#mr.9 x reader

[hanxxxwrites]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗚𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍: [𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋] 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝖽 𝖨𝗌𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝗋. 9 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖡𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗒. 𝖧𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾.

(i got the idea from When Life Gives You Tangerine)

The bells of the great cathedral tolled with a heavy, rhythmic iron sound that hammered against [Reader]’s chest. She stood before the mirror in her chambers, draped in layers of stiff, suffocating white silk. Her stepfather had spared no expense; she looked every bit the Princess of the Emerald Isle—a silent prize to be handed over to a man she did not love to save a kingdom that had become her cage.

But her eyes weren't on her reflection. They were fixed on the harbor below.

A certain ship was unfurling its sails, catching the wind. As the anchor dropped and the hull began to move, her tears fell in tandem. The Baroque Works mission was over. The ‘Prince’ was leaving. He hadn’t come to say goodbye; he was simply slipping away with the tide, leaving her to a life of polished silence.

At their last meeting, he had found out about the marriage. He hadn't told her he knew, but he had looked at her with such profound sadness before stopping her from speaking. "You have responsibilities here," he had said, his voice unusually quiet.

“I can’t...” [Reader] whispered to the empty room. She looked at the stack of letters they had exchanged—their secret world. Then, she pushed open the heavy doors.

She sprinted through the servant tunnels, dragging her heavy white gown through the kitchen gardens and out onto the cobblestone streets. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the salt air stinging her lungs. Villagers turned in shock to see their princess running, desperate and unraveled, toward the stone pier.

“Please don’t go! Please don’t go!”

By the time she reached the edge of the pier, the ship was twenty yards out, cutting through the choppy grey water.

“MR. 9!”

Her voice ripped through the sound of the crashing waves. “Don't go! Don't leave me here!” She collapsed to her knees, her silk dress spreading out like a dying lily on the wet stone. The villagers gathered at a distance, their hearts breaking for the princess who had finally found love, only to see it sail away.

On the deck of the retreating ship, a flash of green moved. Mr. 9 scrambled to the railing, his hair whipped wild by the sea wind, his crown sitting crooked on his head. He went rigid.

“My dear!” he screamed back, his voice cracking and losing every bit of its theatrical mask. “What are you doing?! Go back! The ceremony—”

“I don't want the ceremony!” she shrieked, her vision blurred by salt and tears. “You promised the sea! You told me you wouldn't leave! You’re a liar! You're a coward!”

She threw a stone into the water, wailing for her mother, for her freedom, for the boy who was moving further away every second.

On the bridge, the wind suddenly turned. The sails thrashed violently against a sudden gale.

“What’s happening?” Mr. 8 grunted, fighting the rudder. “Is the Dragon King holding us back? The wind is against us!”

Mr. 9 didn't answer with words. He lunged at Mr. 8, grabbing his collar and shaking him. “Turn this ship around! Turn it around!”

“Mr. 9, stop!” Miss Wednesday cried, trying to pull him back with the help of other agents. “You won't die without her! Will you?!”

Mr. 9 looked back at the harbor, seeing the small, white figure of his princess weeping on the stones. Thunder drummed in the sky, matching the frantic beat of his heart. He looked at Wednesday, his lips quivering.

In a move that shocked every agent on board, Mr. 9 didn't wait for the ship to turn. He climbed the railing and flung himself into the churning, cold abyss of the Grand Line.

“Did someone just fall overboard?!” the villagers cried.

[Reader] looked up, her gaze catching a figure frantically paddling through the waves. She saw the flash of the green suit and the glint of the crown still miraculously clinging to his head. She stumbled to her feet, her heart doing a somersault.

“My love... oh goodness...”

He swam with everything he had. He hated wet socks; he hated ruined suits; he hated the cold. But none of it mattered as long as he reached her. He dragged himself onto the stone harbor, gasping for air. His white undershirt was translucent and clinging to his ribs; he was shivering violently, his face pale and salt-crusted.

[Reader] threw herself at him, ignoring the ruined silk, ignoring the palace guards shouting in the distance. She pulled him into her arms, cupping his freezing face.

