Length: 1k +
A Mini One-shot attached to this: HERE
Sorry, this was my New Year's post, but turns out my family notices when I slink off. It was hard to justify choosing editing over them imao!
It is not as though Kuzan ever announced, “I am taking you somewhere so hot that you will become physically dependent on me for survival.”
He simply suggested “someplace warm” for the anniversary of the New Year’s kiss he stole (The same kiss that also, inconveniently, took your heart with it). That sounded deeply romantic and extremely considerate as opposed to what would probably happen at the Marineford New Year's Bash now that Kizaru had taken the reins.
You did not realize that “warm” also apparently translates to lava-adjacent.
The moment you step off the boat, the air hits you like an oven door flung open at full force. It steals the breath from your lungs, glues your hair to the back of your neck, and turns your knees into something with the structural integrity of boiled pasta. The sunlight feels personally hostile.
Kuzan, naturally, is unaffected.
He walks beside you in long sleeves at an easy pace, sunglasses catching the light like this is a scenic stroll and not a death march through hell. He looks comfortable. Offensively comfortable. He’s shedding snowflakes.
You make the mistake of stepping a few feet away from him, and the heat immediately punishes you. It presses in from all sides, squeezing the air out of your lungs until you hiss and scramble back into the pocket of cold radiating off his body.
“Oh,” he says mildly, as if he has only just noticed. “Guess you’ll have to stay close.”
His arm hangs loosely at his side, perfectly positioned for you to hook your arm through it. The faint curve of his mouth hints that this was never an accident. Kuzan’s very smile feels untrustworthy.
By the time you reach the hotel, you are no longer walking beside him so much as clinging to him. You are attached like a stubborn patch of glue. He keeps his pace slow, just enough to force you to lean into him, murmuring now and then, “Cold enough?” as though he does not already know the answer.
By the time you cross the distance between the ship and the bamboo hotel, you are practically fused to his side. Not because he deserves your grip, or because he is clearly enjoying the view down your shirt, but because every attempt to pull away earns you immediate punishment from the heat. Your pride wilts faster than your hair.
Staying within that perfect radius of chill feels like discovering a personal Arctic miracle. Each time Kuzan tilts his head just enough to make it feel intentional, you curse him under your breath.
Check-in goes the same way. The room is stunning, with open windows, white linens, and beautiful light. There is not even the slightest attempt at air conditioning.
He does not make it to the bed before you are pressing into him, stealing as much cold as you can.
“That bad, huh?” he asks, his voice lazy with sympathy. His hand settles on your hip, steady and unmistakably flirty as you fall together.
Your fingers twist into his shirt. “You planned this.”
“Just a coincidence, snowbaby,” He says it like it’s a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Like he had not just engineered a climate disaster that has turned you into a heat-struck koala clinging to his chest. “Good thing I’m ice-cold.”
You squint up at him, still gripping his shirt like it might save your life. “Ice-cold,” you repeat faintly. “You say that like it is not climate manipulation.”
His thumb traces a slow, absent line at your lower back, the cold of his touch sharp enough to make you shiver despite the heat. “I prefer to think of this as strategic planning.”
“You planned to weaponize heat stroke.”
“I planned to spoil you,” he corrects easily. “You just happened to be prone to heat exhaustion. Good thing I’m the solution.”
You make a sound that is halfway between a laugh and a complaint and bury your face against his chest anyway, because arguing requires energy and you are rapidly running out of it. He smells like salt and clean air and something distinctly unfair. The heat presses in from all sides, relentless, but his body keeps it at bay like a personal shield.
“Jerk,” you mutter. “But when I melt into a puddle, you’re carrying me home.”
He laughs properly at that, low and warm, even as frost begins to creep across the sheets beneath your knees. The air cools rapidly, blessedly, until the room settles into something livable. He’s so comfortable you may just forgive him.
You sigh in relief and sag against him, your forehead resting against his collarbone. “I detest your silly pranks.”
“Liar,” he says fondly, arms wrapping around you.
Time slips by without you noticing. The heat becomes a memory. The room hums with the quiet sound of distant celebration. Somewhere outside, distant music drifts in the air. Fireworks begin to crackle faintly over the water, soft pops of color reflected in the window glass.
You’re awoken from a daze by the press of icy-cool lips against your forehead.
You lift your head slowly, blinking. “Is it…?”
Kuzan glances toward the window, then back at you. His mouth curves into something softer than smug. “Midnight.”
Then he pops down and seals the deal, albeit with less tongue this time around. You stare at him for a second. Then realization hits, followed quickly by laughter. “You stole my New Year’s kiss last year too!”
“Did I?” he asks, tilting his head. “I remember it being mutually enjoyed.”
You point at him. “You don’t get to steal it twice. This time it’s my turn.”
He leans down anyway, close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips. “Sounds like a challenge.”
Fireworks bloom outside, bright and loud and beautiful. The room flashes with color. You hook your hand into the collar of his shirt and pull him the rest of the way in.
“This one,” you tell him softly, smiling against his mouth, “I am stealing back.”
When your mouth brushes his, you taste salt and the faintest chill, like kissing ice that melts the instant it touches warmth. When you finally pull back, forehead resting against his, you cannot help but steal one more soft kiss against his chin, lingering there like you are not ready to let the moment go.
“Happy New Year,” he murmurs peacefully. “Let’s keep doing this.”
You grin, still clinging, still deliciously cool, still very much his in a way that feels chosen rather than claimed. Your fingers curl into his shirt as you look up at him, eyes bright with teasing warmth.
“Happy New Year, you absolute menace,” you say fondly. “But next time, you could just tell me you don’t want to share me with your coworkers on New Year’s.”
His eyebrow lifts a fraction, amused. “Oh, not interested in Akainu’s heat?”
You laugh softly, “It is not like they could steal me away anyway. Not when you have that kind of charm, and he only has a bad temper and a worse haircut.”
His answering smile is slow, pleased, and entirely too smug. “Sounds good, baby, but just to be sure, I wanted what I’m about to do to you be the only thing you remember tonight.”
You, in fact, started an international incident with your chest.
Chapter 2
“Sir, With All Due Respect, I Think I’m in Love With Her Boobs, and Maybe Her Soul, But Let’s Start With the Boobs.”
Chapter 3
“I Spy With My Little Eye… a Fellow Admiral Down Catastrophically Bad.”
Chapter 4
“You, a Logical Woman with a Good Head on Your Shoulders, Attempt to Test Garp’s ‘Kuzan Is in Love with You’ Theory.”
Chapter 5
“This Is Either a Crime or a Courtship, Please Clarify, Sir.”
Chapter 6
“You need Admiral Kuzan Carnally, and Yes, He Can Hold the Boobs. If He'd Stop Fleeing Like a Repressed Victorian Governess Faced with a Slightly Unbuttoned Shirt.”
Chapter 7
“You Can’t Keep Running from the Tits, Son” or “I Didn’t Raise You, But If I Did, I’d Be Deeply Disappointed and Mildly Proud.”
Chapter 8
“How the Hell Is He Submitting Reports on Time While Actively Being a Tit-Based Blanket Burrito?”
Chapter 9
“It Takes a Staggering Amount of Time for the Man Who Has Commandeered Your Chest to Let You Disrespectfully Climb Him.”
An Admiral develops a suspicious habit of showing up wherever you are, and the Marines around you start acting very strangely.
Previous / Next
Kuzan, it seems, had seen your acknowledgement of his existence as active permission to infiltrate your life.
A casual walk to the mess hall… and who’s that sitting two tables over, reading a book upside down?
Oh look.
It’s Kuzan.
Again.
You told yourself it was a coincidence. Marineford was a big base, sure, but maybe he was just taking lunch in your wing that day.
No big deal.
The next day? He’s in the hallway outside your division’s office. Just leaning against the wall.
Doing nothing.
You froze mid-step. “Um. Admiral?”
He looked up. “Yo.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Can I help you?”
He shrugged. “Nope.”
And then just… stayed there. Until you went inside. Like a very suspicious cat who’d decided you were the warm spot on the couch.
By the third time you “accidentally” ran into him in the supply archive, your friends were starting to catch on.
“So, Admiral Kuzan, huh?” your closest friend snickered, nudging you at lunch. “Is that just your new shadow now, or…?”
You blushed. “It’s not like that. He’s just a guy.”
“You sure? Because he just offered to help carry your tray. And he’s the Admiral Aokiji. The last time someone tried to hand him a clipboard, he used it to fan himself and left it on a dog.”
You hissed under your breath. “He’s just… around.”
“Oh yeah,” another friend chimed in. “Like a sexy glacier. Just slowly inching closer every day until you’re trapped.”
You tried to wave it off. “Marineford’s small. We probably just keep running into each other.”
Your friend raised a brow. “No, it’s not. You work in the east tower. He doesn’t. You train in the west yard. He doesn’t train like us peasants. You live in the dorms. He absolutely does not.”
“Okay, well—”
“Yo.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks.
Kuzan was standing at the edge of the table, perfectly calm, looking like he belonged there. Which, in retrospect, he unquestionably did not.
Your friends blinked. “…Admiral?”
He nodded once, casually. “Hey.”
You stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d say hi.” He looked over your tray, then calmly picked up one of your dumplings with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth. “Mm. These are good.”
Your jaw dropped.
He looked at your friends, completely deadpan. “What a crazy coincidence, huh?”
Your friends, in unison: “LOL, what?”
You: “This isn’t normal. This is not normal.”
Kuzan, chewing: “Sure it is.”
Your friends stared at you like you’d already moved in together.
So yeah, you could say he was getting pretty comfortable.
The training yard was safe.
Mostly.
It was neutral ground. Sandbags, training dummies, instructors too busy yelling to notice you still hadn’t fully recovered from your New Year’s kiss-turned-career-threat. You threw yourself into drills harder than usual, trying to sweat it out. Burn it off. Forget the feel of his mouth on yours and the way he’d disappeared like a cryptid with excellent taste in forearms.
You were halfway through your third round of weapons form when something shifted in the air, sharp and cool, like a breeze that didn’t belong.
You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t need to. You felt it in your bones.
That lazy pressure of eyes, rampant with too-long lashes and bad intentions, watching.
You glanced toward the fence line.
And there he was.
Admiral Kuzan.
Hands in his coat pockets. Sunglasses on. Beanie tilted just slightly like he didn’t give a single damn about how out of place he looked.
He was “observing.”
That’s what he’d said. Just observing.
Totally normal. Completely casual.
Which might have been believable… if he hadn’t shown up during your set of drills. If he hadn’t already “coincidentally” dropped by the mess hall, the archive hallway, and the gym in the last three days like some wandering iceberg with a hard-on for dramatic entrances.
You tried to ignore him. Failed. You fumbled your grip mid-spin and nearly clocked the poor ensign next to you.
“Form’s off,” a low voice said behind you.
You turned around, and he was there.
Right there.
You hadn’t even heard him move. His body heat (or what passed for it) ghosted just inches behind you. You could smell that same icy scent again: clean, crisp, slightly minty, deeply inappropriate for a commanding officer.
“I got it,” you said tightly, trying to re-center.
He ignored that. “You’re compensating with your shoulder. That’s why you’re over-rotating.”
“I know what I’m doing,” you muttered.
Kuzan stepped closer. “Sure you do. Mind if I help anyway?”
You didn’t get a chance to answer before his hand slid down your arm. Slowly. Fingers brushing your shoulder blade as he repositioned you. His palm was broad, firm, and confident.
Your whole body went rigid.
“This part should stay loose,” he murmured, adjusting your grip like you were some delicate, freezing porcelain doll. “You’re overthinking the follow-through.”
“I’m not—”
“And you’re holding your breath.”
“I’m—not.”
His breath was right next to your ear. “Okay.”
He stepped back just enough to give you room, still hovering behind you like gravity had a kink.
You tried the form again. Perfect. Crisp. Textbook.
He whistled. “Now that’s what I like to see.”
You turned to glare. “Are you done?”
Kuzan tilted his head, a slow grin curling the corner of his mouth. “Just observing.”
You stared.
He stared back.
He winked.
And walked away.
Like, he didn’t just make your entire nervous system short-circuit in front of your squad. Like you weren’t now sweating in places that had nothing to do with cardio.
One of your friends, who’d clearly been watching the whole thing, sidled up and whispered, “…I think he adjusted your form just to feel you.”
You choked.
You survived the training drill.
Barely.
Your body hurts, your pride is limping, and your brain is still sizzling from Admiral “Hands-on-Learning” Kuzan’s little demonstration.
You need food, a bath, and space to scream into a pillow.
But the moment you step outside the yard, towel slung over your shoulder, there Kuzan is again.
Leaning against the fence like he lives there.
Still in uniform. Still wearing sunglasses at night and still radiating the energy of someone who’s been waiting specifically for you and would rather die than admit it out loud.
Kuzan doesn’t say anything at first. Just falls into step beside you, sauntering with those unnaturally long legs.
You glance over, already tired. “Are you… following me?”
Kuzan yawns. “Just figured I’d walk you back to the dorms. It’s late. Could be dangerous.”
You deadpan. “This is Marineford.”
“Yeah,” he says, as if that proves his point. “Dangerous.”
You squint. “From who, exactly?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Never know. Lotta weirdos around here. Pretty girl walks around after dark, someone might get the wrong idea.”
You stare at him. “Are you implying you’d beat up a fellow Marine for talking to me?”
Kuzan turns his head just slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Wouldn’t have to. They’d see me first.”
You stop walking. “That’s not subtle.”
He stops, then blinks. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
You’re stunned into silence for a moment. Then you throw your hands up and keep walking.
He follows again, hands in his pockets.
You try to be rational. You try to tell yourself that he’s probably just messing with you. Admirals don’t do relationships. They don’t walk junior staff home like some winter-scented bodyguard with boundary issues.
“So,” you say after a stretch of silence. “This is… what, now? Another coincidence?”
“Could be,” he muses. “But that’d make me real lucky, huh?”
You nearly trip on a rock.
