lived in his chest for years.

So he brought food. And supplies.

And stayed longer than he should have.

Let her yell at him. Let her glare.

Because even if she hated him for it, at least she wasn’t invisible anymore. Not to him.

Y/N pov

He came every day.

At the same time, without fail.

Just past the quiet lull of lunch, when the city’s tempo slowed and the shop felt like a sigh between breaths — that’s when the door creaked open. That soft chime rang out, far too cheerful for her taste, announcing the arrival of the loudest man she had ever met.

At first, Y/N said nothing. She barely looked up. Eyes on the counter, hands organizing the same stack of postcards that had already been sorted twice that morning. He didn’t seem to mind. He talked anyway. Filled the quiet space with words like he was afraid of silence — or maybe he just thought it was his job to fill it.

Hero. Performer. Distraction.

He commented on everything — the weather, the way the wind messed up his hair (which it didn’t), how one of the figurines in the back reminded him of his sidekick from a few years ago (she suspected that was a lie). He even asked if she ever dusted the top shelves or just let fate handle it.

Y/N ignored him.

At first.

Then he started asking questions.

Some made sense.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Do you actually like this job, or just need the paycheck?”

Reasonable, she supposed. Mildly annoying.

But then…

“Why don’t you wear your hair down more?”

“Do you always eat chocolate bars instead of lunch?”

“Were you close with your parents?”

“Do you ever get lonely in here?”

Too much.

And always said with that damned voice of his — all smooth amusement and teasing edges, like none of it really mattered. Like he wasn’t slipping daggers beneath the words just to see how deep they’d sink before she noticed.

She did notice.

She just pretended she didn’t.

Because what else was she supposed to do? Ask him to leave? As if anyone ever told someone like Hawks to leave and got what they wanted. He always seemed to dodge confrontation like he had feathers instead of bones — slipping right through it with a grin.

But what gnawed at her, what truly began to unsettle her, was that she wasn’t sure if it was all just a game to him or something worse.

Because…

He was good at it.

He didn’t ask obvious questions all the time. Sometimes, he’d just mention something off-hand, and it would stick in her mind long after he left.

“You always push your glasses up with your left hand. Habit or quirk?”

“You smell like lavender tea today. Not coffee like usual.”

“You restock the same shelf three times when you’re stressed.”

Observant. Too observant. It wasn’t just that he was paying attention. It was that he was learning her. Thread by thread.

And she?

She knew nothing about him.

Not really.

She knew the public image. The hero. The wings. The humor. The bravado. But the man? Nothing.

He told her stories sometimes. Little things. Anecdotes, they seemed — someone pulling his scarf in a crowd, a fan giving him a hand-knitted hat that was too small. They sounded real. But she couldn’t tell if they were. There were holes in his sentences. Empty places he filled with smirks and shrugs and effortless charm. But the hollowness was there. Always.

He never slipped. Not really.

And that, too, bothered her.

She didn’t know when it happened — when her disdain softened into something else. It wasn’t trust. Not even comfort. But... recognition. He unraveled her in the small moments, so gently that she didn’t notice until she was staring at herself differently in the mirror.

She started realizing that he knew what made her nervous.

What made her tick.

What made her curl inward without saying a word.

He knew.

And she hated that.

But more than that — she hated that he never used it against her. He just watched. She caught herself waiting for the door to open at his usual time. She told herself it was because he annoyed her and she needed to brace for it.

That was a lie.

Because when he didn’t show one day — just once, for reasons he didn’t explain — the silence felt too heavy.

She restocked the same shelf four times that afternoon.

And when he came back the next day, leaves in his hair, smirk on his lips, with a paper bag of overpriced onigiri and a bottle of water for her “tragic lunch habit,” she said nothing.

She just took the food, looked him in the eye, and muttered a quiet, “Thanks.”

His grin widened — not victorious, not smug.

Just… warm.

Too warm.

And it burned.

Y/N knew she was losing ground. That she was slipping.

And that scared her more than anything.

Because if someone like him — someone with secrets, with eyes that had seen war, with wings that could fly away at any moment — could make her feel seen, then what would it mean when he eventually left?

Because he would. That was what people did.

But until then…

She stared at the clock.

And waited for the door to chime.

The tea had gone cold in her hands.

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, legs tucked beneath her, staring through the cracked-open door into the small kitchen that was no longer hers. Not really. Not completely.

He was in there — Hawks, barefoot, sleeves rolled, laughing under his breath at the cat batting at a ribbon he dangled from one of his feathers. The sound of it — the quiet, natural ease of it — made her fingers tighten around the mug.

It had been like this for weeks.

Gradually. Subtly.

Like a quiet tide rising too slowly to notice until your ankles are wet.

The apartment had changed.

It had warmth now. Literally. The heater clicked on without protest. The cold draft from the window was gone — sealed, apparently. Her fridge, once desolate and echoing, now carried the low hum of being half-stocked. Nothing extravagant, but still… food. Real food.

There were new dish towels hanging on the oven handle. A second mug next to hers in the drying rack. Cat toys in corners she hadn’t meant to allow. A new lock on her door.

And none of it was hers.

Not really. Not by choice.

She knew who had done it.

He never admitted it.

He just smiled that too-knowing smile when she brought it up, shrugged with his hands in his coat pockets, and said things like, “Weird, huh? Maybe your luck’s turning around.”

Liar.

A feather twitched, swirled in the air, teased the cat’s paws again. Y/N watched it spin like a leaf, graceful and slow, as her heart picked up pace.

It wasn’t just her home that had changed.

It was him.

Or maybe, it was her — how she saw him now.

A disturbance. A presence. A hero. A liar. A stranger who walked through her life like he belonged in it.

And now?

He was boiling water for pasta as if he had every right to be here.

She stood. Quietly placed the mug down. Padded into the kitchen on socked feet until her voice — soft, restrained, tight with confusion — cut the air between them.

“We’re not friends.”

He looked up. A smile already forming.

“I know,” she said before he could speak. “So… you don’t need to keep doing this.”

Hawks blinked. The ribbon feather stilled in his fingers. The cat meowed, confused at the sudden halt of entertainment, but she ignored it.

“You don’t live here,” she continued, crossing her arms. “This isn’t your home. I didn’t invite you. You… you don’t have to act like this is something it isn’t.”

His expression barely shifted. But it was there — a twitch behind the eyes, a stillness beneath the surface of his usual charm. As if she’d struck something real, even if just lightly.

He cocked his head. “Something like what?”

“Friendship.” Her voice caught. “This isn’t friendship.”

Feathers fluttered slightly at his back, restless like birds sensing a storm.

“I don’t know you,” she said, quieter now. “You ask questions. You bring food. You play with the cat like we live together. But I don’t know anything about you. You act like we’re close, but we’re not. I don’t even know your real name.”

The amusement slipped into his expression now — the tilted kind, eyes glittering with something unreadable.

“Well, I am the Number Two,” he said lightly. “My name’s top secret. Classified. You know how it is.”

She didn’t laugh. He held her gaze. There was a beat of silence, a long inhale where something between them hung like smoke in the air.

“And even if I could tell you,” he added, tone dipping low, “I shouldn’t.”

That’s what cut the deepest. Not the rules. Not the secrecy. But the fact that he could, and chose not to.

Y/N looked away. Back to the cold mug on the nightstand. To the soft rumble of the heater. To the pieces of her life that had become tangled in his.

“…Then stop acting like we’re something we’re not,” she said.

He was quiet. For longer than she expected.

Then, in a voice gentler than she had heard from him before:

“I’m not pretending.”

She looked at him again. He smiled. A real one this time — no charm, no performance.

“But maybe,” he added, “you are.”

And with that, he turned back to the stove, humming softly as if she hadn’t just tried to carve a line between them with shaking hands.

Y/N didn’t answer.

Didn’t know if she could. Because suddenly, she wasn’t sure where the line even was anymore. Or if it had ever truly existed.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Y/N’s voice didn’t waver. It wasn’t loud, either — just firm. A soft truth pressed into the air like a folded note slipped under a door.

