#mr.9xreader

(HE IS SUCH A CUTIE ERAKJWEFBJKWB)

The night at Whiskey Peak was draped in a heavy, silver silence. High above, the moon hung like a spotlight over a deserted clearing by the shore, illuminating a lone figure. Mr. 9 moved with a practiced, rhythmic grace, his crown catching the lunar glow with every tilt of his head. In his hands, his wire bats weren't weapons; they were props in a grand, invisible choreography. He moved in simple training clothes, a silhouette against the sea.

In his mind, he wasn't a low-ranking frontier agent for Baroque Works. He was the star of a tragic romantic opera, a prince torn between duty and desire.

“Halt! What brings you here at this ungodly hour?” he declared, pointing a bat with practiced authority at a patch of empty air. He paused, biting his lip. “No, no… that’s not quite right.”

He turned his back to a nearby tree, took a steadying breath, and spun around with a theatrical flourish of his arms. “You there! Halt! You stand in the presence of royalty. I shall have you arrested!”

His voice was booming and confident, but it quickly crumbled into a soft, yearning whisper. He lowered his weapons, reaching out a trembling hand as if offering a dance to a ghost. “But… how can I do that to the one I love? Perhaps one final dance before we are separated by the cruel hands of fate. How unfortunate… to fall for one who lives in enemy territory.”

He began to waltz with his shadow, his movements captivating and fluid, even if a few of his turns were a bit stiff. He looked into the distance, his eyes wide with a manufactured, beautiful sorrow.

“Come with me,” he pleaded to the wind. “We shall run away, far from this place. We’ll live in peace… just the two of us, building a life of our own.”

“That was beautiful, Mr. 9.”

The voice shattered the fantasy. Mr. 9 let out a startled yelp, his crown slipping sideways and nearly covering one eye. He scrambled to straighten it as [Reader] stepped out from the treeline, her silhouette framed by the stars.

“H-how long have you been standing there?!” he demanded, trying to recover his "princely" dignity while his heart hammered against his ribs.

[Reader] let out a soft chuckle, stepping closer to the water’s edge. “Long enough to see the dance. Although,” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes, “your footwork on that last turn was a little stiff.”

“How dare you spy on royalty!” Mr. 9 huffed, drawing himself up to his full height. “I was simply… practicing for… a very important mission!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not judging,” she said, her smile fading into something more contemplative as she looked out at the dark expanse of the sea. “Actually… the way you spoke just now… it was romantic. I didn't know you had that side to you.”

Mr. 9 stumbled over his words, his face heating up. He moved to stand beside her, the bravado slowly draining out of him as he felt the shift in her mood.

“I think I yearn for something like that, too,” [Reader] sighed, her voice barely louder than the lapping waves. “The idea of someone wanting to run away with me… like a fairy tale. I’m just waiting, hoping that someone—anyone—would feel that way about me.”

Mr. 9 stayed silent, but his eyes were fixed on her profile. In the moonlight, her features looked like they were carved from marble, her eyes reflecting the shimmering sea. She was captivating. Exquisite. He wanted to tell her that she didn't have to wait—that he was right here—but the words felt like they were snagged in his throat.

He wanted to love her loudly. He wanted to leave behind the life of an agent and become the man she dreamed of.

“Run away with me, [Reader].”

The words left his lips before he could second-guess them. [Reader] snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with shock. But she didn't find a joking man or a clumsy agent; she found a look of fierce, unwavering determination on his face.

His eyes—the ones that had always captivated her—were now full of a desperate, protective love. He was ready to leave it all behind—the organization, the codenames, the danger—just for a chance at a peaceful life with her.

(i was watching barbie in the nutcracker when i thought of this jsbdckajba)

The Grand Line was quiet for once. The only sounds were the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull and the rhythmic creak of aged timber as the ship swayed in the swell. [Reader] sat by the railing, an old, tattered book of fairy tales propped against a crate. Beside her, a small oil lamp cast a warm, amber glow over yellowed pages filled with knights, glass slippers, and a world where the good guys always won with a smile.

She reached the part where the prince leads the heroine onto the floor, and a soft sigh escaped her. She looked at the deck; it was spacious, bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. Putting the book down, she stepped into the center of the wooden boards.

She rose onto her tiptoes, her arms moving like the calm sea, swaying with a grace she usually kept hidden. She imagined a symphony in the salt air, twirling and taking small, light leaps to keep the floorboards from groaning. In her mind, she wasn't on a pirate ship—she was in a ballroom, guided by a prince who saw her as more than an agent.

Across the deck, Mr. 9 watched from the shadows, breathless. "How beautiful," he whispered to the night. She looked like a swan in the moonlight—ethereal, unreal, a true princess in a world of dust and gunpowder.