“You’re a fool,” she sobbed, pressing her forehead against his. “A complete, utter fool.”

Mr. 9 let out a long, shaky breath, leaning into her touch. He reached up with trembling hands to hold hers against his wet cheeks.

“The... the Princess is forbidden from crying,” he managed to rasp, his voice a jagged whisper of raw devotion. “The Prince... he has returned to his station.”

He didn't give a grand speech. He didn't have a kingdom to offer. He simply leaned forward, closing the final inch and pressing his nose firmly against hers. It was that slow, grounding nudge—the side-to-side nose kiss that was their private vow.

“I’m not a prince, [Reader],” he whispered into the space between them.

“I know,” she replied, pulling him closer into the wreckage of her wedding dress. “I never wanted a prince. I just wanted... you.”

Behind them, the palace bells kept tolling for a wedding that would never happen. But out on the wet stone, the only thing that mattered was the boy who had jumped into the sea just to be hers.

[hanxxxwrites]

The Royal Insignia

(idea by @sweetheartlizzie07)

The afternoon sun filtered through the wooden slats of the blinds in their shared quarters, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Mr. 9 was in the middle of what he called a Post-Mission Royal Retrospective, pacing back and forth with a dizzying, theatrical energy.

"And then, my dear, just as the rogue bounty hunter thought he had the upper hand, I deployed the wire bats! Such grace! Such finesse! Even Mr. 8 would have wept at the sight!"

He struck a pose, his chin tilted high toward the ceiling. But as he spoke, his voice began to fade into the background. [Reader] wasn't listening to the tactical details anymore. Her gaze was fixed on the bold, black '9' etched onto his high cheekbone. In the honey-colored light, the ink looked deeper, like velvet against his skin. She wondered, not for the first time, if it was mere paint or a permanent mark of his devotion to the cause.

Before she realized what she was doing, she stood up from the bed and stepped into his space.

"—the tactical advantage of the high ground—" Mr. 9 blinked, spinning around as his sentence died mid-air.

He froze as she reached out. Her bare thumb brushed against the very edge of the '9' on his left cheek. The touch was like a spark to dry kindling. Mr. 9’s back snapped straight, and a frantic, deep crimson flooded his neck, rushing up his face until even the tips of his ears were bright red.

"M-my dear!" he squeaked, his voice cracking in a way that was decidedly not regal. He stepped back, looking at her with wide, startled eyes. "That is... that is unauthorized contact with the Royal Insignia! A breach of... of facial protocol!"

[Reader] giggled softly. "Sorry," she whispered, retreating to the edge of the bed. She looked up at him, her smile playful. "I just... I wondered what they felt like. The ink looks so dark today."

She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a gentle plea. "Can I touch them properly? The Royal Insignia?"

Mr. 9 let out a long, shaky sigh. His face was still glowing with heat, but he slowly walked toward her, sitting on the mattress by her side. He turned to face her, trying to reclaim a shred of his dignity. "Y-you may... only because you asked so nicely, my dear!"

She leaned in, her eyes tracing the sharp curve of the number. Her hand rose again, her thumb moving slowly, following the line of the tattoo with a feather-light touch.

Mr. 9 let out a small, strangled sound—halfway between a gasp and a soft, broken sigh. He squeezed his eyes shut, his long eyelashes fluttering against his flushed skin. He looked like a man trying to remember how to breathe and failing miserably. The loud, boisterous Prince had evaporated, replaced by a boy vibrating with a dizzy, adoring heat.

"You're... you're distracting the Prince from his report," he managed to rasp, his voice dropping into a shaky, breathless whisper.

"Can I trace the other one?" she asked softly.

He opened his eyes. They were wide and dazed, looking at her with a raw, terrifying devotion. He didn't pull back; instead, he tilted his head into her palm, giving her his full silent permission.

"Who knew the fearsome Mr. 9 could be this cute?" she whispered, her fingers tracing the twin '9s' on his cheeks.