She stood by the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, her figure stiff beneath the dim ceiling light that flickered faintly above. Her words followed the silence he had left her in. The silence he wanted her to fill.

“I’m not stupid,” she went on. “I understand what you are. What I saw. I haven’t told a soul. I won’t.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’m safe now, in this apartment. You’ve done enough. The heater works. There’s food. The cat is fed. You’ve… fixed it all. So you can leave me alone now, Hawks.”

A pause.

And then:

“But you don’t want to be alone.”

His voice was low. Unhurried. Spoken like a truth, not a question — like he was pointing out a bruise she didn’t realize she had. Or maybe one she’d been trying to ignore for too long.

Y/N’s spine straightened, something between fear and anger flashing behind her eyes.

“You don’t know me,” she said.

But he was already moving — slowly. Not like a predator. Like someone who knew exactly how close he could get before she stepped back.

She didn’t.

“I know the way you talk when you're lying,” he murmured, coming closer. “I know you eat too little when you're anxious. I know the way you smile for customers but drop it the second they leave. I know how your eyes always go to the window across from your shop — the one I used to watch you from.”

He was in front of her now. Not touching. Not even quite in reach. But close enough that she could feel the heat of him — the kind that made the apartment seem warmer than the heater ever could.

“I know you haven’t had real safety in a long time,” he said, voice velvet, voice knife. “And now that you do, you’re afraid of it. Afraid of what it means.”

She inhaled, shallow and quick. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her hands clenched tighter around her arms.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered.

But she didn’t step back.

He tilted his head.

“Am I?”

His eyes weren’t mocking. They weren’t even smug. They were quiet and dark and honest — too honest — like he saw through her and wasn’t sure if he should be sorry or proud of that.

And then he took a single step closer.

It felt like a storm moving in.

She flinched. But she didn’t move away. Didn’t run. Her back hit the edge of the counter.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, almost to himself now. “But I am. And you’re still standing there.”

Her throat worked.

The cat meowed from the other room — faint, distant. The rest of the apartment was dead quiet. The entire city might as well have gone mute.

“You can’t do this,” she whispered. “You don’t get to tear into my life like this. Fix things I didn’t ask you to fix. Pretend you know me.”

He leaned in.

Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that she could smell the air around him. His breath ghosted past her cheek when he spoke.

“I already did.”

A pause.

"And I’m not pretending."

The words hit harder than she expected. She wanted to slap him. Or scream. Or collapse. Or grab his shirt and shake him and tell him to stop knowing her better than she knew herself. He made it feel like everything inside her was made of glass and he was standing there, cataloging every crack.

Her heart pounded. Her hands were trembling now — not from fear. From something far, far messier than fear.

“Go,” she said hoarsely.

He stayed still.

“Please.”

A long silence. Finally, his gaze dropped. His breath cooled against her cheek. And then, with a rustle of feathers too subtle to hear, he stepped back.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” he said.

She glared.

“Why?”

He smiled. Not amused. Not teasing. Just sure.

“Because you’ll be waiting.”

And then, he was gone — slipping out the door with that same soundless confidence that always made her wonder if he’d ever really been there to begin with. Y/N stood alone, breath shaky, heart pounding, skin still tingling from the space he had occupied. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She sat down on the bed and buried her face in her hands, but it didn’t stop the echo of his voice, the look in his eyes, the truth he’d ripped open inside her like it had always been his to see.

And somewhere near her feet, the cat purred.

The bell above the shop door chimed.

Y/N didn’t look up right away — she was busy fumbling with the register, trying to ignore the way her hands still felt shaky from the night before. She hadn’t slept. Every creak of the old building, every gust of wind against the window, every remembered echo of his voice had kept her pinned awake.

So when the bell rang, she drew a slow breath and muttered a distracted, “Good morning.”

But then she heard it — the unmistakable sound of feathers rustling. Her head snapped up. He filled the doorway like he owned it.

Bright red wings fanned slightly behind him, catching the light like a banner meant to be seen. No hood this time, no attempt at blending in. Just the number two hero — Hawks himself — standing in her little shop as if he belonged there.

He was smiling, of course. That infuriating, lazy grin that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or mocking her.

“You’re open. Good.” His voice was warm, confident, carrying just enough weight to command the room — as if she weren’t the only one in it. “I was thinking you might’ve gone into hiding on me.”

Her stomach dropped.

She forced her jaw to tighten instead of gape. “You can’t just… walk in here like that.”

“Like what?” He tilted his head, golden eyes glinting. “Like a paying customer?”

“You don’t buy anything.”

He chuckled, a low, amused sound. “That’s because I keep getting distracted by the shopkeeper.”

Her face heated before she could stop it. She turned sharply back to the counter, pretending to organize receipts. His presence pressed against her like sunlight through glass — warm, but impossible to escape. And damn it, she hated how weak that made her feel by now.

“Relax, I’m not here to cause trouble.” The sound of boots on the floorboards drew closer, feathers brushing faintly against the cramped aisles as he wandered. He wasn’t subtle about it, every step was deliberate, claiming the space. “I just thought… why hide?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

He spread his arms slightly, wings unfurling with a rustle that filled the shop. Bright, bold, him. “This is who I am. Might as well get used to it. No need to cover myself all the time around you.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to take his pride and strut it somewhere else, but the words didn’t come. Because the sight of him, unmasked and unashamed, was… overwhelming. Too much. And he knew it.

He leaned against a shelf, wings folding neatly again, grin softening into something more dangerous. “You don’t like it, do you? That I’m here. That I’m… me.”

“I didn’t say that,” she muttered, too quickly.

His laugh was quiet, smug. “Didn’t have to.”

He pushed off the shelf, walking toward the counter with a predator’s ease — not threatening, not exactly, but deliberate. His gaze locked on hers, steady, unflinching. Testing. Teasing. Daring her to break.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She gripped the counter until her knuckles whitened.

“What do you want, Hawks?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but at least it didn’t shake.

He leaned in, planting his elbows on the counter across from her, lowering his face until she could feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes gleamed, gold and unreadable.

“What do I want?” he echoed softly. “That’s a dangerous question to ask me, sweetheart.”

Her pulse spiked.

The word — casual, playful — hit her like a spark. She swallowed hard, refusing to look away, though every instinct screamed at her to. He smiled wider, noticing. Of course he noticed.

“I think…” His voice dropped, husky now, laced with something that curled deep in her gut. “…I want to see how long you can keep pretending you don’t like me showing up.”

Her breath caught.

The cat. The fridge. The warmth. The way he dismantled her defenses piece by piece. He wasn’t just pushing. He was pressing, leaning into the weak spots she didn’t even know she had until he exposed them. She forced herself to straighten, to glare back at him despite the tremor in her chest. “I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he interrupted smoothly, eyes flicking down to her lips before returning to her gaze. “Don’t want me here? Don’t want me close? Or don’t want to admit it?”

Her stomach twisted. Her skin burned.

She hated him.

She wanted him gone.

And yet… she couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear herself away.

He leaned just a little closer, voice almost a whisper now, intimate in a way that left no space between them.

“You can tell me to stop. You know that, right? One word, and I’ll walk out.”

Her lips parted — but no word came. Nothing.

Because she didn’t want him to.

And he knew.

The grin returned, softer now, but no less sharp. “Thought so.”

Her throat worked, but she forced her arms to cross over her chest. “I thought you had… hero things to do.”

“Plenty of time for that later.” He leaned against the counter again, this time resting his chin in his palm like he was settling in. “Right now, I’m exactly where I wanna be.”

Her pulse jumped. It was worse now, somehow, than when he’d leaned close. Because this wasn’t performance — this was presence. Like he intended to stay until she cracked.

“Don’t.” She turned sharply, busying herself with a stack of papers that didn’t need sorting.

“Sweetheart…”

Her hands froze.