He stepped quietly to the crate, glancing at the open book. He traced the drawing of the ballroom before looking back at her.

“The moon is a harsh critic, my dear,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. [Reader] snapped her head toward him, her heart racing. He didn't move to scold her; he just looked over the pages, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “A palace? Does the hero save the day? Does he get the crown?”

“She gets the heart,” [Reader] corrected, walking back to the railing to stand beside him. “That’s the part that matters. Sometimes, when I look at this ocean, I wonder if I’ll ever feel that. Something that feels less like a mission and more like a dance.”

Mr. 9 went quiet. The teasing remark he’d prepared died on his tongue. He looked at her—at the way the starlight seemed to catch in her eyes—and then back at the drawing in the book.

“Where did you learn it?” he asked, his voice a soft, raspy whisper. “The ballet.”

[Reader] looked down, a flash of disappointment crossing her features. “My mother. I always wanted to be a dancer, but… life had other plans for me. I just want to dance again.”

“You think we can’t have that here?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “On a ship full of assassins?”

[Reader] let out a bitter, quiet chuckle. “It’s hard to imagine a waltz in the middle of a storm, Nine.”

That was all he needed to hear. He straightened his back, adjusting his suit and ensuring his crown sat perfectly atop his head. With a sudden, formal elegance, he stepped into the center of the moonlit deck. He tucked his left hand behind his back and offered his right, palm up—a silent, royal invitation.

“The music is a bit lacking,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly with a nervous, shy edge. He swallowed hard. “The orchestra is currently seasick, and the ballroom… well, it’s a deck that needs a good scrubbing. But as a prince, I cannot allow a masterpiece to go unappreciated.”

[Reader] stared at him, her breath hitching. He looked flushed, biting his lip as if terrified she might say no.

“Are you asking me to dance, Mr. 9?”

“I am commanding it,” he squeaked, regaining his regal posture. “A royal decree. One waltz. No exceptions.”

[Reader] laughed, the sound bright and clear. She walked toward him with graceful steps, placing her hand in his. His grip was firm but incredibly gentle as he pulled her close, his other hand settling at the small of her back. There was no music—only the wind and the waves—but as he began to lead her in a slow, surprisingly fluid box step, the world shifted.

He wasn't a mid-level agent anymore. He was the hero from her book, moving with an elegance he usually hid behind his clumsy bravado. He spun her once, and for a fleeting second, the weathered wood beneath their feet felt like polished marble.

“You’re actually a good dancer,” she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He pulled her closer, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “A prince has many talents. And if you ever need to feel like you’re in a fairy tale… just come to me. I will treat you like the princess you are. Exactly as you deserve.”

(HE HAS SUCH PRETTY EYES OMG HUHUSKJDCBAKJ)

The Grand Line was a graveyard of ambition, overflowing with gold, ancient weapons, and Devil Fruits that promised the power of gods. But to Mr. 9, none of it could compare to the quiet way [Reader] leaned against the ship’s railing, watching the sun dip toward the horizon.

He stood a few paces behind her, his wire bats feeling heavy in his hands and his crown tight against his brow. Usually, he was a whirlwind of noise—a "Prince" defined by theatrical poses and barked commands. But when he looked at her, the performance faltered. He became soft. Whenever she smiled, he felt a pull in his chest, an ache to be the reason behind that expression. He watched the way her eyes glimmered with the changing light, secretly wishing they would one day hold that same warmth for him.

He felt like a mess of a man, yet finding her felt like destiny—a sudden, quiet rightness in a world of chaos.

He walked toward her, his palms sweating and his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage. He cleared his throat, trying to find his usual regal rasp to mask his nerves.

“You’re staring at the horizon again,” he said, catching her attention. She turned, and those eyes—the ones that made his knees weak every single time—focused on him. “Is it truly that fascinating? Surely it pales in comparison to my new acrobatic maneuvers?”

[Reader] laughed, and the sound made his heart skip a beat. It was a melody he wanted to wake up to every day. Before he could strike a pose, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down at her hand, then back up at her, momentarily breathless.

“The view is nice,” she said with a soft smile, “but it’s better with company.”

Mr. 9 froze. Every time they spent a moment like this, he felt giddy, his mind racing to find a way to react without making an absolute fool of himself. With the other Baroque Works agents, life was an exhausting cycle of missions, competition, and facades. But with her? He could finally let his guard down.

“An odd request,” he managed, trying to act nonchalant even as his pulse thundered. “But I shall graciously accept.”

She laughed again, turning back to the orange glow of the sunset. The sun reflected off the waves, painting the world in gold and fire. It was a masterpiece, but Mr. 9 didn't look at the sea. He looked at the way the light caught the bridge of her nose and the curve of her lips, making her look ethereal.