The rest of the walk is quiet, but charged. You’re hyper-aware of how close he is. The occasional brush of his sleeve. The sound of his footsteps syncing with yours. The casual way he keeps looking at you, like he’s just waiting for you to crack.
When you reach the dorm building, you stop at the bottom of the steps and cross your arms.
“Okay,” you say, staring him down. “What are you doing?”
He tilts his head. “What’s what?”
You frown. “The weird haunting. The lunch ‘coincidences.’ The training interference. This. You.”
He thinks for a second. Then says simply, “I like you.”
You blink.
Hard.
“Since when?”
Kuzan shrugs. “A while.”
You gape. “So your plan was… kiss me under false pretenses and then hover me into submission?”
He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “You’re not easy to talk to.”
“I’m perfectly easy to talk to!”
“Mm. Not for me.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Then, quietly, “You gonna invite me in?”
You make a strangled noise. “No!”
Kuzan smiles, unbothered. “Didn’t think so. Just asking.”
He turns like he’s going to leave, but pauses halfway, looking back over his shoulder.
“Sweet dreams,” he says, voice soft now. “Try not to dream about me too hard.”
And then he vanishes into the night again, leaving you halfway up your steps, burning with frustration and something dangerously close to excitement.
You were at your desk, living your best paper-filled, report-submitting, I-am-not-dating-an-Admiral fantasy. Your coworkers were scattered around the office; some drafting memos, some pretending to work while obviously eavesdropping every time your chair creaked.
It had been two days since the walking home incident. You hadn’t seen Kuzan since. You thought maybe, just maybe, he got bored. Or distracted by, say, an international pirate incident.
You were wrong.
Because then he brought you lunch.
Not just “here’s a sandwich” lunch.
No.
A complete, hot bento tray. One brimming with grilled fish, seasoned rice, pickled vegetables, and a tiny handwritten note tucked under the chopsticks that said,
“Eat properly. You forget when you’re thinking too hard. —K”
You didn’t see him arrive. He ghosted in during a meeting, dropped it on your desk like it was a totally normal thing for a god-tier Admiral to do, nodded, and walked out before your brain rebooted.
The rice was shaped like a polar bear.
And that’s when your office lost its goddamn mind.
You blinked down at the tray.
Your seatmate leaned over slowly. “Is that… lunch?”
“…Yes.”
“From Kuzan?”
You stared. “Maybe?”
Another colleague peeked around the divider. “Are you dating him?!”
You hissed, “No!”
Someone in the back: “You have a note. That’s a love note. That’s food-based affection. That’s courtin.”
The tech clerk: “That fish is perfectly grilled. Do you know what that means? It means he planned this.”
“Why is the rice shaped like a polar bear?” another whispered. “That’s intimacy. That’s crafted desire.”
You covered the tray as if it were contraband. “Everyone, please shut up before a Vice Admiral shows up and courts-martials my ass for ‘romantic fraternization via lunchbox.’”
Your team leader peeked in. “Is that Admiral Kuzan’s handwriting?”
You froze. “How do you know what his handwriting looks like?”
She gave you a haunted look. “I audit reports. He writes like he’s seducing the margins.”
A pause.
Then the intern, utterly starstruck, said, “You’re going to be an Admiral’s spouse. You’ll get custom quarters. Heated floors. Breakfast cocoa.”
You paled. “I kissed him once at New Year’s!”
“You say that,” someone muttered darkly, “but he brought you a polar bear bento. That’s emotional commitment.”
You stabbed a piece of fish, your face red. “If I eat this, will everyone stop talking?”
No one moved. Someone might have been taking notes. Someone else was openly sweating.
You looked at the note again.
You looked at the food.
You looked at your team and hissed, “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
And then you took a bite.
Someone screamed.
You step into the mess hall, your tray clutched in your hands, hoping to eat your lunch in peace, but you’re already bracing for impact. You’ve been here before, dodging looks, side comments, and knowing glances. The last thing you want is for the chaos that is your romantic life to be dissected over plates of soggy vegetables, sad fries, and mystery meat.
You glance around, mentally checking off your usual suspects. At least Kuzan isn’t around yet…then again, the mess hall’s usual chaos might give him the best cover for whatever his next move is. And, okay, maybe you’ve been avoiding him just a little, since that incident where you joked that he’d never survive your friend group’s merciless gossip session.
You’d said it casually enough, half-laughing, but that doesn’t stop you from flushing at the memory. "You’re too chill," you’d told him. "We gossip like we’re paid for it. You’d melt."
His sunglasses had slid down his nose a little, revealing the smallest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Try me.”
You hadn’t taken him seriously. Who would? You’d seen how he handles everything like he’s always just a step away from having the most philosophical conversation with a snowstorm. But still, there was that nagging little feeling of dread as you approached the cafeteria, your steps slowing just a bit.
You set your tray down, hopeful. A sip of water, maybe a quick nibble, and you could just eat. Peacefully.
But no.
The moment you sit, it happens. Like the universe has conspired to make sure your romantic drama is always the main event. You can’t even take a breath before you hear it.
“Oh my god, tell me she didn’t go back to him again.”
You groan inwardly, squeezing your eyes shut. Seriously? Out of all the places to catch a break...
“Swear on Garp’s beard. She did. She always does.”
“Tragic.”
You round the final corner, and then it all slows down. There he is. Admiral Kuzan. Sunglasses on, of course, because what else would an Admiral do in the middle of your social disaster? Legs casually propped up on a chair. A cup of tea in both hands, looking like the world’s most jaded old lady who’s heard all the gossip, but still wants to listen to it again for kicks.
He doesn’t notice you yet. Or maybe he does, but he's pretending not to because he's too busy saying:
“So wait, was it the twins from the West Wing or the guy with the sword collection?”
You choke. The sound barely leaves your throat, but it's enough. “KUZAN.”
The table turns as one, like a synchronized feeding frenzy. Every single one of them catches the shift in your tone, ready to enjoy the latest episode of Your Life, Season 2: Kuzan's Unlikely Commentary.
“Kuzu was just helping us pick sides,” one friend says, her voice sweet with mock innocence.
“Yeah,” another grins, “He’s Team Dump-Him-For-Your-Own-Good-You-Deserve-Better.”
Kuzan raises a hand lazily in solidarity. “They asked for my opinion.”
Your seatmate, with an air of unearned pride, adds, “He has insight. He’s seen things.”
You can’t take it anymore. You snap, sitting down beside him, your tray pushed aside in frustration. “He’s a living disaster.”
Kuzan, unfazed, leans toward you with a low smirk, his voice dropping to a private pitch, just for you. “I make exceptions.”
It’s like he’s daring you to do something about it. And for a moment, all you can do is blink at him. He’s not wrong. He makes exceptions for everything, like, say, inserting himself into your drama like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A quick glance around the table confirms that everyone’s waiting for the next punchline. They love this. All of them, grinning, eager for you to explode or for Kuzan to throw another snide remark. Either way, they’re entertained.
You glance at him, your heart still racing, and sigh dramatically, hoping your sheer exasperation will be enough to make him reconsider.
It’s not.
He raises his teacup, sipping it slowly, almost too carefully, as if savoring the chaos he’s helped stir.
Your friend casually chews her food, completely unbothered by the fact that the room is now an arena of your personal life. “So when’s the wedding?”
You blink, horrified. “There’s no wedding.”
Kuzan just shrugs, his grin widening. “Not yet.”
Your head slumps onto the table in defeat. You swear you feel the weight of the entire cafeteria pressing down on you.
One of your friends reaches over and pats your hair, trying to comfort you as if you’re the one in emotional turmoil. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s basically your boyfriend now.”
“He’s not my—” you start, but Kuzan cuts you off with a smug, self-satisfied smile.
“She kissed me on New Year’s,” he announces to the table, taking another sip of his tea. “Didn’t know who I was. Pretty romantic, honestly.”
You groan, mortified beyond reason. “You’re conniving.”
“I know,” he replies smoothly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You looked really cute when you said it.”
You squint at him, your annoyance bubbling over. “You’re here because you want more intel on me, aren’t you? You’re infiltrating my group.”
He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. He just smiles wider, the ice in his gaze cooler than the tea in his cup.
“If I wanted to know everything about you,” he says smoothly, “I’d just ask your friends. They like me.”
Your entire table nods in unison, like they’ve all been quietly plotting to make him feel like a member of the group.
“I made dumplings,” one of them announces with a grin, pulling out a small container like they’re offering up a sacrifice. “Kuzu gets first pick.”
You watch in resigned horror as Kuzan reaches forward and picks one up, acting like the smug, frostbitten gossip queen he now is. He takes a bite like he’s been doing this for years, settling into his newfound place in your social circle like it was his all along.
And just like that, your world spirals further out of control.
You are losing control of your life.
You are beginning to wonder what exactly it would take to reassert control over your life, but a creeping suspicion settles in your stomach. If Admiral Kuzan hovered over you in the dark of night, you’d probably just pretend to care. You can’t be the type to just… give in to your basest physical instincts, right?
A woman like you doesn’t fall prey to that.
You made a plan. A real one. With bullet points. The “I am a rational adult, and not in a flirtationship with an iceberg in uniform” kind of plan.
Step one: Do not react to Kuzan.
Step two: Avoid any isolated locations.
Step three: Be assertive. You are a professional. You own your dignity.
Step four: If he shows up again, you would calmly, politely, and clearly say, “This is inappropriate.”
Perfect.
You felt powerful. You felt in control.
That lasted exactly one morning.
Because, of course, he showed up again.
In the mess hall.
Casually leaning on the counter like he didn’t outrank everyone in the room and wasn’t here for any reason except you.
You grabbed your tray, took a deep breath, and marched over. Assertive. Respectful. Dignified.
“Admiral Aokiji,” you said, trying not to sound like you wanted to strangle him with your salad tongs.
He glanced over, a smile already forming. “Yo.”
You put your tray down. “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” he said, sipping from his mug. “You first.”
You sat across from him, hands steady. “I need you to stop. Following me. Watching me. Correcting my form. Lurking around corners like a sexy frost specter. I’m trying to do my job without my nervous system short-circuiting every time you lean too close.”
He blinked slowly.
Then said, “You think I’m sexy?”
You hiss.
“That’s not the point—”
“It kinda is.”
You gawked. This man was insufferable.
Kuzan took another sip, calm as the sea. “You said I’m sexy. Frost Specter’s a new one. Not bad. Bit dramatic.”
You smacked your palm to your forehead. “I’m being serious!”
“So am I,” he said with that lazy, unreadable grin. “I’m not gonna stop liking you just because you’re bad at processing attention.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
Your brain was buffering.
He stood, tray in hand, and said, “Lemme know when you’re ready to lose the war. I’ve got time.”
And then, of course, he winked.
The audacity.
Later that same week, you were halfway through filing requisitions when an enormous, somber shadow fell across your desk.
You looked up slowly.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku was standing there. Grim. Hands behind his back. His eyebrows are doing things that should be registered as warfare offenses.
Your soul left your body faster than a roadrunner escaping a coyote.
“Walk with me,” he said.
You obeyed. Because Fleet Admiral.
The two of you moved down the corridor in tense silence until you reached an empty stairwell. Classic military confrontation zone. Echoes. No escape. Emotional damage is imminent.
Sengoku exhaled deeply. “So. About Kuzan.”
You froze. “Sir?”
He gave you a look that could curdle milk. “Don’t play innocent. You’re not in trouble.”
You blinked. “I’m not?”
“No. I just need to know if I have to start redirecting every single Marine under the age of forty away from you before they accidentally piss him off.”
You stared.
“Because right now,” Sengoku continued flatly, “Kuzan is one flirtation away from ‘accidentally’ freezing someone’s boots to the floor. He’s subtle about it. But not subtle enough.”
You opened your mouth.
Sengoku held up a hand. “Listen. I’ve seen this before. The man is calm, yes. Laid back? Sure. But he likes you. And when he likes something? He’s like a damn glacier. You can’t stop him. You can only pray it’s heading away from your fleet.”
“I—I didn’t mean for—”
“Kid,” Sengoku said, sighing again. “I don’t care. Just don’t break his heart. It’s hard enough getting him to show up on time.”
You gawked.
Then, quietly: “…Is this actually happening?”
He turned to go. “Oh, it’s happening. Just hope Akainu doesn’t see it.”
You whimpered. “Why?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Because then I have to hear about it.”
Marines are weird by nature. But lately, the ones you work with have been even stranger than usual. At first, it seemed like just an odd coincidence. You’d go to ask a junior officer something, and they’d nod politely, avoid eye contact, then either respond with awkward silence or give you a stiff salute before quickly retreating in the opposite direction.
Then it spread.
No one below Vice Admiral rank would speak to you directly. Not ensigns, not captains, not even that overly confident commander who used to flirt with you like you were a prize to win in a card game.
It became a pattern.
You asked someone if you could borrow a training manual. They handed it to your friend and ran.
You dropped a pen during drills, and an entire group of rookies stared at it, refusing to move, until a Vice Admiral walked by and picked it up for you, looking distinctly confused.
Even the Marines who used to flirt with you now avoided you like you were a live wire wrapped in paperwork and consequences.
And then you heard it.
Whispers in the hallway.
“She’s… his.”
“I saw her eating lunch with him again.”
“He adjusted her hair in public. He touches her back.”
“He’s in her friend group. She doesn’t have to speak. She commands with her eyes.”
“I think he leaves her notes.”
“I heard he froze a captain’s chair for sitting too close to her.”
You were spiraling.
Your thoughts were a chaotic mess, and the only thing that could make it worse was the inevitable encounter. You stormed into the mess hall with purpose, your mind already halfway to confrontation mode, like an unstoppable force.
And then, of course, he did it.
You were pulling your hair up, the struggle of your ponytail becoming more intense as you stretched your arm high, your wrist fighting against the stubborn hold of the hair tie. Eyes squinted in concentration, you were already on the edge of frustration.
Kuzan slid in behind you.
Smooth, effortless. Like he was the world’s most shameless romantic saboteur. He stepped close, too close, and before you could blink, he plucked the tie from your fingers. Gently. Like it was his to take, as if you’d handed it to him yourself.