The word slid out of him like honey, lazy, unbothered — but sharp in the way it landed. Her cheeks betrayed her instantly, heat blooming faster than she could clamp it down.

And of course, he saw.

Golden eyes lit with delight, his grin growing boyish, almost mischievous. “Ohhh,” he drawled, “so that’s what does it? That little word?”

She whipped her head around to glare at him, but the redness in her face made it worse, made it look like confirmation.

“Y-You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” His feathers ruffled, a playful flick of crimson in the air as if echoing his mood. He tilted his head, studying her with that too-intense focus. “Nah. I don’t think I am.”

“Stop it.”

“Can’t.” He leaned a little closer, voice low, amused. “You’re fun to mess with.”

Her jaw clenched, nails biting into her arms where she held herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Guilty.” He chuckled, but then… the sound softened. The smirk didn’t vanish entirely, but something else crept in — something heavier.

He straightened, eyes narrowing just slightly, the playfulness dimming enough to reveal something genuine underneath.

“Look…” he began, quieter now, “about yesterday.”

The memory slammed into her — the way his words had cornered her, the thread-thin line between fear and something else she hadn’t wanted to name. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away. But he didn’t let her escape.

“I meant it,” he continued, more serious now. “What I said about you not being alone. I know you don’t believe me — hell, you don’t even like me half the time. But I’m not going anywhere.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know me, how often do I have to say that?”

“Sure I do.” His grin tugged back, softer this time, more careful. “I know you hate cats but keep one anyway. I know you pretend you don’t care, but you notice everything. I know you tell yourself you’re fine being alone — and maybe you even believe it — but…” His voice dipped, lower, steadier, “you don’t want to be.”

Her chest squeezed tight. Every word landed too close, too true. She wanted to argue, to laugh in his face, but the air caught in her throat and wouldn’t move.

“And that’s okay,” he added, straightening fully, wings rustling faintly as if to shake off the weight. “Because whether you like it or not… I’m your friend now.”

Her head snapped toward him, startled. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can.” He smirked again, but the edge was different now — lighter, less sharp. “I’ve decided. Friends. Non-negotiable.”

She stared, words tangling uselessly in her mouth.

Hawks… Hawks didn’t do friends. At least not the way he made it sound. Friends didn’t sneak into apartments, buy groceries, wedge themselves into every quiet space of someone’s life. Friends didn’t look at you the way he was looking at her now — like he could read every hidden thought she tried to bury.

Yet somehow, the word felt heavier than anything else he’d said.

He pushed away from the counter at last, stretching lazily as if the tension between them didn’t exist. “So,” he said brightly, tone snapping back into that infuriating cheer, “are you gonna offer your new best friend a coffee, or do I gotta flap my wings pitifully until you feel guilty?”

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

And damn it all — she almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she muttered, “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” He winked. “But I’m not leaving.”

54 notes · View notes

yoomiwrites · 11 days ago

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Damn! (little preview of this year)

It’s August already—which means this year is slowly coming to an end. Looking back, one of the best decisions I made in 2025 was to start sharing my stories here on Tumblr. It’s been so much fun, and I truly love every bit of interaction with you—whether it’s a like, a reblog, or a comment. Knowing that my words reach people with similar interests makes me really happy. 💛

As a little thank-you, I’m planning something special for December. Not everyone celebrates Christmas, so think of it more as a “Goodbye 2025” event: I’ll be posting a chapter (or two) every single day throughout December (yes, the entire month—not just 24 days!). To keep things realistic, most of these will be from stories that are already finished and being revised, or ones where I’m already more than halfway through.

To make it a bit more exciting, I’ll release a teaser for the December stories in mid-November—so you’ll get a little preview before the daily updates begin.

Looking ahead, 2026 will bring new projects, since Missing Ghost, Sweet Innocence, and Boring Love will all be wrapping up this year. I’m already preparing some chapters in advance, so we’ll start the new year strong.

If you’re curious about which characters will show up in December, you can check under the spoiler cut. (Hint: there are three characters total, and only one of them is from One Piece. There will be plenty of OP content in 2026, don’t worry!)

Much love to ya'll 💛

Spoiler Warning

Ace (One Piece)

Sanemi (Demon Slayer)

Aizawa (My Hero Academia)

#askyoomi

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yoomiwrites · 11 days ago

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Missing Ghost⁹

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past.

Note: Chapter nine already. Truth to be told, I never planned to write —or enjoy— this. The little snippet turned into this and truth to be told, it is my favorite to write. I am thankful for every reaction because YOU are the reason why I have this much fun. So, as a little spoiler: chapter 10 will get a bit spicy (in a good way!) BUT after all the heavy stuff, we need some good mood, hmmm~?

You didn’t know when you’d fallen asleep. The cold, the rocking of the sea, the ache in your limbs — it had all blurred together until your mind simply shut down. Now, as you stirred, your body heavy and stiff, the world felt too still.

Your head ached dully. Not the same sharp, throbbing pain from earlier — no, this was a muted throb, like a hangover without the pleasure that came before it. Your limbs were sluggish, skin clammy with the ghost of the chill you’d endured the night before.

You were still curled on the floorboards.

Wrapped tightly in Mihawk’s cape, heavy and warm like a shield. And over your shoulders, draped across your upper body, was another piece of fabric you hadn’t remembered taking — his shirt. White linen. Crisp, soft. It still smelled faintly of wine and salt and steel.

You blinked hard, eyes adjusting to the light filtering in.

Sunrise had long passed. It had to be late morning at least. The ocean was a mirror, soft and gold under the new light. And the ship — his tiny, infamous coffin of a ship — was docked. Anchored near a stretch of pale sand. A beach.

There were no buildings, no movement, no sails on the horizon. No people. And Mihawk was nowhere to be seen.

Your heart thudded — not in fear, not exactly. Just uncertainty. Instinctively, your hand reached for the shirt on your shoulders, pulling it tighter.

The cape fell slightly as you pushed yourself upright. Your legs were stiff, one completely numb. Pins and needles flared as you tried to stand. You swayed a little, catching the side of the ship, breath fogging faintly in the morning air. You were still weak. Dizzy.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your stomach cramped and growled like an angry animal. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten properly. Or had water.

The ship creaked softly under your shifting weight, the only sound accompanying the gentle splash of waves brushing against the hull. You looked around, slow and cautious. Mihawk’s throne stood behind you, as still and regal as ever — but the man himself? Gone.

You scanned the horizon again. The shore was quiet. No signs of footprints or motion. Just sand, rock, and the distant curve of dense jungle rising beyond the beach.

You didn’t move to step off the vessel.

Something inside you wouldn’t let you.

Instead, you stood near the edge, fingers curling over the side of the wooden, eyes narrowed at the coast. You swayed slightly with the gentle rise and fall of the sea.

Where was he?

Why had he docked?

Had he just… left you?

No. That didn’t feel like Mihawk. He didn’t do things without reason. He didn’t waste time on anything — especially not people he didn’t intend to keep around or get rid of.

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. He had to be nearby. You hoped.

You remained still, breathing in the sea air. It burned your lungs in a strange, unfamiliar way — like waking up too fast, after dreaming of blood and darkness. The memory of it still clung to you, your skin crawling at the echo of warm, sticky red. The phantom scream.

You reached up, pressed your palm to your temple.

The sun was already climbing higher. Heat baked the deck beneath your bare feet, warming your skin through the damp fabric of his shirt and cape. But inside — inside, you still felt cold.

So cold.

And so empty.

You waited.

You waited because stepping off the boat felt wrong. Because you didn’t trust the land. Because you didn’t trust the sea either. And more than anything — you didn’t trust what was waiting inside you if you were left alone too long with your thoughts.

The silence stretched.

You curled the fabric tighter around you, lips pressed into a thin line, body swaying gently with the tide. You told yourself you weren’t afraid.

You were lying.

Because Mihawk was gone.

And nothing felt safe when he wasn’t watching.

Eventually, the waiting became unbearable.

