Tittygetton: 1
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Aokiji Kuzan x reader Chapter Name: “I Don’t Know Why the Ice Man Looks Like He’s Having a Stroke, But I’m Just Here to Deliver Reports” Length: 1 K+ Rating: 18+
Next
Look. You weren’t trying to cause an international incident with your bra.
You woke up. You got dressed. You picked the black blouse because it was clean, and maybe it clung a little in the front, but you didn’t think much of it. Maybe you leaned over a desk. Maybe there was a little bounce involved. Maybe your chest looked like a diplomatic crisis waiting to happen. Who’s to say?
You’re just a hardworking government employee. You file reports. You handle logistics. You are innocent.
(But Admiral Kuzan? He’s about to enter the fight of his life.)
You nod politely at the Marines in the hallway. You adjust your clipboard. You walk into the shared briefing room as if it’s any other Tuesday. You do this weekly because the Admirals are liable to ignore reports unless delivered in person.
You offer Admiral Aokiji, the single most important person in the room, a friendly smile when he glances up from his seat.
That is your first mistake.
He doesn’t smile back.
He just kind of… stares.
And blinks once. Slowly.
Like he’s buffering.
The room continues on, oblivious: chairs scrape, boots click, papers shuffle. And yet there he is, frozen mid-turn, gaze fixed like you’ve committed a war crime with cotton and underwire.
You clear your throat. You shuffle your notes. You remind yourself you are a professional.
“Good morning.”
Your voice is polite. Neutral. Absolutely free of criminal intent.
He blinks again, delayed, as if rejoining reality by sheer force of will. “…Morning.”
Except it doesn’t sound like morning. It sounds like a man just got punched in the brain.
“Admiral Aokiji,” you say, polite as ever. “The shipping office needs you to sign off on the schedule for Marineford.”
Nothing.
You pause. Maybe he didn’t hear you?
You shift your weight a little. You hold the clipboard out farther.
You lean over the table.
This is your second mistake.
Because his gaze; traitorous, impossible, criminally obvious—drops. Not far. Just enough. Like gravity itself betrayed him. Like he never learned about the social construct of eye contact.
The silence stretches. You can hear someone at the far end of the room clearing their throat, another Marine rifling through paperwork, the faint tick of the wall clock. Normal sounds. Ordinary.
But between you and him? Tension thick enough to strangle.
You glance down at the papers in your hand. That’s all this is. A routine report. Ink and logistics. Fuel shipments, dock space, supply counts. Nothing scandalous. Nothing treasonous.
So why does it feel like you’ve just dropped live ordinance in the middle of the briefing table?
You straighten, clipboard still in hand, forcing a professional smile. “Sir?”
He twitches.
Not dramatically. Just a slight, microscopic flinch. Like someone shoved a memory of motorboating directly into his cerebral cortex, and now he has to physically resist the urge to combust.
Kuzan exhales. It’s slow, uneven, like a man trying not to drown. His hand finally moves, reaching for the pen beside him.
Only he doesn’t sign. Not yet. His fingers hover over the page, stalling, like even the act of putting pen to paper requires a full internal reboot.
And you, blissfully unaware of the war you’ve just sparked in his bloodstream, wait patiently.
You frown. “Sir?”
He doesn’t respond with words.
He just picks up his coffee and misses his mouth by a full inch.
You stare.
“…Are you alright?”
He nods. A little too fast. A little too hard.
“Yeah. Yeah. Just, uh. Processing.”
Processing what? The tax report? The manifest?
Or the titties, Admiral?
You don’t say that, obviously. You are a professional. You have decorum. You do not let the admiral know that his eye has been flicking, rapidly, between your face and your chest like he’s running internal diagnostics on his will to live.
His gaze darts anywhere but you; the ceiling, the wall, the paper in front of him, a potted plant in the corner, like it might offer backup. He scribbles something that could generously be called a signature, though it looks more like the work of a toddler on a sugar high.
You take the clipboard back, scanning the page.
“…This says ‘ice.’”
Kuzan freezes.
“…Does it?”
“Yes.” You tilt the board toward him. “In block letters. Just… ‘ice.’”
He blinks once, slowly, as if daring reality to correct itself. You have no idea whether he’s joking or actually suffered some kind of small stroke in front of you.
He finally takes the clipboard from your hand with two fingers, like it might explode. He tries to signs his name, and it’s a mess.
“…That should cover it.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Yup.”
He looks constipated.
You’re vaguely concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”
“…Yup.”
You watch him breathe with robotic precision, his movements stiff, mechanical, like a man piloting his own body from somewhere very far away.
You consider suggesting he get some rest. Or water. Or therapy.
Instead, you just say, “Let me know if you need anything else.”
His jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like a warning light. “…Sure. Anything.”
The way he says it—tight, strained, almost reverent—doesn’t match the context. At all.
You nod politely, smile, and turn to leave. Because to you, this is Tuesday. Paperwork. Schedules. Logistics.
Behind you, though? Admiral Kuzan leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose, and wonders if anyone has ever actually died from professional arousal.
Then you turn. And walk out.
You don’t see him freeze the table. You don’t hear him mutter a low, broken, “...Bozongas,” into his lukewarm coffee, as if it betrayed him. You don’t realize you’ve just become the unsanctioned reason an admiral is about to self-report to HR.
You just think he’s weird. And that maybe the heater is broken.
Because, honestly? It got freezing cold in there.
-X-
Kuzan would relay a much different memory of this event.
You walk into the room, completely unaware of the devastation you’re leaving in your wake—like a warship blessed by the titty gods.
Kuzan looks up once.
Just once.
And never recovers.
“Oh no,” his brain says calmly, as his coffee tilts out of his hand in slow motion. “Oh no,” it repeats as you lean over to adjust a file. “Oh no,” As your shirt dips.
It is not, unfortunately, a whisper of warning.
It is the sound of despair.
He knows better. He’s been better.
He is Fleet Admiral material, dammit. He has survived war, loss, bureaucracy, the Grand Line, and Garp with a pan in his hand.
But you.
You walk in with your criminally majestic chest and your blissfully oblivious attitude and the way you go, “Admiral, did you review the incident report yet?” At the same time, the upper hemisphere of your body threatens to take over global governance, and your tits are the final boss.
He sits very, very still.
You think he’s ignoring you.
In reality, he’s locked in a mental Cold War with himself.
He is this close to sliding to the floor and whispering “boobies” like a man in mourning.
He has stopped hearing words. He’s spiritually astral projecting into a cold shower that never ends. He’s filing an internal HR violation against himself.
You tilt your head.
“You okay?”
He slowly blinks.
“…Yup.”
He is not.
He is in the trenches of Tittygeddon and losing.
Hours later, he is still in that same chair, spiraling hard. He very gently picks up his coffee mug, now empty and sad, and whispers, “I want to squish them… just once.”
Then he sighs.
Because he knows that’s how wars start.
And HR. HR always wins.