You froze, turning, stunned. “What—”
He met your eyes with that same calm, unreadable gaze.
And then, he snapped it onto his wrist. Just like that. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged to him.
You gawked, heart pounding, voice stumbling out of you. “Give that back.”
“Nope.”
He rolled up his sleeve just enough to make the black elastic visible, wrapped snugly around his wrist. The soft fabric. Your hair tie.
“I need that,” you insisted, voice strained with irritation.
He raised a brow. “You have more.”
You pointed at him, frustrated. “No, don’t—That’s not what I meant.”
He smiled, a lazy, confident smirk. “It is now.”
And from that moment, it only got worse.
You were in a meeting, talking to someone. You smiled, said hi, expecting the usual friendly response. But this time, they didn’t answer right away. No, they glanced at Kuzan first. Waited for his subtle nod before responding to you. As if you were a secondary concern.
The heat in your cheeks flared as the frustration mounted.
The next day, you couldn’t take it anymore. You dragged him into an empty hallway, seething with anger.
“You’re marking me!” you snapped, face flushed.
He tilted his head, completely unfazed. “Technically, you marked me first.”
“It’s a stolen hair tie, not a marriage contract!” You were close to losing it entirely now.
He leaned in, smirking as he lowered his voice to a teasing rumble. “It’s on my wrist. Right side. Traditionally, that means I’m taken.”
You sputtered in disbelief. “You are NOT—”
He cut you off with a soft, teasing hum. “Mm.” Then, leaning closer still, he whispered, “Why are you so cute when you’re mad about me claiming you?”
You nearly combusted right there, heat flaring through your chest as your brain short-circuited.
And when you stormed off, furious beyond words?
He stayed behind, unbothered. Hand still in his pocket, that black elastic band peeking out from under his sleeve.
Smug. Quiet. Claiming.
Your trouble with men in power didn’t end with Kuzan and Sengoku. Oh no, it seemed that the whole universe had conspired to make your life even more complicated. And seemingly, Kuzan’s adopted mentor, Garp, had caught wind of things.
Not because he cared, of course not. He was far too busy eating mountains of rice crackers and terrorizing rookies. But even he couldn’t ignore the growing phenomenon that was:
“Kuzan’s Girl.”
It was impossible to avoid the whispers now. People were afraid to look at you too long. You hadn’t carried your own tray in a week. The West Wing had started calling you “Lady Ice.”
And today, as luck would have it, Garp cornered Kuzan in a hallway.
Not with fists (yet), but with a squint. The kind of squint that only a seasoned grandpa who’d personally buried both friends and enemies under mountains of rubble could master.
“Oi,” Garp grunted, folding his arms. “You dating?”
Kuzan, who was halfway through eating a popsicle in winter like the walking contradiction he was, blinked slowly over his sunglasses.
“…What gave it away?”
Garp’s eyes narrowed, steely and suspicious. “The base has gone soft. I’ve seen men survive war zones with more confidence than they show around her.”
Kuzan nodded sagely. “Yeah. She’s kinda scary when she wants to be.”
“That’s not a no,” Garp muttered, his tone darker.
Kuzan took another bite of his popsicle. “It’s not.”
Garp bristled. “So? You dating or not?”
Kuzan paused for a moment. Then softly, casually, with the exact amount of laziness that made it somehow worse, he said, “I’m almost engaged.”
Garp froze, his mouth slightly agape, as the words sank in.
Kuzan didn’t elaborate. He just smiled faintly, licked his popsicle, and, most infuriatingly, did not blink.
“WHAT.” Garp’s voice cracked.
Kuzan shrugged nonchalantly. “She hasn’t said yes yet. But she hasn’t said no. And she gave me a hair tie.” He tapped the elastic band on his wrist, like it was the final piece of evidence that settled the matter.
Garp stared at the elastic, his face slowly shifting between disbelief and a dawning horror. “A HAIR TIE?!”
Kuzan nodded solemnly. “Very symbolic.”
Garp clutched his head like he was trying to stave off a migraine. “You’re not even dating!”
“We are, in the spiritual sense.”
Garp threw his hands in the air. “You’re delusional!”
“Maybe. But I’m winning.”
Garp pointed a massive hand at him, face twisting with frustration. “If you get her pregnant, I will personally punch your frozen balls into the next era.”
Kuzan grinned, his calm demeanor never faltering. “You think I’d survive long enough to get her that flustered? She nearly threw a chair at me last week for licking her dessert spoon.”
Garp looked like he had aged twenty years in real time, his face contorting in sheer disbelief. “Why are you like this?”
“I’m in love, old man.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Yep.”
Garp stormed off, muttering something about paperwork, vasectomies, and potentially needing a drink strong enough to undo what just transpired.
Kuzan finished his popsicle and, with his usual lazy stride, wandered back toward your department, wondering if you’d let him borrow another hair tie. You know, for balance.
And since Kuzan had more or less learned how to be a menace from Garp, the old man was now fully invested.
You were having a typical day.
You’d successfully dodged Kuzan all morning. No bra strap crimes. No hair twirling. No glacial flirting with the intensity of a man who’d already picked out baby names.
Just peace. Calm. Paperwork.
BANG.
The door to your office exploded inward like it owed someone money.
You yelped and nearly fell out of your chair. “WHAT—”
Standing in the doorway, fuming like a steam-powered gorilla, was Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
“YOU,” he thundered.
You blinked. “Me?”
He pointed dramatically. “HAIR TIE GIRL.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“Did you or did you not give Kuzan a hair tie?!”
You froze. “I mean… technically—?”
“HE THINKS YOU’RE ENGAGED.”
You knocked over your entire cup of tea.
“WHAT?”
Garp stormed into the room, muttering to himself like a man barely clinging to sanity. “He said he’s almost engaged. Said you didn’t say no. Said the hair tie was a ‘symbolic promise of trust and long-term monogamy.’”
You were choking on air. “IT WAS AN ELASTIC BAND.”
Garp slammed his hand on your desk with such force that the papers threatened to fly off. “You need to clarify immediately. He’s naming your children in his sleep.”
You made a strangled noise. “WHAT?!”
“He told Akainu you two were ‘spiritually married with soft domestic boundaries.’”
You screamed into a folder, your face buried in the mess.
“I am not engaged. And I am not registered to a government-sanctioned ice husband!”
Garp glared, his eyes narrowing like lasers. “Tell that to Kuzan. He’s walking around with that hair tie like it’s a damn engagement bracelet.”
“Oh my god.” You hissed.
“He called it the ‘bracelet of fate,’” Garp growled, “Said it snapped onto his wrist on its own, like destiny.”
You collapsed onto your desk, your face buried in your arms. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You’ll have to get in line behind me,” Garp muttered before storming out. He was already muttering about shipping Kuzan to the Moon.
You sat there, stunned. The air in the room felt thicker, like everything had just shifted into some uncharted territory you couldn’t even begin to process.
Then your comm snail buzzed lazily on your desk.
“Yo. You okay? Garp looked mad. You didn’t tell him about our honeymoon plans yet, did you?”
You hurled the snail across the room, sending it crashing into the wall.
Oh, it’s over for you.
You are officially spoken for.
Not with words.
Not with policy.
But with one quiet, unmistakable act of nefarious, possessive Admiral-coded romance in the form of… your goddamn ponytail holder.
Aokiji Kuzan x reader
Chapter: Operation Successful
Length: 4 K+
Rating: 18+
You’re not sure if you’re ready for him to stay, but he’s already moved in, and he’s not leaving anytime soon.
Previous/ Epilogue
You’re pacing.
Kuzan is still lounging on your bed like he belongs there; long limbs stretched out, mug in hand, watching you like a cat watches a bird that might still escape but probably won’t.
You scowl, trying to hold on to your fraying sanity. “You should leave.”
“Mm,” he says, sipping his drink. “You keep saying that.”
“I’m serious.”
He sets his mug down. “You don’t want that.”
You whirl on him. “You’re cocky.”
“You kissed me.”
“You seduced me into it!”
“You kissed me like you wanted to bite me,” he says calmly. “I consider that a win.”
You throw your hands up. “This is a professional space!”
Kuzan leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His gaze is steady.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you let me in.”
“By accident.”
“You let me stay.”
“Because I didn’t expect you to take off your shoes and emotionally colonize my room!”
He chuckles, soft and deep. “And yet…”
And yet.
You freeze. His eyes don’t leave you.
And before you know what you’re doing, you storm toward him, planning to push him off the bed, shove him, scold him, eject him—
He catches your waist.
And you don’t fight it.
Because he pulls you down so slowly, so gently, your knees end up on either side of his thighs.
Straddling him.
And now you’re sitting on him, breath caught, heart punching your ribs, and he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.
One hand slides up your spine. Not rushed. Not crude. Just there, warm and inevitable.
You stammer, “This isn’t—what are we—this wasn’t the plan—”
Kuzan hums, voice quiet. “You’re warm.”
You blink.
He runs a thumb along your hip.
“Perfect weight. Sweet little heartbeat. I could sit like this all night.”
You make a small, involuntary sound.
He grins, slow and wicked.
“See? You’re already relaxing. Good girl.”
Your brain blue-screens.
“You’re evil,” you whisper.
“I’m patient,” he murmurs. “You’re the one climbing into my lap, sweetheart. I’m just appreciating the view.”
You don’t remember the exact moment you caved.
It wasn’t a single kiss or word or brush of his hand; it was the accumulation of it. The weight of his attention. The slow, careful way he touched you like you were something holy, but looked at you like you were something he’d already stripped down in his imagination a hundred times.
You were halfway to shoving him again when he kissed your collarbone.
You gasped; not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. It was soft.
Too soft.
He pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes.
“Still want me to leave?”
You couldn’t speak.
So you shook your head.
And that’s all he needed.
He kissed you. Deep. Unhurried. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it properly.
Like you were the one who’d been teasing him this whole time.
His hands didn’t fumble. They mapped. Touched your waist like he already knew where to hold you to make your breath catch. When you arched into him, just slightly, he groaned, quietly, but wrecked, like he hadn’t meant to enjoy it that much.
“You sure?” he whispered between kisses. “Because once I start—I’m not stopping until you forget how to make me leave.”
You curled your fingers into his shirt.
“Then stop waiting.”
Kuzan leaned in again, kissed just beneath your jaw, and rasped, “I thought you’d never ask.”
You can feel his breath against your neck. Slow. Measured. Too in control for a man who just watched you climb into his lap like a confession. He’s so big it’s like climbing a very helpful, handsy, jungle gym.
Your hands are in his hair. His are on your waist. And the kissing is getting messy.
He licks into your mouth like he’s starving slowly. Like he’s not rushing because he’s sure of what he’s about to do.
And then his hand slips under your shirt.
You jolt just a little, but he murmurs, “Easy.”
So gentle.
So calm.
Like the tip of an iceberg, right before it breaks the ocean in half.
“Let me touch you,” he whispers. “Been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”
His palm is warm, moving over the small of your back like he wants to memorize the shape of your tension. You melt into him without meaning to.
Your shirt’s up around your ribs before you realize what’s happening. His mouth breaks from yours only to press against your collarbone; open, hungry kisses that say mine, but slow enough to ask for every inch of permission.
He doesn’t rush your bra.
Doesn’t rip.
Just slides the straps down your arms with this maddening, lazy reverence like he’s unwrapping something precious.
And when you shiver? He smiles.
“That’s it. Just like that. Let me see what’s mine.”
You make a noise that’s half gasp, half curse, and bury your face in his neck.
But he doesn’t tease you this time.
He just lifts your chin, kisses you slowly, and runs his thumbs along the side of your ribs like he’s smoothing out every reason you ever doubted this. Ever doubted him.
“You’re soft here,” he murmurs against your lips. “And here—”
His hands roam higher.
You arch, breath stuttering, already dizzy with the feel of his hands on bare skin; the way he holds you, not like you’ll break, but like you’ll get away if he’s not careful.
He breaks the kiss just enough to look you over, eyes dragging slowly down the line of your body. His hands are warm, large, holding your hips still while he sits back, gaze hooded.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
He grins. “You are. And it’s hot.”
And then he leans forward again, burying his face between your breasts, kissing the skin just beneath the edge of your bra, and laughs softly when you let out a sound you weren’t expecting.
“Been dreaming about this,” he mutters against your skin. “The way you taste. The way you sound when you stop pretending you don’t want it.”
You thread your fingers into his hair and pull, and that’s when he groans deep and low, hands gripping your thighs like he needs them to stay sane.
“Gonna ruin me, sweetheart. Already are.”
You don’t remember when you ended up flat on your back, only that his hands never stopped moving.
One arm slipped beneath your shoulder, the other trailing a path down your side like he was sketching you from memory. He kissed you through the whole thing: your mouth, your throat, the dip between your collarbones, and made it feel like the slow descent into something sacred.
“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured, voice rasping warm against your skin.
You obeyed.
His fingers hooked into your waistband with maddening ease, and he peeled your clothes away. Not greedy, but deliberate. Like every inch of revealed skin deserved a moment of his focus.
He slid your bottoms off, pressed one kiss to the curve of your inner thigh, then paused, just looking at you. Breathing.
You were half-naked. Flushed. Heart pounding.
He hadn’t even touched you there yet, and you were already falling apart.
“You want slow?” he asked, thumb brushing your hipbone. “Or soft?”
Then even softer.
“Or should I remind you what happens when you climb into my lap and try to take control?”
You whimpered. He smiled.
He kissed you again, deep, tongue brushing yours in a lazy rhythm that did not match the intensity of his hand sliding between your legs.
Finally.
Finally.
You gasped, hips twitching, and he shushed you gently like you were saying something sweet in a language he hadn’t heard in years.
“That’s what I wanted,” he whispered. “That sound. Been chasing it in my head since the first time you glared at me in a hallway.”
He circled with his fingers first, slow and maddening, keeping his mouth on yours so he could swallow every sound you made until you grabbed at his shirt, desperate and panting, trying to pull him closer.