You shifted your weight again, arms still tightly wrapped around your middle as your eyes flicked over the deck. The rising sun now glared down harsh and steady, warming the wood beneath your bare feet. You could feel the heat starting to seep through the fabric of Mihawk’s shirt.

You glanced toward the corner of the ship, where your own clothes had been unceremoniously discarded the night before.

Still damp.

Still useless.

You crouched down, reached for them, and held the fabric between your fingers. Clammy. The shirt was no better, the pants still clinging with sea salt and misery.

With a frustrated huff, you stood and began spreading them out across the cleanest patch of deck you could find, letting them catch the full force of the sun. You weighed down the sleeves and hems with bits of worn rope and iron hooks — anything that would keep them from flapping away in the sea breeze.

They looked pitiful like that. Wrinkled. Salt-stained. Unfamiliar.

You watched them for a moment, then turned back to the shirt Mihawk had given you. His scent lingered faintly in the linen — dry wood, steel, a little wine, and something you couldn’t name.

You hesitated… then shrugged it on fully, letting it fall past your thighs. It was far too big, but it covered enough. And it was dry.

You didn’t know if he’d meant for you to wear it like this. But he had given it to you. He’d covered you himself.

So. He’d deal with it.

You folded the black cloak carefully, laying it beside the throne, smoothing the edges out with quiet hands. It felt ceremonial somehow, as if discarding it like a crumpled rag would’ve been… wrong.

And then you stood there again. Bare feet, dry shirt, sun beating down on your back. Staring out at the quiet stretch of beach, nerves fraying with every second of silence.

Enough.

You were not made for waiting.

Your patience, brittle as it was, snapped.

Without a word, without letting yourself hesitate, you moved toward the edge of the ship. You climbed down carefully — the steps narrow, slick with old salt and time — and let your feet touch the sand.

It was hotter than you expected. Coarse. Grit scraped along your soles as you moved forward, shielding your eyes against the light.

The ship bobbed softly behind you, casting a thin shadow across the golden shore.

He hadn’t gone toward the water. That much was obvious.

Your eyes swept over the tree line, dense green at the edge of the sand. No footprints. No drag marks. No broken branches. But something tugged at you. A feeling, sharp and persistent. A Mihawk-shaped gravity that always pulled, no matter how far he drifted.

He had gone inland.

He had to have.

You took a breath, glancing over your shoulder once more at the strange little vessel that had carried you across death and back. Then you turned toward the treeline.

And began to walk.

The sand clung to your feet, sticking to your ankles, slipping between your toes. But you didn’t care. You were done sitting still. Done waiting for someone else to tell you when to move.

He had left you to rest. Fine.

Now you were going to find him.

Each step into the trees felt like peeling something back — a layer of uncertainty, a thread of fear, a veil you hadn’t realized you’d been wearing. The soft crunch of sand gave way to earth, damp and rich beneath your feet. The air changed too. Cooler. Still.

Your thoughts churned as you moved.

You still didn’t know who you were. What you were. Not truly.

But you remembered what mattered.

Your goal.

Him.

Not Mihawk himself, no — not in the way people fell into obsession over him — but the puzzle of him. His face that haunted your memory before you'd ever met him. The fact that even now, standing on a strange island barefoot and worn thin, something in you still spun around him like a desperate axis.

You needed answers. Even if those answers clawed open something inside you and left you bleeding.

Even if they turned your stomach black.

The thought lingered, heavy and bitter.

Black water. Sticky. Screams.

You stopped walking.

Clenched your jaw.

No. Not now.

You swallowed it all down like bile and moved again, brushing branches away from your face, stepping over roots. The trees opened up — not much, just enough — and then you heard it.

Water. The soft rush and ripple of it.

A lake.

And there, framed by sunlight and quiet, was him.

Mihawk.

You froze.

He stood waist-deep in the water, turned away from you, the light catching across the sharp lines of his back. His skin glistened with droplets as his hand moved through his dark hair, slicking it back slowly. Purposefully.

His hat was nowhere to be seen.

Yoru was there, though. Propped against a tree like a sentinel, unmoving. His boots too. And pants.

Your breath caught.

You stepped back instinctively, leaves crunching softly beneath your heel as you began to turn, to retreat, to give him his privacy.

But you had never been subtle. Not with him.

Not ever.

“Leaving already?” came his voice, cool and sharp across the still air, like a blade unsheathed.

You stopped.

Your stomach twisted.

You didn’t turn around.

“I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t know you were—” you stammered, then cursed under your breath. “I wasn’t spying.”

“I didn’t say you were.” You heard the slow steps through the shallows behind you. The faint sound of water moving around him. “But I suppose the forest has never known such self-control.”

You winced.

Of course he’d make it feel like your fault for having eyes.

You turned slightly, only enough to keep your voice from trembling. “I’ll leave.”

“Don’t.”

The word cut through you like a command. Calm, effortless — but final.

You froze again.

The wind rustled through the trees. A bird called in the distance. And then silence. You dared a glance over your shoulder.

He had come closer to the shore now, water swirling around his hips. His hands pushed his wet hair back once more, black strands slicked to his temples, droplets running down his shoulders, his collarbone, his chest.

There was nothing shy in him. Nothing hesitant. He didn’t bother to hide himself, didn’t turn or crouch or ask for modesty.

You realized then — Mihawk didn’t consider his body something to be hidden. Not because of arrogance. But because he didn’t think you would be bold enough to look.

Your face heated.

You turned away again, flustered despite everything.

“I came to find you,” you muttered, staring into the brush. “You were gone.”

“I docked,” he said simply. “You were still breathing. There was no need to wake you.”

Something about the way he said it — as if your continued breathing was more an obligation than a relief — made your throat go dry.

“And what if I hadn’t been?” you asked, a little sharper than you meant to. “What if I had died?”

“I would’ve tossed you back to sea,” he replied, without hesitation. “Let the ocean decide what to do with you.”

You didn’t know if he meant it.

That was the worst part.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

Still turned away, you said, “I’m not going to ask for your help again. I just want to remember. I just want to understand who I am.”

You heard the water shift again. Movement. Then footsteps in the grass. Your breath caught. He was coming toward you.

You clenched your fists at your sides, eyes glued to the tree in front of you, determined not to look — not down, not to the side, not at the man approaching naked from the water, the same man who had pulled you from the brink without so much as a flicker of emotion.

You felt him before you saw him — the way the air changed around him, the silence heavy between you, pressing into your ribs like a stone. His presence alone could burn holes through the fabric of sanity.

He stopped behind you.

Close.

So close that the heat from his body licked at your bare skin through the damp fabric of his shirt.

You refused to turn.

But you could see him from the corner of your eye. Broad shoulders gleaming with moisture, droplets trailing down his chest. The black cross still rested at the center of him — stark against pale skin and muscle and old scars you didn’t dare let your eyes linger on.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

You shifted slightly.

He was still watching you.

You felt it like a tether around your throat.

And then, his voice — quiet, cold, cutting right to the bone.

“My shirt.”

You stiffened.

There was no question in it. No accusation. But there was something else. Something hard to name. He was staring at the way it clung to your frame, how you’d buttoned it haphazardly, sleeves rolled, fabric swallowing your shape and brushing just below your thighs.

“I didn’t—” you started, then faltered, voice brittle. “You gave it to me. Or threw it, technically.”

He hummed — not agreement, not denial. Just a sound of acknowledgment, low in his throat.

Then you saw it. His eyes dipped again. Not lewd, not lingering. Just... observant.

Judging, maybe.

“You wear it like you intend to keep it.”

You turned finally, head snapping up to meet his gaze.

“Do you want it back?” you asked, arms crossing over your chest, the shirt pulling tighter where it stuck to your damp skin. “Because I was half-dead when you gave it to me.”

Mihawk raised a brow. Barefoot, soaked, and utterly unconcerned, he took a slow step closer.

“I don’t want it back,” he said. “It wouldn’t fit the same.”

