MultiUniverse

https://archiveofourown.org/works/83283656/chapters/219365086

All Enjin can do is watch, making sure you don’t get hurt.

And admire you, because lately, watching you from the sidelines has become one of his favorite things to do. After all, when your short T-shirt rides up in a jump, exposing your stomach, your hair flowing beautifully in the wind, your eyes shining so brightly that he can’t help but wish you would look at him like that and only him, resisting you becomes almost impossible.

Sometimes, however, he still has to tear his eyes away from the sight, because the moment he hears you shout, “Enjin!” he rushes to your rescue without a second thought. Just a little longer, and you could have ended up in the jaws of a massive trash beast that hadn’t fully dispersed yet.

He catches you by the waist midair, opening his umbrella. You press yourself against him, wrapping your legs around his torso and your arms around his tattooed neck, squeezing your eyes shut because the two of you are flying high enough above the ground that the trash beast can’t reach you.

“I hate it when you do that,” you say, burying your nose deeper against his neck.

Enjin laughs, holding you tightly against him: “And I still can’t get used to the fact that my supposedly fearless girlfriend is scared of heights.”

You lightly punch him in the stomach: “I’m just not used to floating above the ground like some people. In order to be fearless, I need solid ground under my feet.”

Enjin smirks:“Fine. Then no more sex on the roof.”

You open one eye when you hear Enjin’s boots touch the ground, already far away from the place where the trash beast collapsed. You climb off him, fix your clothes, tighten your ponytail, and then say: “Now that is not up for discussion.”

And you walk ahead, swaying your pretty hips.

Enjin folds his umbrella, rests it on his shoulder, and smirks as he watches you go.

“I adore that girl.”

And, of course, that became the perfect excuse for Enjin to make friends with you. What he failed to take into account, however, was one small detail: your temper was just as fiery as the flame in that very lighter.

But Enjin wasn’t exactly the shy type either. And the way you reacted whenever he came up to you for the hundredth time in a day asking for a light genuinely amused him.

At some point, though, it made you so angry that you couldn’t hold back anymore. You snapped at him so loudly that the two of you didn’t speak for almost a week. Of course, because of missions, you still had to interact, and over time the resentment faded. Enjin, however, stopped being quite so pushy.

But a habit that had formed over the years couldn’t simply disappear without leaving a trace.

And so, one evening, when everyone had gathered in the kitchen, you were sitting on the edge of the table, laughing about something with Tomme. Then, as soon as you caught that familiar scent of men’s cologne mixed with tobacco beside you, you rolled your eyes out of sheer instinct, slipped your hand into your pocket, pulled out your lighter, and held it out without even looking in his direction.

Enjin looked first at your hand, then at you, and asked with a smirk: “What are you doing?”

You felt everything inside you tighten with embarrassment and slowly turned your head toward him.

A pair of astonished yellow eyes was fixed on you, and for a moment, you wanted nothing more than to sink straight through the floor. Because even your proud nature could crack sometimes.

Enjin was clearly enjoying what was happening, because he understood perfectly well that, despite any grudges, you were still ready to step over yourself and offer him that damned lighter so he could light his cigarette. Even though not long ago you had shouted something along the lines of: “How long are you going to keep using me?! I’m not some disposable item!”

The awkward situation was resolved when Enjin finally pulled out a cigarette and, carefully wrapping his fingers around your wrist to bring the lighter closer, lit it after all. “I knew I could always count on you,” he said, smiling smugly.

You scoffed and slipped your jinki back into your pocket: “You’re just a bad influence on me.”

He smiled, exhaled the smoke to the side, and moved a little closer: “Admit it. You enjoy this.”

And honestly, arguing with that had become a lot harder now.

Buggy in the Impel Down arc, but in this style:

Oh, how that drove Buggy mad.

He was irritated by your straight, proud posture. By your hair pulled back in a ponytail, tied with a white ribbon, the way it streamed so infuriatingly in the wind, carrying the scent of peach shampoo across the deck. He was irritated by how you never really reacted to his pranks. By the way you smiled at him even when he was trying to get under your skin, as though you could see something in him, something he kept buried deep inside himself and was so afraid to show.

Of course, that stubborn little clown understood it all perfectly well himself. And as the years went on, he became only more certain of it, that the mere scent of something familiar, something like peaches, was enough to make him turn around, searching, hoping to find you there.

But those carefree days aboard the Oro Jackson were long gone now. Now each of you had their own road to walk.

And yet you both held onto the unshakeable belief that your paths would cross again. And when they did, neither of you would be able to hide it anymore. That what you felt, preserved across all those years, had never been childish. And it had never been one-sided.

She loves spending time with him, loves braiding his hair, and learning the pirate trade from him. What you especially love are the evenings when you peek into the cabin and see your daughter sitting on a chair in front of the vanity mirror while Buggy does his makeup and explains to her, step by step, what each cosmetics is for and how to use it properly.

And your daughter eagerly wants to copy everything he does, because she genuinely admires him. She's definitely a daddy's girl, and Buggy, surprisingly, turned out to be an incredibly good father.

And so, a moment later, you were standing in front of the mirror wearing his coat, performing like an actress on a stage. Angry one second, flirtatious the next, then commanding. You got so caught up in it that you completely forgot what you'd been doing before, and didn't notice Buggy walking into the cabin. He stood in the doorway, clearly taken aback by your little one-woman show, a newspaper in hand, which he quietly set down on the tidy shelf beside him without taking his astonished eyes off you. You kept dancing around, holding one of his hats on your head, and only caught him in your peripheral vision after a while.

You shuffled awkwardly in place, then asked: "How long have you been standing there?"

Buggy smirked. "I wish I'd come a little earlier. Looks like I only caught the finale."

You both laughed quietly. You'd half-expected him to scold you, but you'd somehow forgotten that scolding you was something he simply didn't know how to do. Even now, standing before him in his coat, hair disheveled, makeup smeared, you were the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

You sauntered toward him with a slow, cat-like stride, stopped just inches away, and walked two fingers playfully up his chest. "Don't worry," you said, "I still don't look nearly as grand as you do in this coat."

Buggy's smirk widened. "With it or without it, you'll look beautiful either way."

You took a step back, batted your long colorful false lashes with an air of innocence, and let one sleeve slip off your shoulder. Buggy nearly let out an audible gasp, but just barely caught himself. You noticed him holding back, and that only spurred you on. You pulled the coat open, revealing nothing underneath but bare body.

Buggy licked his dry lips. "Oh, yes, honey. You're definitely better off without it."

In retaliation, you plant yourself directly in front of him and stare him down without blinking as he does his push-ups. But somewhere along the way you lose count, because you've stopped counting entirely, too busy watching the way droplets of sweat trace their way down his torso. And you feeling how a warm, fluttering knot tightening low in your stomach.

"I think it's time we wrapped up training, darling..." he says, with a smile. "In our cabin."

And honestly? You have no objections.

At first, things at the cat café were awkward and sweet all at once. A grey cat had chosen you — settling right onto your lap and refusing to let you so much as shift. Buggy, however, was having an entirely different experience: the cats were swarming around him as though they sensed some strange connection to him. At first, he was flustered — even a little frightened — but then he caught sight of you laughing, and gradually began to settle down.