"I am... I am a fearsome Frontier Agent," he whispered back, his voice trembling. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned further into her hand, his skin radiating a feverish warmth. "But when you touch my face like this... I forget the script entirely."

He reached up, his hands gently covering her wrists to hold her touch in place against his skin. He leaned in until they were inches apart, his breath ghosting over her lips.

"Royal decree," he breathed, his eyes fluttering as they darted between her gaze and her mouth. "You are... strictly forbidden from doing this when Mr. 8 or the other agents are looking. Because if you do... I might just abandon the mission entirely. I’ll demand we stay in this room forever."

He finally closed the gap, his lips lingering long and sweet against hers. He stayed there, holding her hands to his face, perfectly content to let the Prince take the night off—as long as he was holding his favorite person in the world.

[hanxxxwrites]

Last Breath

(so umm...sorry in advance)

The air in Whiskey Peak was thick with the scent of gunpowder and sea salt, settling like a shroud over the silent village. Inside the main tavern, the celebration had turned into a tomb. A hundred agents lay like discarded dolls across the floor—useless, broken, and still.

The heavy doors creaked open as Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine stepped over the bodies, their eyes filled with cold disappointment.

"All one hundred... gone. Pathetic," Mr. 5 muttered, kicking a stray glass aside.

"Well, lookee here," Miss Valentine chirped, her umbrella twirling idly. "We have survivors."

In the corner, slumped against a splintered table, sat Mr. 9. His crown was gone, lost somewhere in the fray. His hair was a matted mess of dust and dried blood, and a dark bruise bloomed across his jaw. He was methodically drinking from a crate of beer, his eyes vacant. Opposite him was [Reader]. She was a ghost of herself, clutching a deep, jagged wound from a katana—a parting gift from the Straw Hat swordsman. She looked pale, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.

"Looks like you both got your asses beat," Mr. 5 sneered, loitering over them. He pointed a finger at [Reader]. "Especially you. You look like you’re one foot in the grave already."

[Reader] let out a weak, wet scoff, glaring up through the strands of hair stuck to her forehead. "Oh, please..."

"The woman you knew as Miss Wednesday is a traitor," Mr. 5 stated, his voice dropping to a low threat. "She’s the missing Princess of Alabasta. Tell us where she went."

The news hit like a physical blow, but Mr. 9 didn't flinch. He just tightened his grip on his bottle. He remembered the whale; he remembered the long days at sea where they had looked out for one another. To him, she wasn't a princess or a spy—she was his partner.

"She may be a traitor to the boss," Mr. 9 spoke, his voice surprisingly steady, "but she’s still our partner. I’ll never betray her."

[Reader] tracked his words with a faint, proud smile, even as the blood continued to seep through the bandages Mr. 9 had frantically wrapped around her waist earlier.

Miss Valentine hummed, her eyes landing on [Reader]’s slumped form. A cruel smirk curled her lips. "Your 'Prince' over there is awfully stubborn," she taunted, leaning over the table. "Perhaps you’ll be more talkative when you realize he can’t save you."

"Don't..." Mr. 9’s voice cracked. He tried to lunge forward, but Mr. 5’s boot connected with his ribs, sending him spiraling back to the floor. "Don't touch her! She doesn't know anything! We were just... we were just doing the mission!"

"You are traitors," Miss Valentine sang, the tip of her closed umbrella hovering over [Reader]’s chest. "I’m feeling generous, though. I'll give you a second chance."

She shifted her weight, using her Devil Fruit to slam a kick into [Reader]’s back. A sickening crack echoed through the tavern as [Reader] collapsed to the floor, a cry of pure agony dying in her throat. Mr. 9 screamed, clawing at the floorboards to reach her, but Mr. 5 held him down with an indifferent foot.

"Now, speak," Miss Valentine hissed, pressing the sharp point of her umbrella directly over [Reader]’s heart.

"N-never," [Reader] whispered, her eyes locking onto Valentine’s with a final, defiant spark.

"Protecting a princess? How noble," Valentine sneered. "How... fatal."

"NO!" Mr. 9’s shriek was a sound so raw it seemed to tear the very air apart. "No, please! Take me! I’m the one with the rank! I’m the Prince! Kill the Prince!"