He remembered the lyrics of a song he’d heard in a tavern once—something about a girl who was the only thing that mattered in a world of madness. That’s her, he realized with a start. That’s you.

“Nine? You’re staring,” [Reader] teased, bumping her shoulder playfully against his.

This time, he didn't panic. He didn't jump away or deflect with a loud exclamation. Instead, he leaned back against her. He let his arm settle next to hers, a soft, genuine smile tugging at his lips. His eyes stayed on her, full of a wonder he never tired of.

“I am a prince,” he whispered, his voice losing its theatrical edge and becoming something raw. Something real. “And a prince is allowed to admire the most beautiful thing in his kingdom. Even if… even if that kingdom is just a tiny ship in the middle of a very big ocean.”

His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, his thumb grazing the warmth of her cheek. He wore a lovesick smile—the smile of a boy who had finally realized that he wasn't a hunter, an assassin, or a number.

The night air in Whiskey Peak was thick with the rot of drunken revelry. Down in the saloon, the Baroque Works agents were still howling, their laughter a jagged, ugly sound as they toasted to their latest ‘catch’—a rookie pirate crew lured in by the sweet promise of hospitality, only to be met with a cold steel welcome.

But up in [Reader]’s room, the world was held in a fragile, silent amber.

It was long past midnight, the distant cries of celebration echoing like ghosts against the stone walls. [Reader] sat propped against a mountain of plush pillows, the soft glow of a single candle dancing over the pages of a heavy poetry book in her lap. She wore a thin silk nightgown, the lace-trimmed sleeve having slipped down to expose the curve of her shoulder, her skin shimmering like pearl in the low light.

Then, the floorboards in the hallway groaned.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even reach for the small, silver-hilted dagger tucked beneath her pillow. She knew that rhythm—the heavy, rhythmic thump-thump of Mr. 9’s boots. But tonight, the cadence was off. It was staggered, clumsy, accompanied by the occasional heavy thud of a shoulder colliding with the wall.

The door creaked open, admitting a draft of cool air that smelled sharply of cheap ale and the briny tang of sea salt.

“It’s late, Mr. 9,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the elegant lines of a sonnet. “How was the party? The celebration must have been quite the ‘royal gala’ for you to be stumbling this much.”

There was no witty retort. No booming Huzzah! or dramatic royal decree. Instead, there was only a heavy, fumbling silence as he managed to kick the door shut behind him.

She heard him shuffling toward the bed, the mattress dipping significantly as he sank down right behind her. The heat radiating off his body was intense, a sharp, feverish contrast to the midnight chill.

“My dear… lovely… princess,” he rasped. His voice was thick, missing its usual operatic edge, sounding instead like velvet dragged over gravel.

Before [Reader] could turn to scold him for his tardiness, two strong arms wrapped firmly around her waist, hauling her backward. She let out a soft, startled gasp as she was pulled flush against his chest. His head dropped heavily onto her exposed shoulder, his face burying itself deep into the sensitive crook of her neck.

“Mr… 9?” she whispered, her heart starting a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. “Are you… are you drunk?”

“I am… strategically drunk,” he muttered against her skin, the vibration of his voice sending a delicious shiver straight down her spine. “The Prince… has successfully neutralized the enemy… but the enemy’s rum… has launched a devastating counter-offensive.”

“Since when did you start drinking this heavily?” she asked with a small, shaky laugh, reaching back to pat the arm locked around her waist.

Mr. 9 let out a long, shaky exhale that tickled her ear. His hair, messy and smelling of the wind, brushed against her cheek before his lips found the skin of her shoulder.

It wasn't a "royal" kiss. It was soft, lingering, and completely unscripted. He began to pepper the line of her neck with tiny, dizzying presses of his lips, his golden stubble grazing her sensitive skin with a rough, intimate friction.

“9, stop it,” she breathed, though she didn’t pull away. She reached back, her fingers tangling in his blonde hair to anchor herself as the tension in the room skyrocketed. “You won’t even remember this in the morning.”

“I will,” he argued, his voice a low, jagged mumble. He moved his face higher, his nose nuzzling the space behind her ear. “I’ll remember… the way you smell like flowers… and the way the light… makes you look like a dream I’m not allowed to have.”

A deep, frantic crimson flooded [Reader]’s face. He was clinging to her now, his grip on her waist tightening as if he were afraid the floor would swallow him whole if he let go for even a second.

“You’re a very… very bossy… princess,” he whispered between sleepy presses of his lips. “But you… you’re the only one I’d jump into the sea for… again and again.”