Your lips parted. Words caught in your throat and disintegrated.

His gaze held you there, motionless, suspended in something strange and burning.

He looked like a man carved from stone, all sharp edges and shadow, water still trailing down the curve of his neck, disappearing into the dark line of his pendant. But his voice… when he spoke again, it dropped into something heavier.

“You don’t even ask where we are. You just follow.”

Your mouth went dry.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” you said, quieter now.

“There’s always a choice,” he murmured. “But I’ve seen what you do with yours.”

He stepped around you then, slow and deliberate, putting on his pants, then reaching for Yoru where it leaned against a tree. He picked it up with one hand, boots slung over the other, and turned back toward the direction of the ship — leaving you in silence once more.

But before he vanished into the trees, he spoke without looking.

“You’ll want to eat before you pass out again. You still have my shirt, after all. Try not to ruin it.”

And then he was gone.

You stood there a moment longer, blinking after him, still trying to figure out if that was supposed to be a joke.

“Eat before you pass out,” he said.

With what, tree bark?

But then you glanced around, and sure enough—there. A little off the trail, not far from where he’d picked up his sword, a low fruit tree stretched its thick branches, sagging slightly with the weight of deep red fruit. You hadn’t noticed it before. Of course he had.

You sighed under your breath. “Could’ve just said so.”

Making your way over, you plucked one off a branch, inspecting it. Round, heavy, still warm from the sun. You didn’t care what it was. Not anymore.

You bit into it with more desperation than dignity. Juice exploded across your tongue, running down your chin, down your fingers. You barely registered it—chewed and swallowed and bit again. It was sweet and tart and rich, the kind of flavor that made your mouth ache a little from how long it had gone without it. Your stomach cramped from the sudden intake, but you didn’t stop.

You devoured three. Then four.

A fifth, you pocketed. A sixth, you cradled in your arm like some small treasure. When your knees started wobbling and your jaw ached from how fast you were eating, you finally slowed. Sticky hands. Full belly. You still felt like hell, but you weren’t going to pass out anytime soon.

The shirt clung to you again, damp from the humid breeze and stained a little now with juice. You wiped your chin with the back of your arm and made your way back down the slope toward the shoreline.

Mihawk stood there, the tide licking at his boots. Arms crossed. Yoru planted in the sand beside him. He didn’t turn when you approached.

You stopped a few paces behind him, uncertain.

He said nothing.

You narrowed your eyes.

“I—” you started, then frowned. “Where are we?”

Finally, he moved. A glance over his shoulder, and a nod toward the horizon.

“An unmarked stop,” he said. “The island ahead is the destination. We’ll leave soon. Two hours. Maybe less.”

“That’s... informative,” you muttered.

He didn’t answer. The breeze tugged at the hem of your—his—shirt, lifting it just slightly around your legs. The fruit you’d carried bumped gently against your side. You looked past him, toward the horizon.

There was nothing. Just sea and sky and the soft hush of water.

But still… his tone, his stillness, it all felt planned.

You narrowed your eyes again. “This island. What is it?”

Mihawk glanced at you again, just briefly.

“A place I didn’t intend to stop,” he said. “Until you needed it.”

There was no warmth in it. No real care. But something in his voice said he’d known you were falling apart long before you did. You shifted your weight, mouth dry again despite the fruit. “Why are you still helping me?”

That made him pause, then glance out toward the sea again, the sun glinting in the edges of his eyes.

“Because you followed me,” he said simply. “And I’m curious how long you’ll last.”

Then he picked up Yoru again, dragging the blade through the sand like it weighed nothing, and stepped toward the ship. You stood there a moment longer, sand hot beneath your feet, stomach tight from too much fruit, the wind playing with the folds of his shirt.

And for the first time in a while—you weren’t cold.

Just lost. Still.

But at least you had a direction.

The waves rocked gently beneath the ship as they moved — slow but steady, cutting through the sea without urgency.

You sat cross-legged on the floorboards, Mihawk’s cape folded neatly beside you, his white shirt still hanging off your frame, wrinkled now from sleep and damp in spots where your hair hadn’t dried completely. The sticky taste of fruit still clung faintly to your tongue. You rubbed your hands together absently, nails caked with dirt and dried saltwater, the scratches on your knuckles stinging.

In front of you, Mihawk sat unmoving on his throne.

Hat pulled low, arms relaxed. At first glance, he looked asleep — but something about the stillness of him, the coiled sort of stillness, told you he was merely resting, not unaware.

You’d tried to keep from glancing up at him too much. But he hadn’t looked at you once.

So your attention had wandered. Drifted. To your crumpled, stiff clothes laid out to dry on the opposite side of the deck. To the way the light shifted over the water. To the rhythm of your own thoughts, which kept growing louder the longer no one spoke.

Then… you saw it.

An island, growing in the distance. You leaned forward slightly.

Unlike the desolate rocks and scattered green mounds you’d passed before, this one looked full. Alive. You couldn’t make out details yet, but the shapes of trees were clearer, thicker. Structures, maybe. Smoke, even.

Your lips parted without thinking, the first hint of emotion — anticipation? wariness? — curling in your chest. But when you moved to stand, something glimmered. You glanced down.

The reflection on the dark water beside the ship caught your eye — distorted by the gentle waves, but unmistakably yours.

And you flinched.

Your skin was pale under the oversized shirt, streaked with sunburn in places. The smudges of dried salt, dirt, and blood made you look more like a castaway than anyone of purpose. Your hair, once something you could vaguely remember being proud of, clung in dull tangles to your cheeks and neck.

Your mouth was chapped. Your face drawn.

You didn’t look weak — not quite. But you looked... hollowed out. Pulled thin.

Like someone who’d forgotten what they were chasing.

You swallowed hard and sat back down. Not out of shame. Not really. Just… something colder. That sharp edge of recognition you didn’t want to have.

The kind that whispered, You don’t know who you are because you’ve become something else entirely.

You curled your knees up against your chest and lowered your gaze, fingers tightening into the sleeves of Mihawk’s shirt. Behind the low brim of his hat, Mihawk didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you felt him there.

Like a wall. Like judgment.

Like inevitability.

And somewhere, in your chest, a single thought bloomed like a bruise:

What if I don’t like the answers waiting for me on that island?

The wind shifted. The ship continued on. And still, Mihawk slept. Or pretended to.

You had barely stepped off the boat before the sounds of life came rushing in — the bustling port, the shouts of vendors, the creak of wood under boots not your own. Salt hung in the air, but heavier than before, cut through by spices, sweat, and smoke.

And despite how you looked — Mihawk’s shirt hanging off your frame, legs bare, scratches still scabbing along your skin — no one cared.

Not really.

Their gazes slid past you like you were nothing more than a shadow trailing behind something far more dangerous.

Mihawk didn’t slow. His boots hit the stone of the dock with a rhythm like a metronome, steady and commanding, as if the world itself made room when he walked. People did stare — but not at you.

He was a Warlord.

His name was known in places you hadn’t even been.

You kept your head down and followed.

The crowd parted where he moved. Not with fear exactly — more like reverence. Or caution.

It wasn’t long before the buildings began to cluster tighter. The signs hung lower, paint chipped, windows darkened. Then he stopped in front of a squat, unassuming structure with warped wood walls and a crooked sign hanging above the door. A pub, clearly. And not a wealthy one.

He pushed the door open. You slipped in behind him.

The inside was low-lit, warm with old fire smoke, stale ale, and wet cloth. Tables were scattered in uneven rows, most of them occupied. Men with rough voices and rougher hands leaned over their drinks, some mid-laughter, others mid-fight. A woman played a tired tune on a stringed instrument in the corner, her voice barely rising above the din. Dust caught in the shafts of late sunlight bleeding through the windows.

A few heads turned.

Then they turned back.

Mihawk walked to the bar.

You stayed close — but not too close. Trying to not look lost, even as you felt entirely out of place.