He leaned back slightly. Smirked. Peeled off his shirt one-handed, cool and infuriatingly elegant, like the man had practiced looking wreckable.
And when he came back down, his skin against yours, bare chest to bare chest, you let out a quiet, desperate noise that only made his grin go wider.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear how badly you wanted this.”
He settled between your thighs like he belonged there.
His fingers were still working you open, but now his mouth moved lower, pressing kisses down your chest, your stomach, slow enough that your nerves sparked.
“You’re soft here,” he murmured, kissing your belly. “And here,” he nuzzled the inside of your thigh. “And here—gods, you’re trembling.”
You covered your face with one arm. “Kuzan—please—”
“I know. I’ve got you.” He lifted his dark eyes, benevolent and molten, “I’m gonna make you forget your name for a minute, then remind you it’s mine you say when you come.”
And then he lowered his mouth, and everything else disappeared.
.
.
.
When it was over, you were draped over his enormous chest, much like a pet.
Leg thrown over his thigh, toes barely reaching around.
Mouth swollen. Body sore in all the right ways. Muscles are soft, shaky, and thoroughly wrecked.
The room’s quiet except for the faint rustle of bedsheets and the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
His skin is warm, slick with the last remnants of sweat, and one big hand lazily trails along your spine, fingertips tracing the curve of your back like he’s still committing you to memory.
You’re so relaxed, you might melt through the mattress.
You shift slightly, humming, and his chest rumbles with a low chuckle.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You twitch like that again and I’m legally obligated to start round two.”
You groan, exhausted. “I’ll file a complaint.”
He grins. “Please do. I love a little paperwork after sex.”
You swat his chest weakly. “You’re a menace.”
“And yet…” He turns his head just enough to kiss your temple. “You’re drooling on me.”
“I am not!”
He lazily presses two fingers to the corner of your mouth. “Proof.”
You groan louder and try to roll away. He catches you easily and hauls you back in, pinning you against him with one leg.
“Nope,” he says, smug. “Mine now. Pillow privileges activated. You made your choice.”
You huff against his chest. “You’re such a smug bastard.”
“And you’re cuddling me voluntarily, so who’s the real problem here?”
You go quiet for a second. He feels it.
His voice softens.
“You good?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just… my brain’s still in the part where you kissed my thighs like you were sorry for ever teasing me.”
He smiles against your hair. “That’s because I was. And also because they’re great thighs.”
You smack his chest again, but this time you’re blushing.
He exhales, slow, satisfied. Twists a lock of your hair around his finger.
“You know I’m gonna keep doing this, right?”
You blink. “Doing what?”
He tilts his head and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“Us. This. Kissing you until you forget how mad you are at me. Holding your hand in front of everyone. Making you coffee in the morning. Round two. Round seven. Round ‘you can’t walk straight.’”
Your face burns, and you burrow into him with a whimper.
He grins.
“Just so we’re clear.”
You wake up to the smell of coffee and something faintly toasted.
Your eyelids are heavy, your thighs ache in deeply smug ways, and your mouth feels a little too dry. But when you stretch, the movement drags against cold sheets and no Kuzan.
You sit up slowly, wrapped in a sheet. Your hair’s a disaster. Your voice, when it finally escapes, is a gravel-whispered croak:
“Kuzan…?”
No answer. Just the soft clatter of ceramic. Something low and vaguely melodic is being hummed.
You drag yourself to the doorway.
And there he is.
In your kitchen.
Shirtless.
Boxer's low on his hips. Bare feet. Steam rising around him from the coffee pot he’s leaning over with the nonchalant grace of a man who rearranged your internal organs last night and would like to do it again after breakfast.
He looks oversized in your apartment, now that it’s daytime. His head could brush the ceiling if he flexed.
He doesn’t turn around at first. He knows you’re there.
“You like it sweet?” he asks over his shoulder, voice lazy. “Or bitter? Or just silently handed to you while I admire your legs?”
You make a dying sound and grip the doorframe.
He winks.
Smirks. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You blink at him, slow and in awe. “You’re shirtless. In my kitchen.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re making coffee.”
“Sure am.”
“You’re humming.”
“Feeling productive,” he says, shrugging. “Sex’ll do that.”
You gawk.
He walks over with a mug, holds it out to you, then leans down and kisses your bare shoulder before handing it off.
“You looked so cute passed out in bed, I figured I’d let you recover before round two.”
You choke on the coffee.
He pats your back like it’s your fault.
“Careful, sweetheart. You’ll need that throat later.”
You drop the mug on the counter and bury your face in your hands.
He just laughs. Soft. Warm. Satisfied.
“You really thought I was gonna fuck you stupid and not make you breakfast?”
You peek at him from between your fingers. “This is a sleepover now?”
He raises a brow. “You think I brought a toothbrush for fun?”
You glance.
There it is. Sitting smugly on your bathroom sink.
You groan again.
He walks up behind you, wraps an arm lazily around your waist, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck.
“Morning, babe,” he murmurs. “Let’s do this every weekend.”
You go limp in his arms.
He’s still humming as he pulls you back to bed, coffee mug in hand, no intention of letting you get dressed anytime soon.
You ended up back in it.
And it wasn’t slow this time.
No.
This time was intentional. Dirty. Focused.
The kind of deep, lazy morning sex that had zero chill.
You were already sore, and he still took his time.
Pushing you onto your stomach, whispering filth between kisses, holding your hips up just so while he rocked into you like he had all the time in the world.
He praised you for every noise.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Just let me have it.” He crooned, “So soft in the morning… barely awake and already dripping.”
You were discovering very quickly that the man had a mouth that would not be stopped.
“You gonna come again for me? Yeah, you are. You always do when I take my time.”
You didn’t even make it to the shower.
There are bite marks on your shoulder. There are finger-shaped bruises on your thighs. There is no universe where you can walk into your office today without someone noticing.
You’d curled up against his chest, panting and ruined, and muttered:
“What time is it?”
He blinked at the ceiling. “Early.”
It was not early.
Cue: 43 minutes later.
Kuzan finally, finally rolls out of bed again. You’re still tangled in sheets, absolutely done with life, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you.
He tugs his pants back on. Shirt? Still on the floor. Hair? A beautiful disaster. Neck? Definitely has your teeth marks.
“Gonna grab more coffee,” he says, stretching like a lazy, smug Greek tragedy.
“You are not walking into base shirtless.”
He kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fast.”
He goes to the hallway.
Boom.
He turns the corner.
And runs face-first into your commanding officer.
Like a war crime made of abs and dried sweat.
There’s a full five seconds of silence as everyone processes:
One (1) shirtless Admiral
A toothbrush in his pocket
His pants are very, very low.
A smug bite on his collarbone
And an unholy level of satisfaction radiating off of him like heatstroke
Your CO clears their throat. “Admiral Kuzan.”
He sips from your mug. Nods. “Mornin’.”
“Do I want to ask whose quarters you’re leaving?”
“Nope.”
Your CO stares.
Kuzan just grins.
“Would’ve been out sooner,” he says, stretching again, “but I got distracted.”
There’s a beat.
He adds, real casual:
“She makes a real good pillow partner. And even better noises.”
Your CO walks away in dead silence.
Kuzan walks back into your room, shuts the door, and says with a shit-eating grin, “So… you might need to transfer.”
All this as you were attempting to survive the emotional crash after the Admiral Smash.
The day’s supposed to be relaxing.
Leave has been extended, thanks to your new beau rightfully assuming you wouldn’t be able to move, much less file paperwork for the next few days. There’s sun, snacks, and no paperwork. Your friends are playing stupid card games and throwing fruit at seagulls.
And you?
You’re face-down in the sand.
Not in a bikini. Not for fun.
Just. Prone. Dead. Emotionally obliterated.
One of your friends walks by and freezes.
“…Is she okay?”
Another peeks over your shoulder. “No, that’s a ‘recently destroyed by a man with god-tier forearms’ pose.”
“She hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.”
“I think she whispered something earlier.”
They lean closer.
You groan into the ground:
“He railed me into another tax bracket.”
There’s a beat.
A scream.
“YOU WHAT?!”
Suddenly, you’re being dragged out of the sand like a shipwreck survivor.
“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?!”
“WHEN? WHERE? IS HE STILL HERE?!”
“DOES HE HAVE A BROTHER?!”
“IS YOUR SOUL OKAY??”
You flail. “I’m not taking questions at this time.”
“I saw him shirtless at the mess tent! He looked like sin with a government pension!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?!”
“I forgot,” you mutter, still buried in sand. “I forgot everything. I saw god. He moaned.”
Someone slaps your arm. “How are you so calm right now?!”
“I’m not calm. My legs don’t work.”
Your best friend crouches beside you, deadly serious.
“Look me in the eyes. Did he praise you mid-thrust?”
You shudder. “He called me ‘sweetheart’ and said ‘good girl’ in the same breath.”
The entire group screams in twelve languages.
Someone collapses.
Someone else walks into the sea.
“I need details,” one begs. “I need timelines. Positions. Casual military secrets he whispered between rounds.”
“He made me coffee after.”
They gasp.
“You’re dating.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re in love.”
“I’m not talking about it anymore.”
“You’re glowing!”
“I’m exfoliated by shame.”
You’re still trying to sand-drown yourself when a long, lazy shadow looms over the gossip circle like a storm cloud wearing swim trunks.
Your friends stop mid-screech.
“…Is that?”
“No.”
“It is.”
Kuzan.
Towel over one shoulder. Hair wild. Wearing the same grin he had when he ruined your spine.
He strolls over like he’s arriving for a podcast recording.
“Heard there were questions.”
Your friends all look at you.
You look at god. He does not help.
Kuzan drops down into the sand. Real casual. Doesn’t ask. Just pulls you into his lap and rests his chin on your shoulder like this is just A Thing now.
You flail. “What are you doing?!”
“Participating in the discourse.”
He kisses your temple. You die again.
Your friends have lost all sanity.
Someone is already taking notes.
Someone else is just whispering “oh my god” in a loop.
“So,” your best friend says, voice shaking, “how long has this… been happening?”
Kuzan hums. “Define ‘happening.’”
You smack his chest. He holds you tighter.
Another friend leans in. “Wait—did she actually forget the time this morning because you were railing her?”
“She did,” Kuzan says brightly. “Her mouth was otherwise occupied.”
You slap your hands over your face.
The group explodes.
“WHAT THE FUCK—“
“Oh my god, he’s a menace!”
“I want this, but also I want to report this to HR—”
“How many rounds are we talking?”
“Are you dating now?”
“Did he call you princess?!”
“Does he have ice powers in bed?!”
Kuzan rests his chin on your shoulder again and answers like a man giving a weather report.
“Three rounds this morning. Five total. She’s walking again, which I personally consider a testament to my recovery tactics and ice power.”
You start shrieking into your hands.
“And yeah,” he adds, “we’re dating. Pretty seriously. I have her hair tie.”
He snaps the elastic on his wrist.
The friend group collectively screams.
Someone yells, “THAT’S AN ENGAGEMENT RITUAL,” and hurls themselves into the ocean again.
Your best friend fans themself. “Is it, like, romantic, or just physical?”
Kuzan presses a long, smug kiss to your cheek.
“She’s mine. In every way that counts.”
You squeak. Everyone explodes again.
Someone starts clapping. Someone else salutes you like a national hero. One girl points at Kuzan and says, “If you hurt her, I will hide your body in a glacier.”
He just raises his brows. “Cold.”
You try to pull your hoodie over your entire soul.
Kuzan pulls it back down and kisses your temple.
“Wanna go for round six after lunch?”
You wheeze. Your friends start taking bets.
“The Brotherhood Reacts” (aka Tactical Admiration)
“That can’t be real.”
“He sits with her during meal breaks. Voluntarily.”
“I saw her smile at him once, and he dropped his fork like it was a proposal.”
“I saw him hand-feed her fruit. Hand. Feed. Like a Greek tragedy.”
Someone slams a tray down.
“Gentlemen,” says a Vice Admiral solemnly. “Admiral Kuzan is running a level of game we are not trained to detect.”
Across the room, Kuzan saunters in.
Relaxed. Shirt unbuttoned a little too low.
Hair tousled. Neck was clearly bitten.
Holding two drinks, one for himself, and one he sets in front of you like a husband dropping off lunch after your third marriage counseling session.
You blink up at him. “You remembered my favorite.”
He grinned and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Of course I did.”
You smile like you just came back from a sabbatical. The men combust.
Cut to the corner of the mess hall.
The junior officers are debriefing.
“He slow-played it,” one mutters. “Didn’t come in strong. Just… showed up. Again and again.”
“He integrated into her friend group. Became the gossip circle. That’s some reverse infiltration.”
“He learned all her favorite snacks. Waited. Acted harmless.”
“And then?”
“He railed her unconscious and made breakfast.”
The table goes silent.
Someone whispers reverently, “That’s why he’s an Admiral.”
In a spare room, a Marine is holding a hand-drawn whiteboard diagram labeled “The Kuzan Maneuver.”
Step Five: Dismantle all resistance through patience, dry humor, and full-body worship.
Step Six: Cuddle and claim.
“It’s beautiful,” someone says. “It’s psychological warfare but for love.”
At the training yard, you show up in his hoodie, slightly late, sipping from his thermos. You’re glowing. You haven’t yelled in two days. You even giggled.
Kuzan is leaning on a wall like a beach vacation came to life.
A soldier nudges his friend. “I thought he was chill.”
“Bro. That’s the trick. He’s ice-cold, then he melts you with his warm heart.”
Someone scribbles “melt strategy” on a clipboard and runs off.
Meanwhile, Kuzan just watches you spar with a grin.
“Look at her. Perfect form. Good hips. She’ll kill me one da,y and I’ll thank her. I am marrying that woman.”
Aokiji Kuzan x reader
Chapter: The Strategic Courtship of Admiral Kuzan
Length: 5 K+
Rating: 16+
You made one mistake. Okay, one delicious mistake. Now, Admiral Kuzan keeps showing up, and your dignity is hanging by an icicle.