He begged, he pleaded, he offered his life a thousand times over in the span of a second. But Miss Valentine didn't care for bargains. With a swift, sickening thrust, she driven the umbrella down.

The silence that followed was worse than the scream.

Mr. 5 stepped back, releasing Mr. 9. The "Prince" scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, sobbing as he gathered [Reader]’s limp body into his arms. He pressed his shaking hands over the wound in her chest, trying to stop the tide of red, but it was far too late.

"No, no, no, no," he whimpered, rocking her back and forth. "No, please... open your eyes, my dear. Please, by royal decree... [Reader], I command you... open your eyes."

The tears carved clean tracks through the grime on his face, dripping onto her cooling skin. He let out a wail that shook the rafters—a sound of a man whose entire kingdom had just turned to ash.

"Oh, she’s gone, Mr. 9. How tragic," Mr. 5 mocked. "Now, about the Princess..."

Mr. 9 didn't look up. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to [Reader]’s lifeless lips. She was cold. The realization was a final, jagged blade to his heart.

"I'm coming, love," he whispered into her hair. "Wait for me in the current."

He laid her back down with heartbreaking tenderness, smoothing her hair away from her face one last time. He reached for his beer, chugging the remainder of the bottle with a hollow, haunting snicker. He looked up at the two high-ranking agents, a manic light in his eyes.

"I say... Mr. Zero sent you to stop her, but she got away," he laughed, pointing a trembling pinky at them. "And we all know the Boss doesn't tolerate failure. I bet he’s dispatching the Unluckies as we speak."

The two agents shared a momentary look of unease. Mr. 9 set the bottle down and leaned back, closing his eyes. He didn't see the tavern anymore. He saw a moonlit deck. He heard a waltz.

"So, kill me if you want," he sighed, a peaceful smile touching his lips. "But you're both already dead."

"Bye-bye, baby," he whispered, his signature line sounding more like a welcome than a goodbye.

Miss Valentine didn't hesitate. She increased her weight to ten thousand kilos and brought her heel down.

As the world went black, the last thing Mr. 9 felt wasn't pain. It was the weight of a hand on his sleeve and a voice telling him the dance wasn't over.

“Hello, love... I’m here.”

[hanxxxwrites]

Lingering Touch

(Idea by @sweetheartlizzie07 )

The mission to the neighboring island had been a disaster. The rain was a cold, relentless sheet that soaked through wool and bone alike, the bounty had slipped through their fingers, and the ‘Prince’ had spent the last three hours straining to keep his morale high in front of the lower-ranking agents. Now, finally, the cabin door was shut. The world, with all its failures and freezing winds, was locked outside.

Mr. 9 sat on the edge of the narrow cot, his striped green suit jacket tossed unceremoniously over a chair. He looked tired—not the theatrical, dramatic exhaustion he wore for show, but the bone-deep weariness of a man who had been holding up a heavy mask all day.

[Reader] knocked softly before peeking inside. She found him sitting in the dim light, his shoulders hunched. She entered quietly, setting a tray of warm food on the small table before walking toward him.

She reached out, brushing a damp stray lock of hair from his forehead before sinking to the floor between his knees. Resting her arms on his thighs, she looked up at him. “You did well today, Nine. You kept them together.”

He let out a long, shaky exhale, his shoulders finally drooping as the "Prince" began to dissolve, leaving only the man behind. He didn't speak at first. He simply reached out, his fingers sliding into her hair to gently tilt her head back. He looked at her—really looked at her—with a gaze that was raw, soft, and terrifyingly honest.

He leaned down, but he didn't go for her lips. Instead, he angled his head just slightly, pressing the tip of his nose against hers.

It was a slow, lingering rub—an "Eskimo kiss" that felt like a private language between them. The tiny, affectionate friction sent sparks of warmth straight through the lingering chill of the rain. It was steady. It was the feeling of two people finding their center again in the dark. His thumb traced her jawline with a reverent touch, his eyes wandering over every feature of her face as if memorizing a map, before he let out a jagged sigh and closed his eyes.