He said something to the barkeep — something low, too quiet for you to catch — and the man behind the counter, an older fellow with a missing ear and a haunted expression, nodded without a word.

Mihawk dropped a small sack of berries onto the wood. The clink was soft, but final. Then, without waiting, he turned on his heel and walked past you again, toward a narrow set of stairs at the side of the room.

"Come on," he said. Flat. Bored.

You followed.

The stairs creaked under your steps, the air growing warmer, heavier, the deeper you climbed.

He stopped at the end of the hall and pulled a key from somewhere within his coat. Unlocked the door and stepped inside. You followed behind, hesitant.

The room was small, but not unpleasant.

A low bed with clean linens. A threadbare couch tucked in the corner. A small table. A window cracked open, letting in the hum of the town outside. There was even a door off to the right — a bathroom, you realized, when you peeked. Clean. Miraculously so.

Your shoulders sagged slightly. Just slightly.

He stepped past you, placing a small pouch on the table — more berries, you assumed.

“For food,” he said. “Or new clothes. Whatever keeps you from whining.”

You blinked. "You're—?"

He cut you off with a glance.

“I’m staying here for three days,” he said, voice flat and final. “Do what you want. Wash. Rest. Get yourself together. But don’t follow me around like a lost dog. I’m not in the mood to babysit.”

You opened your mouth, something indignant rising in your throat — but he was already moving. Already halfway out the door.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you standing there, barefoot on warped wooden floorboards, wrapped in a man’s shirt and carrying a hundred bruises in your chest that hadn’t even surfaced yet.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Silence settled around you.

The bed looked like a goddamn miracle. The bathroom, even more so. But what hit you hardest… was the freedom. The sudden, strange emptiness.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

But you knew you had to wash off the filth. From your skin. From your mouth. From your thoughts.

Even if it didn’t come off clean.

That day, you stayed.

Not out of fear. Not entirely, at least. But because the stillness was finally allowed to settle in your bones.

The first thing you did was shower. Warm, quiet, unhurried. You let the steam curl around you, let the water burn the cold from your limbs. You watched the faint traces of dried salt and blood swirl down the drain — someone else’s blood, maybe your own. It didn’t matter. It was all fading now.

You scrubbed your skin until it was pink. Let your fingers linger on bruises that hadn’t yet bloomed. The ache in your back still throbbed from where you’d hit the glass — but it was duller now. Easier to forget beneath the pull of heat and soap and breath.

You didn’t cry.

But you did stand there for a long time, eyes closed, palms braced on the tile, forehead against the wall. Not thinking. Just... existing.

When you stepped out, wrapped in a towel that smelled faintly of pine, the room felt like a sanctuary. Mihawk’s shirt still lay where you’d left it, the fabric holding no warmth now, but familiar somehow. Protective.

You dressed in it again, loosely, and lay down on the bed.

You didn’t mean to sleep. Not that deeply, anyway. But your body had been waiting — craving it. The moment your head touched the pillow, you slipped under like a stone into deep water.

And for once, there were no nightmares.

When you woke, hours later, the sun had long since set. The sky through the window was black-blue and scattered with stars. Your throat ached from thirst. Your stomach twisted in hunger.

You rose slowly, limbs heavy and stiff but less like iron and more like... flesh again.

Downstairs, the pub hadn’t changed. The haze of smoke hung low, the air thick with laughter, curses, clattering plates. No one noticed you.

You ordered cheap food — something hot and fried — and ate at a corner table with your back to the wall. Not because you expected danger.

It was just... habit.

The food wasn’t good. But it was real. You finished every bite.

You slept again that night, back in the room, beneath a blanket that scratched faintly at your skin but kept the chill away. You dreamed of nothing.

And for a while, that felt like a small mercy.

The next morning came gently.

You didn’t jolt awake. You stirred. Slowly. Your eyes opened to sunlight streaming across the floorboards. For the first time in days — maybe longer — your head wasn’t pounding. Your chest didn’t feel caved in. You were still tired, sure. Still sore. But not fraying anymore.

Still wrapped in Mihawk’s white shirt, you stretched, let your legs spill over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the wood.

You knew it couldn’t last. This quiet. This fragile peace.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to enjoy it while it was here.

You rose, gathered the shirt closer to your frame, and tied the sash from the blanket around your waist to make it look less like you were just walking around in a man’s oversized clothing — which, to be fair, you were.

The pouch of berries sat where he’d left it. You took only a few. Enough to get what you needed.

You slipped outside.

The town was alive in a different way this early — quieter, slower. Merchants were still opening their shops. Children played in the alleyways. Old women swept their stoops. The scent of baking bread drifted from a nearby stall, and you almost smiled at the normalcy of it all.

Your first stop was clothes.

You found a stall tucked between two larger buildings — a younger girl manning it, probably no older than sixteen. She eyed your shirt with interest but said nothing. You picked out simple trousers, a cotton undershirt, a dark, loose tunic, and a sash to tie your hair back. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Clothes meant for moving in, not standing out.

The girl wrapped them neatly, and you paid with a quiet thank you.

Your next goal was to find someone to clean Mihawk’s shirt.

You hadn’t asked him if you should. You weren’t even sure if it mattered to him. But he’d given it to you — and something about handing it back wrinkled and salt-stiff felt... wrong.

You wandered for a bit, asking softly, politely, until you found a small laundry stall at the edge of the square. An older woman ran it, her hands callused and stained with soap. She took the shirt without question and told you it’d be ready by sundown.

You nodded. Thanked her, too.

Then... you wandered.

Not aimlessly. Not entirely. Part of you hoped to catch a glimpse of him.

Of Mihawk. But he was nowhere to be seen.

You didn’t ask around. You wouldn’t. You weren’t some girl chasing after him. You were just—

You sighed.

You didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, you stood by the edge of a well in the town square and watched the world pass by — people laughing, shouting, living.

And for the first time in a long time, your heart didn’t feel like it was trying to break out of your chest. It wasn’t healing. Not yet. But it was... breathing.

You hadn’t noticed it at first.

It was just another side street, just another quiet curve of this strange little island. The kind of place where life whispered instead of shouted. But then you heard it.

At first, a soft murmur — like laughter muffled by distance. Then music, drifting through the air as if it rode the sunlight itself. A lute, maybe. A tambourine. And above all, voices. Laughing. Singing.

You slowed your steps, the path ahead suddenly glowing brighter, warmer.

And then you turned the corner.

Color exploded before your eyes.

Paper lanterns swayed from strings stretched between rooftops. Streamers danced overhead like ribbons in the wind, casting splashes of red, gold, and deep plum across the stone-paved square. Children darted between stalls, their faces painted with wild masks — foxes and dragons and wide, grinning teeth. A breeze caught a gust of flower petals and tossed them into the air like confetti.

And right at the heart of it, a group danced.

They weren’t polished or perfect. But they were alive. Spinning. Laughing. Moving in time with music that felt like it had been playing since the beginning of the world. Feet stomped. Hands clapped. The tambourine rattled. And you—

You smiled.

The expression caught you off guard. It tugged at your mouth like a memory you didn’t know you still had. And before you could stop yourself, a breath escaped your chest — soft, strange, a little broken.

But it was laughter.

And then, a hand grabbed yours.

“Hey!” a woman said, voice bright and teasing. Her smile was wide and warm, her braids swinging over her shoulder. “You look like you’ve been staring at ghosts. Come on. We chase joy here.”

She didn’t wait for permission. She pulled you into the rhythm like you belonged.

You stumbled — once — but then your feet found the beat. The warmth of the stones under your soles, the pulse of the drum in your ribs. You moved. Spun. Laughed again, this time sharper, louder. Free.

No one asked who you were.

No one whispered about your eyes or your scars.

No one saw a girl lost at sea — just someone ready to dance.

You didn’t realize how long it had been since you’d felt this. Since your body had moved for you and not for survival. Since your laughter hadn’t sounded like something broken rattling in your throat.