Previous / Next
You woke up the next morning and immediately considered faking your death. Not hypothetically. Not in that melodramatic, post-party regret kind of way. No. You were ready to fake your death, change your name, and join a traveling snail circus just to escape the mortifying reality of what you’d done.
You lay there in your bunk, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you. The worst part? Your lips still tingled. Faintly. Treacherously. Like they remembered every second of a kiss that had absolutely no business being that good.
It wasn’t even supposed to mean anything. One anonymous kiss at the stroke of midnight. New Year’s nonsense. A little bubbly courage and a lot of bad lighting. Everyone had been tipsy, laughing, and counting down. And you? You had leaned in toward the nearest tall stranger in the crowd like a complete idiot. Because that’s what you did during these kinds of events, right? It was tradition. A throwaway kiss.
Except now you knew.
It wasn’t a stranger. It was Admiral Kuzan.
Admiral.
Kuzan.
The Ice Admiral.
You groaned and shoved your face into your pillow, wishing suffocation was a more viable escape plan.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” you mumbled into the fabric.
It had been like kissing a sexy mirage. Tall, lean, quiet. That lazy charm. You hadn’t even gotten a good look at him in the moment, too caught up in the champagne haze and the electricity running down your spine. It had felt like some fleeting, indulgent fantasy. And then the next morning, reality hit you in the face with the speed and precision of a Marine-issued summons.
The man files paperwork. He has authority. He technically outranks everyone you have ever known. He probably drinks coffee with Sengoku. He might be the reason the coffee in Marineford tastes like frozen despair.
You sat up and began the sluggish, painful process of dressing yourself in what you now referred to as your “Don’t Fire Me” uniform. Everything about it screamed harmless. Your shirt was stiff with starch, tucked in so tightly it might have been fused to your spine. You’d picked the least flattering pair of slacks known to mankind. Your boots were polished to a humble, non-threatening shine. Your hair was pulled back into the strictest bun your skull could tolerate. You hadn’t even reached for mascara. No highlighter. No winged eyeliner. And, God help you, no lipstick.
You looked like someone who read standard operating procedure manuals for fun.
You stood in front of the mirror and tried your best “I’m innocent” face. The result was deeply unconvincing.
You didn’t look innocent.
You looked like you’d hidden a body. Or worse, you looked like you had been lip-locked with someone who had likely buried several.
Your brain kicked into overdrive. You needed a cover story. Something believable. Something humble.
Option one: “It was dark, sir. I thought you were a public menace.”
Option two: “He didn’t identify himself, and I assumed he was just a very convincing ice-themed pickpocket.”
Option three, your personal favorite: “Technically, he kissed me. I was just emotionally kidnapped.”
None of them sounded like something that would hold up under military interrogation. But you memorized them anyway, whispering them like mantras as you made your way through the base. Every step toward headquarters felt like trudging toward a firing squad. Your palms started to sweat before you even reached the front steps. You wiped them on your pants. Twice.
What if he’d filed a report? What if this was entrapment? What if the kiss had been a covert test of moral integrity and you’d failed it (with tongue)?
You stopped outside the main building. The great looming doors of Marineford HQ stood before you like the gates of hell.
You took a breath.
You were a professional. You were composed. You were not going to think about the way his lips had felt, or how cool his hand had been when it brushed the side of your face. You were not going to remember the sound of his chuckle when he pulled away, low and amused, like he already knew you were doomed.
You would walk in. You would not get fired. You would not spontaneously combust. You were a capable adult. A dedicated Marine. A professional with a spotless record and exactly one humiliating New Year’s kiss that you would never speak of again if the universe had even a sliver of mercy.
You reached for the handle, heart thudding against your ribs, praying that no one in the vicinity could smell guilt. Was that a thing? Could guilt produce a scent? Because if so, you were reeking of it. Downright marinated in it.
"Okay," you whispered to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut for half a second like you could reboot your entire personality through sheer willpower. "Just go in. Act normal. No one knows. You're fine. You are fine. You are not going to see him. He's an Admiral. He's probably in a meeting with Garp or fighting a sea king or—"
“Yo.”
You flinched so violently that your spine nearly left your body. Your coffee lurched in your grip, splashing against the rim. A drop singed your fingers, but you couldn’t even register the pain.
Admiral Kuzan was there.
Leaning casually against the wall just inside the lobby like he hadn’t single-handedly destroyed your sense of reality. Full uniform. His iconic white coat was draped over his broad shoulders. Hair still that wild mess of curls that looked like it had been run through once or twice by someone’s hands, which you would not think about. His sunglasses were perched right where they always were, hiding the expression in his eyes but doing absolutely nothing to mute the infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.
He looked relaxed, like this was just a regular morning. Like the world hadn’t tilted off its axis because your mouth had met his for an objectively too-good kiss beneath confetti and fireworks.
And worse, he was looking at you.
No. Worse. He was smirking at you.
Your brain hiccupped. Completely blanked. There was a vague buzzing in your ears and the unmistakable sensation of your soul attempting to climb out of your body. You stood there like an overheated statue, mouth slightly open, coffee gradually burning into your skin as you forgot how to function in basic society.
Kuzan tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering how ragged you looked. He gave a slight, lazy nod, the kind that could have meant anything.
“Morning,” he said, with that trademark lagging drawl that made even the strongest woman on base feel a little tipsy. It made even the most harmless greeting sound like a conspiracy, and made you look like a loon getting high on it.
You still hadn’t moved.
“Sleep okay?” he asked, voice low and smooth, like he wasn’t casually detonating your nervous system with every syllable.
There was no protocol for this. No chain of command. No training manual that properly prepared you for being personally acknowledged and smirked at by the man whose lips had been on yours just hours ago.
You opened your mouth, determined to respond with something crisp and professional.
What came out was… not that.
“Yup,” you blurted, voice cracking three octaves too high. “Slept. Sleep was had. By me. Definitely.”
Silence.
Kuzan didn’t laugh, but you could see the effort it took him not to.
His mouth twitched, amusement tugging at the corners. He rocked back on his heels and slid one hand deeper into his coat pocket, clearly enjoying himself. You wished for death. Or divine intervention. Or a small, localized lightning strike. Nothing fatal, just enough to reset the moment and knock you unconscious.
“Cool,” he said finally, warm and amused. “Glad to hear it.”
Cool.
He actually said cool. You weren’t sure if he was being ironic, or if your dehydrated brain was simply short-circuiting under the weight of his attention.
You gave a jerky nod, gripping your coffee like it might physically anchor you to the earth. He had kissed you once, and now your entire nervous system operated on his voice like it was a trigger.
You cleared your throat, trying to claw your way back to dignity. “Well. Admiral. Sir. I should probably, um. Go do that thing. That job. That I have.”
Kuzan raised one eyebrow, barely lifting his chin. “You mean your job?”
You stuttered.
“Yes?”
He smirked, the expression lazy and self-satisfied. He tapped the side of his temple, voice casual but not careless.
“Guess I made a lasting impression.”
Oh God.
You were going to combust. Right there in the hallway. Just evaporate into a puff of embarrassed steam.
“I’m—I’m late for—” You didn’t even finish the sentence. You just turned, fully ready to power-walk into traffic or the nearest broom closet.
“Right on,” he said, still unfazed. “Wouldn’t want to keep you.”
And then, because the universe had no intention of letting you escape with grace, his voice called after you again.
“Hey.”
You froze.
“Relax,” he said, tone softer now. Still low. Still smooth. Still somehow worse. “It’s just a kiss.”
He paused.
Then added, almost too casually, “Unless you want it to be more.”
Your body kept walking, but your brain had exited the building. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t respond. You just kept moving, faster now, eyes fixed ahead like you were trying to outrun your own bloodstream.
Behind you, you heard him chuckle.
You survived the morning. Technically.
Kuzan didn’t follow, didn’t say another word, didn’t stroll into your department wing like some unapologetic predator with diplomatic immunity. He just let you run.
Which, frankly, made it worse.
Because now your brain wouldn’t stop looping it. That entire ambush? That wasn’t a joke. That was intentional. A Marine Admiral had waited for you, watched you. Struck the moment your guard was down, and New Year’s had made it technically legal to kiss strangers in front of hundreds of people.
And now he was pretending it was nothing, like he hadn’t kissed you like a moth in a snowstorm and then vanished, leaving you to melt in the aftermath.
You spent the day buried in reports, surrounded by paperwork you couldn’t remember filing, pretending you weren’t twitchy, pretending you couldn’t still feel his hand ghosting behind your neck, thumb grazing your jaw like it belonged there. Every time your pen slipped, every time someone walked past your desk too quietly, you startled like you’d seen a ghost. You were deeply haunted. Spiritually unwell.
It was fine. You were fine. If you stayed in your department forever and never went near the Admiral wing again, you could keep your job and your dignity intact. You would just become part of the office furniture. A haunted swivel chair. A respected filing ghost.
But there was something worse than the after-kiss panic. Worse than the way your lips still tingled like he’d left frostbite in his wake. Worse than the unhurried, toe-curling, life-ruining kiss that had you lying awake all night whispering "Oh my god" into your pillow like a prayer and a confession.
Because now you had to face people.
Not just people. Your coworkers.
And they? They were waiting.
The moment you stepped into the mess hall, still clutching your clipboard like it was a riot shield, one of them spotted you and slammed their tray down across from you with the precision of a tactical strike.
“SIT,” they barked.
You froze. “I—”
“Sit down before I call Security and report you for fraternizing with a walking natural disaster.”
You sat. Carefully. Still mildly concussed from your sleepless night.
The rest of your team flanked you like a well-trained ambush unit. It was an intervention. A friendly one. Probably.
“So,” one of them said, drawing out the word like a blade. “Wanna tell us why you were making out with an Admiral disguised as a wandering philosophy major?”
“It wasn’t like that,” you hissed, trying to keep your voice down. “It was just—he came out of nowhere. I didn’t even know it was him. He looked like someone who’d try to sell me a bootleg sea shanty near the commissary.”
“He looked like an unsupervised sin,” your friend shot back. “And then he kissed you like a man who’s been waiting for permission since the Pirate King was alive.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I didn’t know.”
Another leaned in across the table, eyes wide. “You kissed Admiral Kuzan.”
You peeked between your fingers. “So I’ve heard.”
Everyone at the table went quiet. Tense. Braced, like the following sentence might trigger a naval strike.
“…Do you know what that means?” someone finally asked. “You kissed an Admiral. In public. During a holiday. Surrounded by witnesses. And now we’re all going to die.”
“Why you?” you asked, blinking and still hungry.
“Because we witnessed it,” your friend hissed, rolling her eyes, looking much like a revolutionary on a mission. “And that man saw us watching.”
“He looked at me,” another whispered, pale and shaken. “He nodded. I thought my soul was leaving my body.”
“We are all accessories now,” someone mumbled. There was a moment of collective silence as dread hung over the table like a funeral shroud.
Then someone added quietly, “If I disappear in the night, tell my mom it was worth it.”
You dropped your head onto the table with a low groan.
This was your life now. A public menace with a sweet mouth and a Marine rank had kissed you in front of half the base and evaporated like some urban legend. And somehow, you were the one left holding the embarrassment bag.
You groaned louder. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” one of them said flatly. “We are being realistic. You are now the unofficial property of someone who controls the climate. Do you even know what his Devil Fruit does?”
“…Ice?”
“Chills. As in, 'freeze our entire barracks because you didn’t Den Den him back,' chills.”
Another leaned forward, lowering their voice like they were delivering sacred intel. “Do you realize how much power this man has? He’s an Admiral. A living legend.” One hissed.
The other cut in.
“—And he’s,” they waved a hand wildly in your direction, “—hovering around you like an overworked freezer with abandonment issues.”
“He’s not hovering—”
“Babe,” someone interrupted, eyes wide and serious. “He popped up outside your department three times this week. And he ‘coincidentally’ passed by our lunch table yesterday like it was a group date. The kiss was just the final step.”
You gaped. “That’s ridiculous. That’s not—he’s not—okay, but do you think I’m going to get demoted or—”
“No!” your friend shrieked, slapping the table so hard a spoon bounced. “You’re going to get claimed! That man is courting you in Admiral-speak!”
“…Which is what?”
“Inexplicable presence,” someone said immediately, holding up a finger.
“Weird smirks,” another added.
“Saying something cryptic and then disappearing like a sexy Slenderman,” the first finished, dead serious.
You stared at them.
They stared back, unblinking. Not a trace of mercy in any of their expressions.
“I need to lie down,” you muttered. “I want to disappear.”
One of them patted your head like you were a lost puppy. “Too late. You’re his now. We’re planning the wedding. I call dibs on toast duty.”
You groaned again, louder this time, dropping your head back onto your arms with the weight of a woman defeated.
And then, because of course, someone cleared their throat behind you.
You didn’t move at first. Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe your shame had finally manifested into auditory delusions. Perhaps if you just stayed perfectly still, like a woodland rodent, the problem would go away.
But your friends had gone silent.
Dead silent.
You looked up.
Kuzan stood there, calm as ever, holding a paper cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a small, carefully folded box in the other. His sleep mask was pushed up into the mess of curls above his forehead. He looked half-awake and completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just sent an entire table of junior Marines into cardiac arrest with his presence alone.
“Hey,” he said, his voice casual and quiet. “Thought I’d drop this off. You forgot to eat last night.”
He set the box down on the table next to you. Then his eyes flicked to the others.
Your friends froze like statues. One of them stopped mid-bite, fork hovering inches from their mouth. Another person visibly stopped breathing.
Kuzan’s mouth twitched, just barely. A hint of a smile.
“Nice seeing you all,” he said, as if they weren’t all internally praying for resurrection rites.
Then he turned and walked off like he hadn’t just emotionally nuked the room.
You peered at the box of sweet buns. Steam curled from the seams. They were still warm. One of your friends let out a breath like they’d been holding it for hours.
“…That was an Admiral,” they said quietly.
Another leaned forward, whispering, “I think you'd better start looking up white dresses.”
You eyeballed the buns.
Then back at the door.