“Mr. 9? What’s wrong?” she whispered, her own eyes fluttering shut as she savored the heat of his breath against her skin.

“It’s a check-in,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the small space between them. “To make sure you’re still solid. To make sure I didn't leave you out there in the dark... or that I didn't lose you in the rain.”

He did it again—a gentle, side-to-side nudge of his nose against hers. There was something incredibly grounding about the intimacy; the slight bump of bone, the softness of skin, the way she could feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her own cheek. It wasn't a grand, royal gesture. It was a quiet confession that he needed her to stay grounded.

[Reader] leaned back just an inch, making Mr. 9 open his eyes. They were wide and filled with a sudden, puppy-like sadness, his eyebrows knitting together in a silent plea. It was an expression so vulnerable it made her heart melt. She smiled, cupping his face in both of her hands to pull him back toward her.

She pressed three soft, lingering kisses to the tattoo on his cheek, then moved to his forehead, her lips lingering there as if to brush away the stress of the day. Finally, she pressed a soft, sweet kiss to the tip of his nose.

“I’m still here,” she breathed against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he whispered, a ghost of a real smile finally touching his lips. He let his forehead come to rest against hers, taking a deep, steadying breath, inhaling the scent of salt and the familiar, comforting fragrance of her hair. “Because the Prince... he doesn't know the way back without his navigator.”

He gave her one last, firm nose-kiss, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before finally pulling back. The tired smile he gave her wasn't for the "loyal subjects" or the Baroque Works cameras. It was just for her.

“Now,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the bridge of her nose one last time with a playful, tender flick. “Let’s see what treasure you’ve brought in for dinner.”

[hanxxxwrites]

True Love's Kiss

The morning sun was streaming through the windows of [Reader]’s room in Whiskey Peak, hitting the floorboards in bright, unforgiving patches of gold. It was the kind of morning that demanded absolute productivity—there were maps to be studied, gear to be polished, and a town of unsuspecting pirates to "greet."

But [Reader] wasn't having any of it. She was buried so deep under her duvet that she was essentially a cocoon of linen and stubborn laziness, letting out a muffled, indignant groan every time a stray beam of light hit her eyes.

Mr. 9 stood at the foot of her bed, fully dressed in his sharp green suit, his blonde hair perfectly styled and his crown sitting at a jaunty, confident angle. He had been attempting to rouse her for the past ten minutes, growing increasingly desperate.

“Dearest! The day waits for no one, not even royalty!” he declared, folding his arms over his chest. “The sun is at its tactical peak! Arise!”

The only response he received was [Reader] pulling a pillow over her head. “Five more hours, Nine. Go away.”

“Five hours? That is a logistical nightmare!” He began to pace the room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the wood. He tried shaking her shoulder gently; he tried tugging the edge of the blanket, but [Reader] clung to it with the surprising, iron-clad strength of a seasoned agent of Baroque Works.

Then, Mr. 9 sighed heavily, his eyes landing on her bedside table. Sitting right next to her lamp was a bright red apple she had brought up the night before and forgotten to eat.

A slow, mischievous smirk spread across Mr. 9’s face. He cleared his throat, his posture shifting into something far more tragic and operatic. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with a heavy, theatrical despair.

“No…” he gasped, stumbling backward and clutching his heart. “It cannot be! The apple!”

[Reader] remained still, but her ears perked up under the duvet. What is he doing now?

“Oh, cruel fate!” Mr. 9 wailed, throwing a back-hand against his forehead. He dropped to his knees beside her bed with a heavy thud that made the mattress jar. “I am too late! My beloved princess has fallen victim to the poisoned apple! The venom of the orchard has claimed another soul!”

[Reader] bit her lip, trying desperately not to let a laugh escape from under the covers.

“Look at her!” he cried out to the empty room, his voice rising to a shaky, dramatic pitch. “So still! So silent! Her laziness was not sloth—it was the poison creeping through her royal veins! Woe! Woe is the Prince of Whiskey Peak!”