Someone handed you a drink, fruit-heavy and cold, and you took it without thinking. Juice sweet against your tongue, a little tang that made your chest buzz.

The woman spun with you again. “See?” she said. “That smile looks good on you.”

You didn’t answer.

But your heart thudded in your chest, steady. Present.

And when you threw your head back and saw the sunlight streaking through the streamers — golden and endless — you let it touch your skin without flinching.

You felt the ache in your body, yes. You felt the bruises, the exhaustion still curling inside your bones. You remembered the boat. The blood. His voice.

But for the first time in what felt like forever — you remembered that you were still here.

The music pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and warm. Your feet moved without thought now, following the rhythm, your body swaying as laughter burst out of you again — loud, wild, alive.

Someone clapped near your ear, and you spun in time with them, hands brushing against strangers who felt more like companions now. Dust kicked up with every step, caught in the light, swirling like golden mist. The tambourines rattled. Laughter echoed. Your chest ached with how full it felt.

You danced and danced.

Until something shifted.

You didn’t know what it was at first — the way the air cooled against your back, maybe. The way your eyes suddenly glanced to the edge of the crowd. Or maybe just instinct.

Whatever it was, you looked up.

And there he stood.

In the shadows near a narrow alley, just beyond the fringe of the dancing bodies. Watching.

Hawk eyes fixed on you.

He leaned one shoulder casually against a post, arms crossed over his chest. That ridiculous wide-brimmed hat was gone — and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe. Because maybe — just maybe — there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your feet stumbled. The music didn’t stop, but you did.

“Mihawk?”

You weren’t sure if you’d said his name aloud. But your legs moved before your thoughts could stop them. You weaved through the dancers, dodging the flurry of limbs and ribbons, heading straight for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

You stopped in front of him, breathless from dancing and… maybe something else. The look in his eyes was unreadable — as ever. Cold and sharp and quiet.

Still… he was here. You didn’t let yourself hesitate.

Your hands reached out, catching his — rough palms, callused fingers, firm grip. You felt the heat of him immediately, anchoring and real. Still dusted in that scent — steel and wine and ocean wind.

“Come dance with me,” you said, voice still soft from joy.

For a moment, his eyes narrowed, the way they always did when you said something he didn’t expect. He didn’t tug his hands away. Didn’t laugh. He just… stared at you.

“You want me,” he said slowly, “to dance?”

“I am asking,” you shot back. Your grip on his hands didn’t falter. “Unless you’re afraid.”

That earned you something — not quite a smirk, not quite approval. But something shifted in his face.

“I don’t waste energy on spectacle,” he said, coolly.

You rolled your eyes, heart still hammering from the adrenaline and the warmth. “You’ve got a sword longer than most of these houses. You already draw attention by breathing.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t let go either.

His thumbs brushed slowly over the backs of your hands. Not in affection — no. It felt more like assessment. Like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were here.

For a second, you didn’t think about dancing. You just stood there with him, fingers tangled together, your breath mingling in the space between you.

“I don’t understand you,” you murmured.

“I’m not asking you to.”

Still… you didn’t let go.

And neither did he.

The music flared again — louder now, another round starting, the crowd spinning behind you like the world didn’t care who you were.

You leaned in, just slightly. “If you change your mind,” you said, letting go one hand, “you know where to find me.”

You turned back to the crowd, pulse still racing, stomach still fluttering.

You didn’t know what that moment meant.

But his hand was still warm in yours long after you’d let go.

And his eyes?

You felt them follow you back into the light.

#one piece #one piece x reader #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader

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yoomiwrites · 12 days ago

Text

Sweet Innocence⁵

Note: Yes, it is a game for him. This chapter is rather short, which is because I realized after starting the next one that it would be better for the last bit of this chapter to be, well, a part of the next chapter.

Next chapter after 25 reactions!

The bath helped. A little. At least the flour was gone, and with it the worst of the humiliation. But once Garrick left you alone, the quiet of your chambers swallowed you whole. You sat on the edge of your bed, hair damp and unbraided, staring at the floorboards as if they could offer you answers. They didn’t. They only whispered the same truth over and over:

This is a mess.

Not just for you—but for Hitomi.

She was the one meant to marry here. She was the one they all looked at as the princess of worth, the bargaining chip worth trading. And yet, with one stupid drunken night and one stubborn lie, you had put her in danger of losing everything—or worse, being forced to take your place. Your stomach knotted so tightly you had to stand and move, pacing your chamber like a restless caged bird.

“No,” you muttered under your breath. “Not her. I won’t let it be her.”

You needed a plan. Something so solid, so airtight, that your father couldn’t shake it. Something Judge couldn’t argue against.

And then the thought struck you.

Simple. Elegant. Almost cruel in its brilliance:

If you couldn’t be the one to marry Zeang… someone else could still take you. Someone powerful enough, wealthy enough, tempting enough that your father would prefer him as an ally over the old monster.

You bolted to your feet, nearly tripping on your skirts as you rushed from your chambers, down the narrow staircases and past the startled servants. You needed information, details, records—anything.

The library of your family’s ship wasn’t grand, but it was practical: shelves of books, scrolls, reports, and ledgers stacked high. You ran your fingers along the spines until you found the ones you wanted—noble houses, trade families, sea captains with empires built on blood and gold.

You pulled a tome free, setting it on the heavy desk. Your fingers flipped through with urgency, your mind racing. Names, titles, alliances. Men with fortunes, men with armies, men with fleets. Surely among them, one would accept you. One could keep the kingdom safe. For a fleeting moment, you even felt relief. A grim satisfaction coiled in your chest, whispering: Yes. This could work. This could fix everything.

“...Huh.”

The voice slid into the air behind you, low and amused, dripping with mockery.

You froze.

Slowly, your head turned toward the doorway. There he was. Niji.

Leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, lips curved into that arrogant grin you were starting to hate more than anything. His gaze flicked to the book spread open in front of you, then back to your face.

“That’s your type?” he drawled, sauntering into the room as if it belonged to him. “Old, balding men with too much money and too little spine? Figures.”

Your pulse spiked, your throat closing. “What are you doing here?”

“Your servants are surprisingly chatty when you’ve got my name on your lips,” he said with a smirk. “I asked where you were. They told me. Simple as that.”

He strolled closer, unhurried, his boots soft against the carpet. “So. You’re shopping for husbands. Cute.”

You snapped the book shut with more force than necessary. “Stay out of it.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He leaned one hand against the desk beside you, towering just a little too close, his grin widening when you stiffened.

“Tell me,” he said, voice dipped in false curiosity. “Do you think Daddy will like this plan of yours? Or my father? You think either of them will just let you switch targets like it’s some kind of market auction?”

Your jaw clenched. “If it keeps my sister or me from marrying that monster, then yes. I’ll make them see it.”

His laugh was sharp, cruel. “You really think you’ve got that kind of power? Princess, you can’t even keep your lies straight, and you want to play matchmaker for the fate of two kingdoms?”

You shoved at his chest, fury burning through your fear. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand plenty,” he cut in smoothly, his grin twisting. “You’re desperate. Pathetic, even. And desperate people?” His eyes glinted. “They make mistakes.”

Your heart thundered, but you refused to let him see you falter. “At least I’m trying to fix this. You’re just standing there, mocking me, like it’s all a game.”

Niji tilted his head, studying you with that infuriating mix of boredom and cruel amusement. “That’s because it is a game. And you?” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You’re the most entertaining piece on the board.”

Your fingers curled into fists. You wanted to scream, to hit him, to make him shut up. But his words burrowed deep. Because what if he was right?

You stared him down, refusing to flinch even though your pulse hammered in your ears.

“Why are you even here?” you demanded, voice tight, fists balled at your sides.

Niji only tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was mocking, careless, as though the answer itself was beneath him. “Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to see how long it’d take before you did something stupid again. Maybe,” he leaned just slightly closer, “I just enjoy watching you squirm.”