Then back at the buns.
“We’re all scared,” someone said.
You nodded again.
“Why are these warm?” another hissed, poking one of the pastries like it might detonate. “Did he heat them up with his heart?”
Your coworkers turned on you like a coordinated strike team.
“You’d better get a wedding dress that matches his uniform,” one said gravely. “Because that’s a man ready to be married.”
No. No, no. No way.
You couldn’t believe them. You refused to believe them. Maybe he felt bad. Perhaps he was sorry about that night. Maybe he was just doing that light, flirtatious thing that high-ranking officers liked to do when they were bored or mysterious or emotionally stunted.
You lied to yourself.
Right up until the hallway incident.
You had just finished filing a stack of deployment rotations and were slipping out of a narrow side corridor, steps light, heart quiet for the first time all day. The sun hit your shoulders through the upper windows. You were thinking about lunch. About silence. About nothing.
Then you turned the corner and walked directly into a wall.
Except it wasn’t a wall.
It was a chest. A firm, broad, suspiciously warm chest that did not belong to any structural support system.
Your face bounced off it with a soft thunk. And then you heard it. A quiet sound, like a thoughtful hmm? The exact noise a man might make if he was expecting to be used as a human speed bump.
You stumbled back.
Of course, it was him.
Admiral Kuzan.
He looked down at you with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement, one hand still in his coat pocket, the other now resting lazily against the wall beside your head. No sunglasses this time. Just sharp, half-lidded eyes and that faint, gradually spreading smile that made your stomach tie itself in knots.
“Whoa,” he said calmly. “Didn’t know I was on your itinerary.”
You peeked up at him, stunned and betrayed by your own feet. Your words came out scrambled.
“I—no. I mean. I didn’t—”
“You always this jumpy,” he asked, stepping just a little closer, “or is it just around people you kiss?”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“That was your—”
“Mm.” His lips curved slightly, pleased. “I recall some mutual participation.”
You crossed your arms tightly. “You set me up. You disguised yourself. That’s… that’s entrapment. Or deception. Or something Admiral-y and illegal.”
He leaned in closer, voice low and smooth. “So you’re saying if I’d shown up in full uniform and said ‘Hey, wanna make out in front of your coworkers,’ you would’ve said yes?”
You opened your mouth.
And promptly said nothing.
The sound that escaped him was barely a laugh, but it wrapped around your ribs like velvet.
“Didn’t think so.”
You scowled, backing up a fraction, like distance could save you. “You can’t just go around kissing people under… false pretenses.”
Kuzan tilted his head, eyes soft with mock innocence. “False pretenses?”
“Yes!” you snapped, pointing at him like that would help. “You tricked me. You disguised yourself. That’s deception. That’s manipulation. That’s—kiss fraud.”
His smile widened, easy and infuriating. “You saying it was false?”
Your brain promptly threw its hands in the air and left the building.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Your thoughts were playing bumper cars behind your eyes, none of them quite sticking.
“That’s not—You—Ugh!” You crossed your arms, flustered and warm and actively fighting the urge to throw yourself out the nearest window. “I am reporting you to the Fleet Admiral.”
He hummed, entirely unbothered, like you’d just told him the weather might turn chilly later. “No, you won’t.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Yes, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will, Kuzan.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, still maddeningly calm. “You’ll get all the way to the office, stare at the form, remember the kiss, and forget how to spell your own name. I know I did.”
“I will not.”
“You’ll get to the part where it says ‘describe the incident,’ and you’ll write ‘accidentally swooned.’”
You pointed a finger at his chest. “You are so full of—”
He caught your finger lightly between two fingers of his own and gave the tiniest grin. “False pretenses?”
You yanked your hand back like he’d just licked it.
“You are—You—This is abuse of power!”
“I’m not your superior,” he said helpfully.
“You’re an Admiral,” you said, like maybe the title would finally remind him that there were rules. Boundaries. Protocols. Anything that would make him stop looking at you like he was two seconds from kissing you again.
He gave a slow, thoughtful nod, as if he genuinely needed a moment to consider the charge.
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “But not in your direct chain of command. You work under Kizaru, right?”
You opened your mouth to object.
Paused.
Shut it again.
Because, unfortunately, that lazily triumphant glacier was right.
You did technically report to Kizaru. Which meant Kuzan, in all his lazy, infuriating, absolutely smug brilliance, had enough wiggle room in the chain of command to make your life confusing but not necessarily illegal.
You gawked at him. “You’re unbearable.”
He gave you a small shrug, eyes gleaming like he’d just won a round of some game only he knew you were playing. “Most people say that right before they fall for me.”
You resisted the urge to throw a clipboard at his head. Barely.
“You kissed me.”
“You ambushed me!”
“You leaned in.”
You let out a sound that could only be described as a frustrated squeak.
Kuzan chuckled, lazy and amused, like he’d just discovered his new favorite pastime. He still had his sleep mask pushed up on his curls like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into your love life.
“Tell you what,” he said, taking a step back with exaggerated politeness. “You file the report, and if you still feel strongly after that… I’ll let you kiss me next time.”
You opened your mouth, prepared to launch a blistering rebuttal, but instead made a noise that sounded vaguely like a sputtering kettle.
Kuzan gave a small salute and wandered off like he hadn’t just romantically clotheslined you in the hallway.
You remained frozen in place for several seconds, fuming, blushing, and trying to remember if there was a section on Fleet Admiral complaint forms for “menace in disguise with stupidly nice lips.”
You wouldn’t discover this till much, much later, but Admiral Kuzan was not winging it on New Year’s Eve. That night was merely his curtain call; he had set you up long before that evening.
That kiss? That smooth little ambush in the crowd, timed perfectly between fireworks and laughter?
It was planned. Then executed like a cold-blooded romantic assassination, because the truth was, he had been watching you.
For months.
Not in a creepy way. Not at first. It had started with a coincidence. You’d be in a briefing room, quietly scribbling notes, and his eyes would land on you because you weren’t trying to be seen. He’d pass you in the hall, and you’d give a polite nod like he was just another officer. You never stared. Never fawned. Never even flinched at the weight of his rank.
You smiled once. Small. Barely there. But it had stuck.
Then he started noticing other people looking at you.
Noticing how the coffee guy remembered your order before you opened your mouth. How rookies got weirdly shy around you. How senior officers always left your reports at the top of their inboxes. How you made people laugh during debriefs without even trying. And not the performative kind of laugh. The real kind. Warm. Disarming.
You were popular.
But not in the loud, look-at-me way.
You were lowkey. Steady. Charming in that way that crept up on people. The kind of person who made kindness look casual. The type of person people went out of their way to sit near. The sort of person the Marineford gossip circles had already labeled as “dangerously crushable.”
And Kuzan?
Kuzan did not like competition.
He watched the way others lingered near your desk. The way they bent a little too low to speak to you. The way someone once brought you a flower from a field op, all flustered and hopeful. You’d laughed it off and tucked the flower behind your ear. You probably forgot it by the end of the day.
But he hadn’t.
That was the day Kuzan realized something horrifying.
He had feelings.
Real ones.
And worse, they weren’t going away.
So he waited. Bided his time. Played it cool.
Sort of.
Kuzan was, at his core, a man of patience. He didn’t rush. He didn’t chase. He didn’t do drama. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.
Two weeks before the party, he spotted you walking across the training yard with some pretty-boy lieutenant. Fresh-faced, confident, trying far too hard. You laughed at something he said. Real laughter. Bright. Too many teeth. Too much eye contact.
Kuzan lowered his book just enough to watch the exchange, his expression unreadable.
"Hm," he muttered.
Name. Rank. Assignment. Schedule. Logged.
That same lieutenant received an unexpected transfer order less than twenty-four hours later. Reassigned to a frigid northern base known for its isolation, frostbite, and general lack of flirtation opportunities.
No explanation. No warning. Just a crisp internal message: Expedited transfer request approved. Don’t pack light.
One week before the party, it happened again. A friendly, but overly smiley, medic brought you cocoa during lunch. A peace offering, maybe. Or a casual, if transparent, attempt at warming his way into your good graces.
You accepted it with a smile. "Thanks, that’s sweet of you."
Kuzan turned the page of his newspaper.
The medic slipped on something that might have been a patch of ice.
There had been no prior signs of frost.
Two bruised ribs. Concussion. Downgraded to light infirmary duty until further notice.
When asked what happened, the medic blinked groggily and muttered something about sudden cold fronts and karma.
Kuzan simply folded his newspaper and left the lounge.
He didn’t look back.
This wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.
This was strategy.
New Year’s Eve day, right around lunch, you were at the canteen, sipping soup and chatting with an older commander. He was harmless, mostly. A little flirtatious. One of those old dogs who called everyone under forty “honeypie” and thought it was charming. You laughed politely. He offered to walk you to the party later that night.
Kuzan, seated a few tables away with a tray of untouched food and a crossword puzzle he wasn’t really doing, didn’t react. Not outwardly.
He didn’t even look up.
But the pen in his hand paused.
Later that evening, just before the party started, that same commander tore through the barracks like a man on the edge.
His dress uniform was gone.
Locker broken into. Contents missing. Only his boots were left behind.
He showed up late to the party in a wrinkled secondary set of service fatigues. Red-faced. Sweating. Not entirely sober, either. He had a flask in one pocket and poor impulse control in the other.
Base security was already waiting. An anonymous report had been filed minutes earlier.
Unprofessional behavior.
Possible intoxication.
Improper attire at an official function.
The commander didn’t even make it to the second song.
Kuzan arrived ten minutes later.
Perfectly on time.
Perfectly dressed.
No epaulettes. No Admiral bars. Just a dark coat draped over his shoulders, collar turned up, curls slightly tousled like he hadn’t done anything more complicated than stroll in from the cold. A glass in his hand, something clear and icy, scarcely touched and mostly an excuse.
New Year’s Eve. 11 PM.
You were standing alone at last. Finally. The room buzzed with chatter and motion, everyone swirling toward midnight with flushed cheeks and too much champagne. But you had found a pocket of stillness. No one besides you. No one hovering. Just your own heartbeat and the soft music rising from the speakers.
Across the room, he watched you.
He had been watching all night.
No insignia. No title. No rank. Just another face in the crowd, smooth and quiet, tucked into the margins like a secret.
He didn’t rush.
He waited.
Because you were looking around.
Not frantically. Just… expectantly. Like maybe you didn’t know who to kiss. Like maybe this year, the moment would pass you by.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
He’d already frozen the feet of at least two overly enthusiastic corporals who had tried to circle too close. Subtle. Barely noticeable. Just enough to hinder them. Just enough to delay.
At 11:59, he moved.
Cut across the room like a slow-moving current, slipping between two officers deep in conversation, one hand brushing a champagne flute aside. You turned just as he reached you, eyes wide, surprised, breath catching like the air had shifted around you.
“Happy New Year,” he said, voice low and calm.
Then he kissed you.
It was possessive. Calculated. Confident in a way that made the world blur at the edges. His hand came up to your jaw, steadying, thumb brushing your cheek as if the moment belonged to him. It did. He made sure of it.
The kiss was not gentle.
It wasn’t rough either.
It was intentional.
Designed to ruin any future suitor. Designed to live in your bones.
When he pulled back, it was unrushed. Your lips were parted, breath unsteady, cheeks flushed like you’d been spun in a snowstorm and dropped somewhere softer. You looked up at him like you hadn’t entirely returned to Earth.
He gave the smallest smile.
Somewhere nearby, someone choked out, “Was that—was that Admiral Kuzan?”
Kuzan didn’t look at them. Didn’t even turn. He leaned in, just close enough for them to hear.
At Marineford’s New Year’s Eve party, you accidentally share a kiss with a mysterious stranger, only to find out the next day that he’s Admiral Kuzan. As he keeps popping up in your life, his quiet charm and teasing ways make him impossible to ignore. From playful banter to unexpected moments of affection, Kuzan’s cool moves are as smooth as his reputation.
Marineford’s New Year’s Bash was supposed to be harmless: drinks, bad singing, and a spontaneous midnight kiss. You weren’t planning on participating. You definitely weren’t planning on kissing someone. Especially not an Admiral.
Chapter 2
You made one mistake. Okay, one really good mistake. Now Admiral Kuzan keeps showing up, and your dignity is hanging by an icicle.
Chapter 3
An Admiral develops a suspicious habit of showing up wherever you are, and the Marines around you start acting very strangely.
Chapter 4
The slow-burn turns dangerous when Admiral Kuzan decides you’re already his, escalating from teasing banter to public hand-holding, stolen kisses, and late-night visits you can’t seem to turn away.
Chapter 5
You’re not sure if you’re ready for him to stay, but he’s already moved in, and he’s not leaving anytime soon.
Aokiji Kuzan x reader
Chapter: Dangerous Domesticity
Length: 6 K+
Rating: 16+
The slow-burn turns dangerous when Admiral Kuzan decides you’re already his, escalating from teasing banter to public hand-holding, stolen kisses, and late-night visits you can’t seem to turn away.
Previous / Next
You did not mean to like him. In fact, you had been very deliberate about not liking him.
You told yourself Kuzan was nothing more than a cold, lazy menace with a lovemaking voice and an inflated sense of personal space. The ponytail band snapping and hair twirling were harassment, not affection. The lunches that lined up with yours, the infiltration of your friend group, and the casual way he announced you were “almost engaged” were just Kuzan being Kuzan. Some strange, overfamiliar brand of Marine humor.
But no. You did like him—a lot.
You liked that ridiculous sleep mask he kept tucked in his pocket. You wanted his sarcastic, quiet one-liners that landed like perfectly aimed darts. You liked how he always noticed when you were hungry, or when your patience was about to break, or when you were seconds from rage-flipping a desk. You liked the way he watched you like you were a secret he already knew and was simply waiting for you to figure out.
Kuzan was stupidly charming in that slow, avalanche-that-pretends-it-is-a-snowflake kind of way. He never rushed you. He never crowded you. He just drifted closer over time until you could no longer remember the moment he stopped being “that weird, tall Admiral who would not go away” and became “that weird, tall Admiral who made you feel too much.”