He reached under the covers, grabbing her limp hand and pressing it to his cheek, letting out a dramatic, heavy sob. “How shall I go on? Who will listen to my rants about the poor ventilation in the Baroque Works base? Who will boop my royal nose? The world is grey! The sun is but a cold ember!”

[Reader] felt him lean closer, the scent of his sea-salt cologne and the radiant heat from his body surrounding her. He let out one final, shaky sigh that brushed against the fabric of her blankets.

“There is but one hope,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, jagged rasp that vibrated right through her linen cocoon. “The ancient texts speak of a counter-measure. A catalyst of such power that it can shatter even the darkest hex.”

She felt the duvet being gently, almost reverently, pulled back from her face, but she kept her eyes squeezed shut, determined to see how far his performance would go.

“True love’s kiss,” Mr. 9 murmured, his breath warm against her lips.

He didn't just give her a quick, teasing peck. He leaned in with agonizing slowness, his nose brushing against hers, his fingers trembling just a fraction as they cupped her cheek. When he finally pressed his lips to hers, it was soft, lingering, and surprisingly sweet—devoid of any of the joking theatrics from moments ago. It was a kiss that felt like a quiet, honest confession.

The second he started to pull back, [Reader] ‘gasped’ for air, sitting up abruptly and throwing her arms wide. “I live! The Prince has saved me!”

Mr. 9 jumped back, startled by her sudden movement, his face immediately erupting into a brilliant, frantic crimson. He tried to regain his composure, frantically straightening his crown, though it remained slightly crooked.

“Huzzah!” he shouted, though his voice cracked spectacularly. “The tactical maneuver was a success! The poison is neutralized!”

[Reader] laughed, reaching out to snag Mr. 9 by his tie, pulling him until he was sitting on the edge of the bed again. “You’re a ridiculous man, Mr. 9.”

“I am a hero!” he corrected, though he was smiling now—a genuine, shy smile that finally reached his blue eyes. He reached out and tucked a messy strand of her hair behind her ear, his gaze softening with a deep, quiet loyalty. “But if you go back to sleep now, I shall have to find a much larger apple and start the whole play again.”

“Is that a threat?” she teased, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“It is a promise,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. “Now get up, dearest. The Prince requires breakfast, and he refuses to eat it alone.”

[hanxxxwrites]

I’m not sure if you take requests for Mr 9 yet but could you possibly do a Mr 9 x reader about him and reader having a causal day together. Like hes not wearing his suit but instead comfortable clothes. The pictures on Daniel’s instagram gave me some ideas. This could be super fluffy or a little spicy. It’s however you want to write it😊

COMFY CLOTHING

(sorry this took long kjsdnlcd)

It was an unexpectedly calm day in Whiskey Peak. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business for once, leaving [Reader] with a rare, fleeting moment of peace in a town that usually thrived on bloodthirsty chaos. She stood outside the stone saloon, leaning her back against the sun-baked wall, looking up at the vast desert sky and watching the clouds drift by with a dazed, lazy expression. The heat was heavy, a thick blanket that made her limbs feel like lead.

“Hey, are you even keeping watch for potential enemies, or have you permanently converted into a statue?”

[Reader] blinked, shaking herself out of her daze and looking to the side to find Miss Wednesday walking toward her. The blue-haired girl had a playful smile on her face, a hand resting casually on her hip as her high heels clicked softly against the dusty ground.

“Hello? Earth to Citizen!” she teased, lightly knocking her knuckles against the top of [Reader]’s head with an affectionate thud.

[Reader] lazily covered her head, letting out a muffled groan of protest. “Ahhh, stop it! How am I supposed to maintain any semblance of tactical focus in this absolute heat, Wednesday?” she complained, using her hand to frantically fan her flushed face.

Then, [Reader] took a sudden double-take at Wednesday’s outfit and puffed out her cheeks in a deep pout. “Hey, no fair! How come you got to change into something comfortable, and I’m still stuck suffocating in this heavy, dark Baroque Works uniform?” She pointed back and forth between Wednesday’s casual tank top and shorts and her own restrictive, suffocating layers of black fabric.