You ground your teeth, heat burning through your veins. Of course he wouldn’t give you a straight answer. Fine. Two could play this game. You snapped open the book on the desk, jabbing a finger at the page as if stabbing at him through the parchment. “You want to know what I’m doing? Fine. Hitomi will marry into your family—like it was supposed to be. She’ll take her place as your precious little bride, and everyone will forget about last night. Meanwhile, I will marry him.” You shoved the book toward him, showing the name you’d just circled: Lord Gyomei—merchant prince, fortune builder, powerful enough to rival Germa’s wealth.

You straightened your spine, triumphant, daring him to laugh. “That way, everyone wins. My father, your father, your kingdom, mine. No mess, no scandal, no problem.”

Niji’s eyes flicked lazily to the page, then back to you. His grin widened, slow and cruel.

“That’s your brilliant plan?” he drawled. “Do you hope your Daddy pats you on the head for being clever?” He snorted, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your chest tightened with anger. “It would work—”

“No.” His voice dropped, harder now, almost sharp enough to cut. “It wouldn’t. Because the second you start throwing yourself at men like him, you’re admitting you’re weak. That you’ll settle for scraps instead of fighting for something real.”

You bristled, heat rising in your cheeks. “What would you know about real? You don’t even feel. You don’t even care!”

Niji’s grin faltered for just an instant—then returned, sharper, as though he’d caught something in your tone. He stepped closer, too close, the air between you tightening like a rope pulled taut.

“Careful, princess,” he murmured, hand slamming down on the desk beside you. You jumped at the sound, but he only leaned in further, caging you between him and the oak. His eyes glinted, cruel and gleaming. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you are the one who cares a little too much.”

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat.

He was right there. His presence was suffocating, overwhelming—and yet, instead of shrinking back, you felt your body betray you. Your pulse quickened, your skin prickled, and something dangerous stirred deep in your chest.

You hated it. You hated him. And yet—

Why did it feel like your blood was on fire whenever he leaned too close?

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

His grin widened, wicked and knowing. “Flatter? Oh no, princess. I’m just pointing out the obvious.” His gaze lingered on your lips, deliberate, mocking.

Your nails dug into the edge of the desk, knuckles white as Niji leaned closer, his words still stinging in your ears.

“You enjoy this,” he whispered, tone dripping with mockery.

“I don’t,” you shot back, defensive and breathless at once. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” His voice was smooth, cruel, every syllable meant to crawl under your skin. His hand pressed harder against the desk, boxing you in completely now. “Because your pulse says otherwise. Your breathing says otherwise. And you—” his eyes flickered, hungry and taunting at once, “—you haven’t tried to run.”

Heat crept up your neck, your face burning. You wanted to deny it, to shove him away, but your body betrayed you—frozen, cornered, trapped not by his strength but by the weight of his presence.

“Niji, back off,” you hissed, but it came out weak. Too weak.

He chuckled low in his throat, a cruel sound. “That’s not convincing, princess.”

Before you could spit out another retort, his face was suddenly there—closer than you’d ever imagined—his lips crashing against yours.

The world stopped.

Your eyes widened, your breath caught. His mouth was firm, unyielding, his confidence so absolute it stole every coherent thought from your head. You stiffened, panicked—but then, without realizing, your lips moved back against his.

It was instinct, clumsy and trembling, but it was a return nonetheless. Your first kiss.

And it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire and teeth and danger. By the time he pulled back, you were trembling, your lips tingling, your chest heaving. Your thoughts were a storm.

Niji leaned back fully, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. He wiped his thumb across his bottom lip, deliberately slow.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice mocking and triumphant. “Seems I was right after all.”

You blinked at him, flustered, mad, your body screaming with confusion. “You—you bastard!”

He only laughed, sharp and unkind. “Don’t look at me like that, princess. You didn’t push me away. You didn’t slap me. You kissed me back.” His grin widened, cutting deep. “That says more than you think.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest. He was mocking you, playing with you like a cat with a mouse, but the truth in his words burned worse than his kiss.

You had kissed him back.

And you hated yourself for it.

Your body still hadn’t caught up with your mind. You could feel your lips tingling, your breath coming short, your pulse screaming in your ears. Niji’s words cut deep, cruel and triumphant, and you hated—hated—how true they felt.

He leaned closer again, smirk pulling wider. “What’s the matter, princess? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe I did.”

You opened your mouth to retort—furious, humiliated, desperate for air—

And the library door creaked open.

“Y/N?”

You froze.

Your mother’s voice.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor as she stepped in. She stopped dead when her eyes landed on the two of you—Niji towering over you, your back pressed against the desk, your face burning red.

It was damning. Incriminating. Even if nothing had happened, it looked like everything had.

Niji didn’t move an inch. He tilted his head slowly, a devil’s grin curling his lips, enjoying every ounce of the awkward silence.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. “M–Mother, it’s not—”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, her composure cold and perfect as always, but you saw it—surprise flickering across her face, the faintest tightening at the corner of her lips. “Y/N.” Her voice was calm, measured. “What are you doing here?”

Before you could answer, Niji cut in smoothly. “Helping your daughter… with some research.” His tone was dripping with mock-innocence, each word designed to twist the knife.

Your mother’s eyes shifted to him. She didn’t reply—her silence was sharp enough to slice the air—but you felt her judgment. Her suspicion.

You swallowed hard, words tangling in your throat. You wanted to deny it, to scream that nothing had happened, but your face betrayed you. You were flushed, trembling, guilty without a crime.

Niji leaned back finally, giving you space, though his smirk never faded. “But I’ll let her explain the details,” he added smoothly, already turning toward the door. “She’s good at that.”

And just like that, he brushed past your mother, leaving you standing there, red-faced, trembling, and unable to meet her gaze.

Your mother’s eyes lingered on the door he’d left through before she looked back at you. “We’ll talk,” she said softly, but her tone was heavy. And then she turned, graceful as ever, leaving you behind in the crushing silence of the library—your heart racing, your lips burning, your mind a tangled mess of shame and anger.

You didn’t even think. The moment your mother turned and slipped out of the library, you scrambled after her, your skirts brushing the marble floor as you half-ran to catch up.

“Mother—wait!”

She didn’t stop. Her stride was calm, regal, as if nothing had happened back there. But you saw the tension in her shoulders, the stiffness in her neck. You reached for her arm and clutched it. “Please, it’s not what it looked like! I swear, I wasn’t—he just—”

Her steps halted at last, though she didn’t face you right away. “Y/N.” Her voice was soft, measured, the kind she used when she wanted you to listen carefully. “Do not raise your voice. Someone might hear.”

You flinched and lowered your tone instantly. “Nothing happened, I swear. He kissed me, but—” You stopped, cheeks burning, breath catching. The truth tasted sour even on your tongue. “It was nothing. He was mocking me, he—he was only—”

“Enough.” Your mother turned at last, her eyes sharp and searching. “I do not need the details.” Her gaze lingered on your face, and you couldn’t tell if she believed you or not.

You grasped at the only lifeline you had. “I found a solution,” you blurted out. “For everything—for me, for Hitomi, for the marriage. We don’t need—” You stumbled, realizing how desperate you sounded, but pressed on anyway. “There’s someone else. A match that would be strong enough, respectable enough. It could work, it will work.”

For the first time, your mother’s mask shifted. Her lips parted slightly, her brow tightening as if something heavier pressed against her thoughts. Then she sighed, soft but sharp, a sound of exhaustion and worry.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said quietly. “Zaeng already knows.”

The floor seemed to vanish beneath your feet.

“…What?”

“I don’t know how the whispers reached him so quickly, or from whom, but word travels fast. He is on his way here as we speak.”

Your mouth went dry. Your pulse thundered against your ears. “Mother—what do I do?”

Her hand lifted, brushing your cheek in the barest, rarest gesture of tenderness. But her eyes stayed hard, steady, commanding. “You will not break. Not in front of him. Not ever. Do you understand?”

You nodded, stiffly, because your throat was too tight for words.

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

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