And you were terrified.
He was not a cute, harmless man with nice forearms and a sad bachelor apartment. He was an Admiral. Ranked. Legendary. Untouchable. The kind of man whose retirement plan was probably built out of national secrets, classified trauma, and the quiet knowledge that his hands had been in every corner of the world’s mess.
You had seen what Admiralships did to people. You had watched officers rise, burn out, and vanish into rumor. You knew that kind of power came with blood, with distance, and with decisions that could turn even a good man into a stranger.
So yes, you liked Kuzan. But you did not trust what liking him might cost you.
You did what any emotionally intelligent adult would do. You pretended everything was fine. You smiled. You flirted just enough to keep the game going. You let him tug at your hair. You swatted his hand off your thigh during meetings without breaking eye contact. You let him stay in your orbit, but never gave him a place to land.
One night, sitting on the steps outside the dorms, he asked in a quiet voice, “You afraid of me, or just what I do?”
You blinked. “What?”
He did not look at you. He stretched one long leg out, leaning back on his hands, gaze fixed on the moon. The ponytail holder was still looped around his wrist like a leash you had never meant to give him.
“I am not stupid,” he said, his voice low enough that the night seemed to lean in. “You like me. But every time I get too close, you back up like you are waiting for a shoe to drop.” He let out a long breath, the kind that seemed to settle in your ribs. “And I know I am not normal. I do not come with guarantees. But I am not going to drop you. Not unless you tell me to.”
You sat there, torn between lunging into his lap and throwing yourself into the sea. “…You are an Admiral,” you whispered finally.
“Last I checked,” he said. “But I am also just a man who likes you a lot.”
You looked at him. He did not push. He just waited, steady as the tide.
After a long, terrible, beautiful pause, you leaned over and stole your hair tie back.
“I am thinking about it,” you said.
He grinned, slow and smug, like the cat that got the canary and was willing to wait for dessert. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I am patient.”
You are at the mess hall, minding your own business, trying very hard not to overthink how soft Kuzan had looked last night when he told you, “Take your time.”
He has not followed you much today, as if he knows his absence might be more potent than his lingering. And it is working.
You keep telling yourself it is a relief, that it gives you space to breathe. Yet the entire morning has been worse for it. The lack of him feels like a weight in your chest, an itch you cannot scratch, a half-finished sentence. You start to wonder if it is safe to get used to him at all. Worse, you wonder if you could even manage being without him now.
That is when Lieutenant Charming ruins your lunch.
A new transfer. Tall. Confident. Not terrible to look at. The kind of man who wears cologne like a warning and believes the room belongs to him. He struts over to your table with the smile of someone who has never been threatened by a glacial god with a Navy pension.
“Hey, you’re—” His voice is smooth, easy, practiced. “Right? I’ve been hearing about you.”
You blink up. “I… sorry?”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s all good things.”
He leans one hand on your table. “Didn’t realize Marineford had such a strong, gorgeous reputation walking around.”
You just stare at him. Your friends freeze. One of them ducks like they are preparing for incoming fire.
Because they see it before you do.
Kuzan.
He is standing directly behind the Lieutenant, close enough that a fraction of an inch would put his shadow over the man’s shoes. Coffee in hand, silent and cold, smiling.
And not his usual lazy, half-lidded smile. Not the faint curve of amusement you have learned to read as affection. No. This one is different. It is measured and sharp, the kind of smile you might find carved into ice. This is death with dimples.
The kind of smile that says he has all the time in the world and will still make yours run out.
He takes a long, slow sip of coffee without breaking eye contact. You can hear the faint clink of the cup against his teeth. The Lieutenant keeps talking, blissfully unaware of the glacier at his back.
“Maybe you could give me a tour sometime?” the man says, leaning in a little. “I’ve got clearance. I don’t bite. Unless you ask.”
Behind him, the air changes. It feels heavier and colder, as if the heat has been drawn out of the room grain by grain. Your coffee fogs and then frosts over at the rim.
Your breath hitches.
“Yo.”
The Lieutenant startles and turns, finally realizing there is someone behind him. “Oh, sir! I didn’t see you there.”
Kuzan does not blink. “Clearly.”
There is a pause. A long one. The kind that makes every person in the room reconsider their life choices.
Then Kuzan moves.
It is not a sudden lunge. He is slow. Deliberate. One step forward, heavy enough that the Lieutenant’s instinct is to back up or be swallowed into his shadow. His coffee cup stays perfectly steady in one hand, the other sliding lazily into his coat pocket as if this is a social call. The smile does not fade.
The scrape of the Lieutenant’s boot against the tile sounds much louder than it should.
Slowly, casually, Kuzan slides in beside you like he has done it a thousand times before. He drapes an arm across the back of your chair. He does not touch you. He does not have to. The length of his arm rests there like a warning sign carved out of ice.
“You were saying?” Kuzan’s voice is cool, smooth, threaded with something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Velvet, with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
The Lieutenant’s smile falters. “Ah—I was just chatting. Didn’t realize you two were—”
“We are.”
Your head snaps toward him.
He is still looking straight at the man. Calm. Blank. Possessive in a way that should not be hot but is dangerously so.
“Oh,” the Lieutenant says, visibly shrinking. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.”
Kuzan takes another slow sip of coffee, unhurried. The silence stretches long enough for the air to thicken between you all. “You’ve got good taste,” he says at last, his voice even and unreadable. “But you’re late.”
The Lieutenant blinks, caught off guard. “Late for…?”
“Yeah.” Kuzan’s gaze shifts to you, steady and deliberate. “She’s already mine.”
The words are simple, but the weight of them drops straight into your chest. There is no hesitation, no room for interpretation. Just the calm certainty of a man stating a fact.
You almost choke on your spoon.
Something in his tone finally cuts through the Lieutenant’s obliviousness. The man takes two quick, cautious steps back as if distance alone might undo the mistake.
He stammers out an excuse about urgent reports and retreats with the desperate speed of someone who just realized he had been flirting with a live grenade wrapped in a trench coat.
Kuzan does not even watch him go. He keeps sipping his coffee, slow and quiet, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation.
Only when the man is gone does Kuzan finally turn his head toward you, meeting your eyes. There is no smile now, just that slow, unshakable certainty you have learned to read as intent. The kind that makes your pulse trip over itself.
“Well,” he says, voice low and unhurried. “Guess that clears that up.”
“…What?” you manage.
He taps the rim of your mug with one long finger, his tone warm enough to melt the frost still clinging to it. “You let him get further than I thought. I was starting to wonder if I needed to be more obvious.”
“You—you didn’t say we were a thing!”
Kuzan leans in, close enough for his coat to brush your arm. His smile is lazy and devastating. “We are a thing. You just didn’t notice.”
Your brain stutters. “We are not—”
“Sure we are,” he says, quiet and sure. “You eat with me. You let me steal your hair ties. You swat my hand off your thigh, but never move your chair. Feels like a thing to me.”
There’s a sharp snort from across the table.
“Wow,” one of your friends mutters, “she finally caught up.”
Another chimes in, deadpan. “We’ve been taking bets on how long it would take you to figure it out.”
You stare at them. “You knew?”
“Obviously,” they say in unison.
Kuzan grins and takes another sip of coffee, clearly pleased. “See? Consensus.” He leans back, his arm still draped behind you like it belongs there. “So… you want to argue with them too, or just admit I’m right?”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re the worst.”
His grin turns slow and wicked. “Maybe. But you’re still sitting here.”
Your friends groan like they are watching a soap opera, and you decide you need either another cup of coffee or a witness protection program.
It was supposed to be a chill day.
Your team had been granted rare leave, the kind that came with no briefings, no drills, no looming errands disguised as “light duty.” Actual recreation. Someone suggested the beach because it was close, free, and theoretically impossible to get arrested in swimwear. Theoretically.
You arrived prepared for battle in your most neutral, I-am-not-here-to-be-vulnerable beach outfit. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. A loose cover-up that concealed more than it revealed. Emotional armor in SPF 50.
It was all going well.
Until you saw him.
Kuzan.
Reclining under a wide striped umbrella like some naval demigod of rest and seduction. Sunglasses tilted low on his nose, long legs stretched out into the sand, an open book resting lazily on his stomach as if even reading was a leisurely indulgence.
He was barefoot. His coat was nowhere in sight. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, casually revealing collarbone, a stretch of chest, and lean muscle that should have belonged to someone who broke a sweat on purpose. On him, it felt obscene. Mainly because he still radiated the energy of a sentient nap.
Your friends had already bolted into the water, shouting and laughing. You stayed on the shore because you were in crisis.
You lowered yourself onto the towel beside him, forcing your body to relax into the sand. Pretending you were not seconds away from combusting.
He did not even look over. Just said, in that lazy voice that made your pulse skip, “Glad you came.”
“You’re shirtless,” you croaked.
One slow blink. He cracked an eye open, glancing over the rim of his sunglasses. “So are you.”
“I’m wearing a cover-up.”
He shrugged without lifting his head. “I can see your knees. That’s plenty.”
You glared at the sky like it had wronged you.
The ocean breeze was perfect, cool enough to offset the sun’s heat. Waves rolled in with a soothing rhythm. He smelled faintly of salt and citrus, mixed with the warm, impossible scent of someone you could picture falling asleep next to without regret. Dangerous domesticity.
And for once, he was not being smug. Not territorial. Not whispering ice-laced suggestions that made your pulse race.
He was just… there.
Soft. Present. Uncharacteristically easy to love.
And you were suffering.
Because it hit you in one heavy, breathtaking wave.
You liked him. Too much.
The way he blinked slowly when he listened. The steady weight of his hand on your shoulder in crowded rooms, as if it belonged there. The stupidly bent corner of his book. The elastic band still looped around his wrist.
You bit your lip. Do not kiss him, you told yourself. Do not catch feelings. Do not surrender. Do not be the girl who makes out with an Admiral on a towel and ruins her peace of mind.
So you panicked. And kissed his cheek instead.
Just a quick, sun-warmed press of your lips to his skin. No thought. No warning. You pulled back immediately, as if you had touched a live wire.
Silence.
You stared at the horizon like the ocean had suddenly become fascinating. “That was… platonic. That was nothing. I am being normal.”
He was very still. You refused to look.
“I liked that.”
Your shoulders jumped.
“Okay,” you squeaked.
He turned his head, just enough for you to see the faint curl of his mouth beneath his sunglasses. “But, next time,” he murmured, “you kiss my mouth, or I’m filing a complaint.”
You slapped both hands over your face. “I will walk into the sea.”
He chuckled, low and quiet. “Don’t. I’m not done enjoying this yet.”
You peeked between your fingers.
He had gone back to lounging, book in hand, looking perfectly at ease. Except now there was the unmistakable ghost of a smile pulling at his lips.
From the water, your friends were shouting something unintelligible over the waves. But judging by their tone, it was probably along the lines of, “We saw that.”
Later that evening, the sky is painted in long, soft streaks of pink and gold that melt into a deep lavender at the horizon. The air smells faintly of salt and smoke from the fire pit. Your sunburn is mercifully contained to one knee, and everyone has slipped into that loose, lazy state that follows hours of sun and saltwater.
Your friends are gathered in a noisy half-circle around the fire, roasting marshmallows on bent wire hangers and trading gossip at a volume that would probably wake sea birds. The occasional burst of laughter rides the breeze. You and Kuzan are a little apart from the group, still stretched out on the same big beach towel as if you are sharing custody of a nap neither of you is willing to surrender.
He is shirtless. It should not be noteworthy at this point, but it is.
You are sitting up now, knees hugged to your chest, rambling about anything you can think of. Something about the stars. Or sandwiches. Or the kind of quiet death that comes from pure embarrassment. Anything to keep your mouth moving so you do not have to acknowledge the fact that you kissed him earlier.
On the cheek.
Like a coward.
Like a blushing coward with boundary issues and a crush the size of Marineford.
The worst part is that he has not mentioned it once. No teasing. No smug reminders. No subtle little games. Just calm, quiet, maddening serenity. As if he is content to simply let the moment sit between you like a seashell waiting to be picked up.
It is destroying your entire operating system.
You glance at him without meaning to.
And he is already watching you.
His head is tilted slightly, sunglasses pushed up into his curls. That easy smile rests on his face like it belongs there, soft and lazy. One arm is folded behind his head, the picture of unbothered comfort. The firelight dances over the smooth lines of his chest, catching on a small patch of sand clinging to his collarbone. The sight makes your fingers itch with the sudden, reckless urge to brush it away.
You want to kiss him. Or scream. Or possibly both.
Your mind skips like a scratched record.
And you panic. Again.
You lean in without thinking, driven by some reckless, gremlin-like instinct. Quick, uncalculated, aiming for another cheek kiss as if doubling down on the safe route will protect you from yourself.
Except that his hand moves first.
Fingers catch gently under your chin. Not forceful, but sure. The kind of touch that halts you in place without any real resistance.
Your breath catches. You are frozen, wide-eyed, so close you can see the faint sun line at the bridge of his nose.
Then he moves your head. Not sharply. Not like a command. Just a slow, smooth adjustment, guiding you away from his cheek and toward his mouth instead.
“Try aiming better,” he murmurs.
And then he kisses you.
It is not rushed. It is not showy. It is slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that sinks straight into your bones and rearranges the way you are built. The sky behind you is fading into deep violet. The waves lap gently against the shore. The firelight flares and shifts in the breeze. And his lips are warm and steady against yours, unhurried in a way that makes you want to hold on and never let him stop.
His hand slides to the back of your neck. Not demanding. Just there. Steady and certain, as if he has been waiting a very long time to hold you like this.
A startled sound escapes you before you can catch it, a tiny break in the rhythm. You swear you feel him smile against your mouth, like he expected that reaction. Like he planned for it.
When he finally pulls back, your thoughts are scattered, and your skin feels too warm. You hover there for a heartbeat, still leaning toward him like gravity has not let go yet.
He grins. “Better.”
You blink at him, dazed. “I was trying to panic.”