“Fine, fine! Go change before you melt into the cobblestones, I’ll keep watch for a bit,” Wednesday laughed, casually waving her off as she pulled a fresh, dripping popsicle out of a small cooler. “Oh, but can you go find Mr. 9 while you're at it? He’s next on the perimeter patrol later tonight.”

[Reader] took a step back, her eyes widening as she stared at the frozen treat. “Okay... wait, where did you even get a popsicle from in the middle of a wasteland?!”

“Just go change already, you idiot!” Wednesday yelled affectionately, shooing her away with a loud laugh.

Tired, sticky, and thoroughly melted by the relentless desert sun, [Reader] trudged back through the winding alleys to their shared quarters. The moment she crossed the threshold and shut the heavy door behind her, she practically threw herself onto the mattress, letting out a dramatic, muffled groan into the pile of pillows. The fabric felt cool against her skin, and for a long minute, she simply wallowed in the luxury of the shade.

Finally, she lazily rolled off the bed and walked over to the wooden cabinet, determined to strip out of the heavy uniform and change into a fresh, breathable set of clothes.

[Reader] was halfway through changing, entirely vulnerable in her undergarments as she reached into the dark depths of the wardrobe for a fresh shirt, when the door to the room suddenly clicked and swung open with a heavy gust of wind.

Her operative instincts took over instantly. In a place like Whiskey Peak, an unannounced visitor usually meant a blade in the dark. Hearing someone stride into her private sanctuary entirely unannounced, [Reader] didn't hesitate. She grabbed the nearest long fabric sheet from the cabinet and threw it blindly over the intruder's head to blind him. In the same fluid, lethal motion, her fingers locked around the smooth handle of her spare ranger knife on the bedside table, and she tackled the shrouded figure directly to the floor.

The intruder grunted heavily as the wind was knocked out of him, his boots thrashing against the floorboards as he fumbled blindly to rip the heavy sheet off his face. But the moment he cleared his vision, he was met with the cold, unforgiving press of a steel blade against his throat.

“It’s me, darling! It’s Mr. 9!” he screamed frantically, his hands flying up in absolute surrender as [Reader] pinned him fiercely to the ground. “D-dear, it’s only me... please, just breathe, don't execute the Prince!”

“Mr. 9?!” [Reader] gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird as she sat up straight on top of him, her grip on the knife loosening. “I could have killed you! Why on earth didn’t you knock?!”

“I-I thought you were still out on patrol with Wednesday, so I just... you know—” Nine stopped mid-sentence. His voice cut off completely into a strangled, high-pitched gasp. His blue eyes darted downward, blew wide with utter shock, and his face instantly erupted into a brilliant, frantic crimson that reached all the way to the tips of his ears. He scrambled to cover his eyes with his forearm, pointedly turning his head to the side.

[Reader] blinked, thoroughly confused by his sudden, silent panic. “Mr. 9? What’s wrong? Did I actually cut you? Did the knife slip? I’m so sorry!” She started to panic, leaning down closer to check his face and neck for any accidental wounds, entirely forgetting her lack of clothing.

Before she could search any further, Nine reached up, his large hand softly and tenderly catching her wrist to stop her frantic movements.

“No... you didn't hurt me, dear,” he murmured shyly, his voice dropping into a low, embarrassed rasp that vibrated in his chest. “It’s just... you are still in your undergarments. My royal eyes... are trying to be respectful.”

[Reader]’s brain finally caught up with the reality of the situation. She looked down, remembering she hadn't even put on her fresh top yet. “Oh! Oh my gosh, I'm sorry!” She scrambled to her feet in a blind panic, her own face burning as hot as the desert sand. She grabbed the oversized cotton shirt from the bed and pulled it over her head in a frantic, tangled rush, smoothing it down over her hips.