His muttering began to trail off into soft nonsense. “Must… protect the perimeter… but the pillows… the pillows are… so tactical…”

The tension began to melt into a sweet, ridiculous warmth. [Reader] felt his weight become heavier against her back, his breathing deepening into a steady, rhythmic puff of air against her skin.

“9?” she whispered softly.

A soft, muffled snore was her only answer.

She let out a quiet, huffed laugh, her heart aching with a sudden, overwhelming surge of love. Carefully, she pried his arms from her waist and turned around, watching as the formidable ‘Prince’ of Baroque Works slumped over onto her pillows.

His hair was a disaster and his face was flushed a soft, honest pink. He looked completely peaceful—no masks, no crowns, no bravado. Just a boy who had fought a war and come home to the only person who made him feel safe.

She reached out, gently pulling the lace of her nightgown back up over her shoulder before leaning down to press a single, quiet kiss to his forehead.

(IM FINALLY DONE!! GAHDAYUM)

The quiet of their quarters was usually defined by the predictable, comforting sounds of their life together: the rhythmic clack-clack of Mr. 9 meticulously polishing his wire bats, or the steady, scratching melody of [Reader]’s pen as she pored over her tactical studies. It was a domestic cadence, a heartbeat of routine they had built in the shadow of Whiskey Peak. But lately, [Reader] had stumbled upon a new, treacherous way to shatter his carefully maintained composure.

It had started by accident—a stray finger brushing against his nose while she reached for a heavy volume on the shelf. She had apologized, of course, but she had also noticed the way his entire frame had gone rigid, the way his breath had hitched into a ragged gasp. She quickly realized that a simple touch to his nose was the one thing he couldn't handle.

Mr. 9 was standing by the rain-streaked window, his blonde hair a disheveled mess from a long day of drills. He stared out into the storm-drenched streets, his brow furrowed in a deep, brooding scowl. He was likely calculating trajectory angles or mapping out patrol routes, his mind a fortress of military precision.

[Reader] walked past him, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips. Without a second thought, she reached out and tapped the bridge of his nose—a quick, light boop.

Mr. 9 didn't just flinch; he jumped as if he’d been struck by a live wire. He spun around, his eyes wide, his hand flying to his nose to ensure it was still anchored to his face.

“Dear!” he sputtered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched register that was miles away from his usual ‘Prince’ persona. His face erupted into a frantic, deep crimson. “Wha—what was that?! That was an unauthorized maneuver! A massive breach of personal perimeter!”

She just chuckled, sliding back onto the bed and opening a textbook in her lap, feigning intense interest. “Just a little maintenance, Mr. 9. You looked like you were going to explode over there.”

“I was not going to explode!” he huffed, pacing the small room. “I was performing a tactical assessment!”

He turned back to the window, but she could see the tips of his ears still glowing a bright, embarrassed pink. He stood rigid, his shoulders hiked up toward his ears, clearly vibrating with the anticipation of her next move.

Ten minutes passed. She remained studiously buried in her work, but she watched him through the periphery of her vision. He kept glancing at his reflection in the glass, touching his nose with a hesitant, bewildered finger as if trying to understand the ghost of her touch.

She stood up, her movements fluid and silent. As she passed him, she hooked her finger out. Boop.

This time, he didn't just jump. He let out a strangled, operatic noise of pure, overwhelmed shock. He whirled around, catching her wrist in his grip, his eyes darting wildly. “Enough! This is… this is highly distracting! A Prince cannot maintain his cool under such… such erratic conditions!”

She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with wicked, playful light. “Are you blushing, Mr. 9?”

“I am not blushing!” he protested, his voice straining. “I am… I am experiencing a sudden, localized shift in temperature!”

He was frantic, his fringe falling over his eyes, looking so incredibly flustered that the deadly assassin persona had basically evaporated into thin air. He tightened his grip on her wrist, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled her in.

The playful, teasing energy of the room suddenly shifted, turning heavy and electric. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his breath hitching in his chest.

“You like to provoke me,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, jagged rasp she had grown to crave. “You like to see if I’ll break.”

“And would you?” she whispered back, holding his gaze with a challenging sweetness.

Mr. 9’s expression shifted. The frantic, embarrassed blush deepened into something much more intense—something molten and dangerous. He reached up, his free hand trembling as he gently, almost reverently, touched the tip of his own nose, then let his fingers slide down to cup her cheek.

“I don’t break,” he rasped, his eyes burning into hers with a raw devotion that made her knees feel like water. “I surrender.”

He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers in a slow, agonizingly soft motion. He didn't kiss her—not yet. He simply hovered there, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, his hand cupping her face with a terrifying, absolute tenderness.

“Boop me again,” he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, deep yearning. “And I promise… you won’t be able to pull away.”