“I know,” he says, thumb brushing along your jaw with infuriating calm. “I timed it.”
A small, traitorous whimper slips out of you.
He leans back onto the towel as if nothing monumental just happened, letting you quietly fall apart beside him.
From the firepit, your friends are staring like they have just witnessed a dramatic turning point in a nature documentary. One of them cups their hands and yells, “We saw that too!”
You bury your face against his chest, partly to hide and partly because the heat there feels better than the fire.
He pats the top of your head, the gesture both fond and faintly smug. “We will kiss again later,” he says. “When you are not malfunctioning.”
You make a muffled sound that could be affection or despair. Probably both.
You have crossed the line. There is no going back. You kissed him. He kissed you back. And now?
Now Kuzan is in his hand-holding era.
No more whisper-flirting that can be passed off as jokes. No more pretending his casual proximity is an accident. No more plausible deniability.
This is casual, infuriatingly public affection from one of the most powerful men alive, who has absolutely no shame about any of it.
It begins the very next morning.
You are walking across the base to grab coffee. Mind clear. Outfit neat. Doing your best to pretend that last night’s sunset beach kiss did not rearrange your entire soul like a puzzle missing its final piece until his mouth found it.
And then, without warning, his hand slides into yours.
Like it's nothing. Like this is a Tuesday routine you have both been doing for years.
You do not even see him approach. He just appears at your side with the quiet inevitability of the early morning chill. His long fingers interlock with yours as if they were always meant to fit that way.
You freeze mid-step.
“Kuzan?” you whisper-shriek, eyes darting around as though someone might see and faint on the spot.
He yawns like this is all perfectly ordinary. “Morning.”
“Why are you holding my hand?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Your heart stumbles over itself. “Because this is Marineford?”
He lifts your joined hands slightly and says, deadpan, “Oh no. PDA. Someone call the World Government.”
“You are an Admiral!” you sputter.
“And you are my girlfriend.”
He says it so casually that it takes you a moment to realize what you just heard. Like it is not up for debate. Like gravity.
“I never… that is not… we did not have a—”
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“And now we hold hands. See how that works?”
You spiral in silence as he calmly steers you toward the coffee line, your fingers laced with his as if it were a religion.
And of course, everyone sees.
Vice Admirals. Ensigns. Your entire friend group, watching from the quad like a Greek chorus mid-scandal. Even a seagull overhead drops a sandwich from its beak. Time itself seems to pause.
He does not care.
He squeezes your hand once. Warm. Grounding. Infuriating.
“You are not subtle,” you hiss.
“I am done pretending.”
“Kuzan—”
He looks over the top of his sunglasses. “You kissed me on the beach. In the sunset. While I was shirtless. That is a public declaration of intent. You might as well have proposed.”
“I did not even use tongue.”
“Yet.”
Your entire face goes hot.
From somewhere nearby, one of your friends yells, “We are rooting for you!”
Kuzan lifts his free hand in a lazy wave. “Thanks.”
You let him hold your hand all the way through coffee, up the walkway, and right back to HQ.
And you hate that it feels… perfect.
His thumb brushes against your knuckles. “You are letting me hold it now,” he murmurs.
You glare up at him, cheeks warm. “I am conserving energy.”
He smirks. “Sure.”
By the time you reach the door to the briefing room, your pulse is in complete disarray. You try to pull your hand free before stepping inside, but he keeps hold just long enough for the officer there to glance down, then up at both of you, eyebrows climbing.
“Have a good morning, sweetheart,” Kuzan says easily, loud enough for the entire room to hear as he finally releases you and strolls away as if nothing unusual has happened.
You stand frozen for two full seconds before your brain comes back online, every pair of eyes in the room tracking you.
From somewhere behind you, one of your friends mutters, “We called it.”
You seriously consider defecting to another branch of the military.
You have been trying to be normal. Truly. Professional. Focused. Mind on your work, boots laced to regulation standard, coffee consumption under control. Not melting every time Kuzan looks at you with that lazy half-smile that feels like a personal sin.
You are surviving. Barely.
Until it happens.
You are walking down the main hall with a commanding officer. Not just any CO, but someone high-ranking, sharp, and severe. Someone who thinks you have potential. Someone who has never once cracked a joke in your presence. You are in the middle of discussing supply reports when you hear it.
A voice behind you. Familiar. Lazy. Warm. Dangerously casual.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You freeze like someone just loaded a tactical ice cube directly into your spine.
Your CO’s brow lifts. “Sweetheart?”
You choke on the air in your throat. “That… was not directed at me, sir. That was… a coincidence. There is another sweetheart in the hallway. Probably a code name.”
“Yo,” Kuzan calls again, closer now. You hear the unmistakable sound of his sandals flipping against the tile. “Forgot your gloves. Thought I’d bring them.”
You whirl around, pink from hairline to collar.
He is holding your gloves in one hand, your composure in the other, wearing that slow, satisfied smirk that suggests he is fully aware of the damage he is causing.
You snatch the gloves like they are evidence that might incriminate you further. “What are you doing?”
He leans down, close enough for you to smell the faint salt of the ocean still clinging to him. “I’m being supportive,” he murmurs.
You hiss under your breath, “You cannot call me sweetheart in front of my CO.”
“I call you worse in my head,” he says without hesitation.
You nearly blacked out.
Your CO coughs once, makes the calculated decision not to get involved, and walks away without a word.
You groan and smack him in the arm with your gloves. “You are trying to kill me.”
“I’m succeeding.” His voice is pure satisfaction.
And he is.
He is blowing every mental obstacle you have ever faced clean out of the water.
Later that night, you find yourselves outside, just the two of you. No audience. No firepit chatter. No seagulls dropping sandwiches in shock. The stars are scattered thick across the sky, bright and endless, and a cool breeze carries the faint scent of salt from the water.
He is leaning back on his elbows beside you, long legs stretched out in front of him, posture loose in that way only he can pull off without looking sloppy. His hair is slightly mussed from the wind. His coat is nowhere in sight. That same faintly smug grin rests on his face, completely unaware that you have been mentally assembling a forty-seven-slide presentation titled Why I Deserve One (1) Kiss Without Being Teased.
You glance at him. He is looking out at the horizon, half-lidded eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. There is a peace about him tonight, a softness that makes your chest feel too tight.
You shift your weight, tucking your legs under yourself. “You know,” you say lightly, “some people can go a whole day without making their coworkers want to jump into the sea.”
He hums in vague acknowledgment. “Sounds boring.”
“Not for the coworkers.”
He tilts his head toward you, lazy smile deepening. “You mean you’d rather I leave you alone?”
You open your mouth. Close it again. “No. I mean—yes. I mean… maybe for five minutes?”
Kuzan leans back further, gazing up at the stars. “That’s asking a lot.”
You glare at the side of his face, fighting the ridiculous urge to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
He does not deny it. Instead, his gaze shifts back to you, slow and deliberate, as if weighing something.
You glance over at him. He looks perfect. Too perfect. The moonlight slides over his cheekbone, catches on the faint curl of his mouth, and rests in the tousled edges of his hair. It is unfair.
You panic.
And then… You decide.
This time, you are going to kiss him. On purpose. Like a functioning adult.
You shift a little closer on the towel. Calm. Cool. Absolutely not sweating through your shirt.
Kuzan’s eyes flick toward you. “Hm?”
You lean in slowly, trying to channel every ounce of grace you have ever possessed. Smooth. Sensual. Composed. Your head tilts, your eyes soften, and your pulse drums in your ears. The ocean is a low hush behind you, the breeze a faint caress against your skin.
Your heart is screaming.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice low enough to curl right into your chest. “You look like you’re about to bite me or short-circuit.”
You freeze mid-lean, caught halfway between victory and total collapse. The air between you feels electric, the space so narrow it would take only the slightest movement to close it.
“I am trying to kiss you, you damn blizzard,” you snap, voice tight.
Kuzan’s grin curves, slow and deliberate. “Well, don’t be shy.”
You move again, leaning in with more caution this time, your pulse a steady roar in your ears. Tentative. Nervous. Almost there.
“Sure you don’t want to back out?” he murmurs, low and teasing. “We could shake hands instead.”
Something in you snaps.
You grab his collar, fingers curling into the fabric with enough force to pull him toward you, and kiss him.
Properly. Fully. No hesitation. No panic.
His breath catches for half a second, just enough to register his surprise.
Then he melts into you.
His hand slides up your side, firm and warm through the thin barrier of your shirt, anchoring you in place. The kiss deepens with that slow, lazy hunger that says he has been waiting for this. Hoping for it. Maybe even counting on it.
He kisses you like there is no rush. Like he already knows how this will end, and he is letting you catch up. The taste of salt lingers faintly on his lips, mingled with the faint warmth of the coffee he must have had earlier. His thumb brushes your rib in a way that sends heat blooming through you.
When you finally pull back—breathless, dizzy, flushed—he exhales a slow, satisfied, “Atta girl.”
You make a strangled noise that is somewhere between a whimper and a vow to throw yourself into the sea.
He kisses your temple with infuriating gentleness and adds, “Next time? No warning. Just pounce.”
You shove his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
He laughs, low and warm, the sound curling around you like a tide.
And you know, with the absolute certainty of a storm on the horizon, that you are so very, very screwed.
A couple of weeks pass, and your entire life changes.
Kuzan now fetches you at every conceivable hour. Morning, afternoon, midnight—it does not matter. If someone needs Kuzan, they are told to go find you, because odds are he is somewhere within arm’s reach. You are on a first-name basis with Sengoku now, which feels both surreal and slightly dangerous. Kizaru, unfortunately, has also learned who you are, and that has come with its own brand of chaos you are not yet prepared to address.
It is the best and worst stretch of time you have ever had at Marineford.
Worst, because you have somehow become a public fixture. At any given moment, you are liable to receive unprovoked affection from a nine-foot-tall human snowdrift who has no concern for witnesses.
Best, because every kiss lives up to that first one. The one that started it all. The one that left you dizzy and wanting more.
Now you are back in your quarters.
Trying to calm down. Trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to pretend that the last kiss did not liquefy your knees, your spine, and at least seventy percent of your long-term memory.
You had kissed him like you meant it. Grabbed him by the front of his coat. Held him close. Pulled him in like you wanted all of him, without leaving room for doubt.
And the worst part?
He had not teased you. Not once.
No jokes. No smug little comments. No playful deflection to hide behind. Just that slow, possessive press of his mouth against yours, his hand firm at the back of your neck, and the rasp of “atta girl” against your lips like he had been waiting to say it since the day you were born.
The echo of it still lingers in your chest. It burns and soothes at the same time, and it is ruining your ability to think about anything else.
You are halfway through aggressively brushing your hair, muttering at your reflection, when there’s a knock.
Not frantic. Not loud. Three slow, deliberate taps that make the air in the room shift.
You freeze with the brush halfway through a stroke, listening.
Another beat passes before you set the brush down and cross to the door.
You open it.
And there he is.
Kuzan.
Still casual. Still calm. But this time, there is something different. Something deliberate in the way he stands there, leaning just enough to fill the doorway without looming.
He is wearing a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the fabric pulled comfortably over the breadth of his shoulders. His hair is still tousled from the evening breeze, curls catching faint moonlight. In one hand, he is holding two steaming mugs. Draped over his other shoulder is a folded blanket, hanging loose like an afterthought.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm and low, like he has already decided you will let him in. “Thought you might want something before bed.”
You stare at him. “…It’s eleven p.m.”
“Mm.” His mouth curves faintly. “Crazy how that keeps happening.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is this a casual visit or a seduction attempt?”
He steps past you without hesitation, the faint scent of salt and coffee brushing over you as he moves. The blanket shifts against his side with each step, and you catch the steady warmth radiating from him as he crosses the room. He does not answer your question. He simply sets both mugs down on your desk with quiet precision, the kind of calm assurance that makes it feel as though the space already belongs to him.
“Why can’t it be both?” he says, his tone smooth and low.
You shut the door behind him without thinking. The click of the latch sets into the air like a seal on something you are not ready to name. It feels final. It feels like agreement, even if you didn't mean it.
When you turn back to face him, he is already watching you. His eyes are half-lidded, his smile lazy in a way that sends an unwelcome rush of heat to your skin.
He tosses the blanket onto your bed. It lands in a loose, inviting heap. Then he leans his back against the wall, casual but steady, sipping from his mug as though this visit is nothing more than habit. His stillness is deliberate, the kind of deliberate that knows it is being watched.
“So,” you say, keeping your voice cautious, “you are staying?”
He shrugs with deliberate slowness. “I am staying as long as you let me.”
“And if I told you to leave?”
He raises a brow and takes a drink before answering. “You would not. You are curious. You are flustered. And you want more.”
Your arms cross automatically, a shield you know will not hold. “You are annoyingly confident.”
“I kissed you soft,” he says after a moment, as if revealing something he has been holding back, “and next time I will not.”
The statement drops into the space between you, quiet but heavy.
You stare at him, unsure if your heart has sped up or stopped entirely.
He pushes away from the wall and takes his time crossing the space between you. He does not touch you, but he comes close enough that the air seems to tighten. His voice lowers until it feels like it is speaking directly into the small space that exists only for the two of you.
“You really want me to walk out? Say the word.”
You should tell him to leave. The thought forms, but the words do not come.
When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than you expect. “And if I do not?”
He leans in, not quite touching, his breath a faint warmth along your cheek.
“Then I am going to lay down right there,” he murmurs, his tone patient but edged with something unshakable, “and see how long it takes you to give in.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears. Your knees feel unsteady. You are sure he can feel the slight tremor in your breath. His smile curves just enough to show he knows it too.
He reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing your hair aside. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, and warm. His touch trails over the back of your neck, sending a line of heat straight to your spine.
“You can keep pretending I am not already under your skin,” he says in a voice that feels like it could coax you into anything, “or you can come join me. I will still be here either way.”
He takes a single step back, his gaze never leaving yours. When he reaches the bed, he lowers himself onto the blanket in one smooth motion. He stretches out, relaxed, like he has no doubt about the outcome.