Mr. 9 remained flat on the floor for a few moments, his chest heaving slightly from the sudden adrenaline of the tackle. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved his arm away from his eyes. Without his signature green suit, he looked completely different—almost unrecognizable to anyone else in the Syndicate. He was wearing a pair of dark, relaxed trousers and a soft, casual short-sleeved shirt that clung loosely to his broad shoulders. His blonde hair, usually slicked back with heavy pomade and held down by his tin crown, was a beautifully messy, untamed halo of soft waves around his face.

He sat up, rubbing his neck where the cold blade had just been resting. A soft, breathless laugh escaped his lips as he looked up at [Reader], his expression melting into something incredibly tender.

"I must admit... your reflexes are terrifyingly impressive, my love," he rasped, his blue eyes locking onto hers with an overwhelming warmth that made her knees weak. "Though, I would highly prefer my royal execution to be handled with a bit more decorum and clothing next time."

"You idiot," [Reader] breathed out, a soft laugh escaping her as the lingering tension completely drained from her body. She extended a hand down to help him up from the rug. "I told you a thousand times, you have to start knocking. What if I hadn't hesitated?"

Instead of letting her pull him up, Nine caught her hand, his calloused fingers locking firmly and securely with hers. With a sudden, playful tug, he pulled her back down to the floor. [Reader] let out a small yelp as she tumbled right onto his chest, the soft, worn fabric of his casual shirt cushioning her fall perfectly.

"Then I would have died at the hands of the most beautiful operative in Whiskey Peak," he murmured against her hair, his arms instantly wrapping around her waist to lock her in place. The forced theatricality he usually projected for the public was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, raw sincerity.

"Nine, stop it," [Reader] mumbled, hiding her burning, blushing face against the warm crook of his shoulder. "Wednesday sent me to find you anyway. She said you're on watch later tonight, so you need to get ready."

"Tonight is hours away," he whispered, his chest vibrating against hers as he buried his face into the side of her neck. He was incredibly clingy today, holding her flush against him as if he intended to act as a human shield against the rest of the world. "Right now, the perimeter is completely quiet. The Syndicate does not require my presence. And I... require this."

[Reader] shifted slightly, resting her chin on his chest, her fingers involuntarily finding their way into the soft, un-styled waves of his blonde hair, gently playing with the strands. "You look completely different without your crown and suit. It’s strange."

"Do I look less princely to you, dear?" he teased, a faint, boyish smirk touching his lips as he looked up at her.

"No," [Reader] replied honestly, her voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper. "You look... more real. I like it much better."

His expression softened instantly, the teasing smirk fading as his blue eyes darkened with an intense, quiet devotion. Slowly, deliberately, Nine reached up, his thumb tenderly tracing the warm line of her jaw.

"I spent the whole morning acting," he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, quiet vibration meant only for her ears. "Bragging to the Millions, playing a part, carrying those ridiculous bats... it is an exhausting performance. But here? With you? I don't have to be a legend. I don't have to be a Prince. I just get to be yours."

He leaned in with agonizing slowness, giving her every second to catch her breath, his gaze locked onto her lips before he finally closed the final inch, pressing his mouth to hers.

The kiss was slow, deep, and filled with a quiet, unshakable loyalty that didn't need a script. His lips moved against hers with a delicate, lingering precision that made her head spin, his hands tightening at her waist to hold her as close as humanly possible to his chest. Every time [Reader] leaned deeper into the embrace, a soft, ragged hum of pure satisfaction escaped the back of his throat.

He shifted his weight carefully, rolling the two of them over until he was hovering above her on the soft rug, his messy blonde hair framing his face as he looked down at her with wide, adoring eyes. He peppered her face with soft, lingering pecks—her forehead, the tip of her nose, her burning cheeks—before finally settling his forehead gently against hers.

"Royal decree," he breathed against her lips, a genuine, quiet joy in his voice. "We are staying right here on this floor for the rest of the afternoon. No missions, no Baroque Works, no heat."

"And what if Wednesday comes looking for you?" [Reader] teased softly, her fingers tracing the collar of his shirt.

Nine let out a soft, breathy laugh, catching her hand and pressing a tender, lingering kiss to her knuckles. "Then she will simply have to wait. The Prince has found his true kingdom, and he refuses to leave it."