#dracule mihawk x child!reader

[alexa-yukiyu]

Midnight Lessons (Mihawk x gn!child!reader)

A/N: Here we go, stoic dad time! Guys please drop by my ask box, wanna get to know my audience!

Dividers by @saradika

Night had fallen in Cross Guild’s headquarters, the members still busing around completing their chores. In the main office, quiet reigned between two of the founders, the only sound echoing in the office being of Crocodile’s exhaling his cigars in a thick mist, sitting at his desk and looking over the current paperwork, and the sound of Mihawk sharpening and polishing Yoru, on the office’s couch, his sharp gaze examines his black blade for any blemishes or imperfections.

A knock rings on the door to the office the two reside in

Crocodile’s eyes narrow slightly as he bellows smoke from his cigar and looks up. He sighed, remembering he had locked the door so he and his co-worker could have a meeting, so he stood up and opened the door, grunting when he saw who was at the door.

“Mihawk, it’s your brat,” he called out, staring at the child in front of him

Mihawk puts down his sword and walks over to the child. He squats down to the child’s level*

“Why are you awake at this hour?” Mihawk asked in a deep, quiet voice

The small child mutters something under their breath, sniffling.

Mihawk raises an eyebrow and nudges their arm with his finger, asking them to look at him instead of hiding their face.

“Do not mumble; speak up.” Mihawk’s voice is like a whisper, but his stare was piercing like a sharp blade

“Can I stay with you, Dad?” They cry out, voices still barely above a whisper

Seeing the child’s sad expression, Mihawk frowns and sighs quietly.

“Yes, you can stay. But not for long; you must return to your room soon. Mihawk’s voice was still quiet, but his tone had an unmistakable gentleness as he easily lifted the child carrying them back to the couch.

The small child hugged his dad tightly, trying to muffle their sobs so as to not bother their father at work.

Reader tightened their arms around their father; in response, Mihawk gently caressed their head and patted their back, silently reassuring the child.

“Why are you awake?” he repeats his previous question.

Crocodile glances at the pair once more before turning his attention back to a stack of paperwork on his desk.

“I had a nightmare,” they cry.

Mihawk’s brow furrows, and he looks down at the child.

“What was it about?”

“Y-you were gone.”

Mihawk’s expression tightens when he hears this. His eyebrows narrow, and his lips pull into a thin line. He stays silent for a moment.

“Do not worry about such things, I will not leave.”

Reader nods, comforted by their father’s short but meaningful words.

He pulls the child close to him until their head is lying on his chest, and their face is buried into his neck. The child can feel Mihawk’s heartbeat in their chest. He wraps an arm around the child, holding them close while they sniffle and sob.

Mihawk’s expression remains blank, and he does not say a word until the child’s crying stops.

Reader nuzzles closer to him as they are slowly lulled to sleep.

Mihawk’s arms enfold the child, gently caressing them and providing comfort. The child soon falls asleep, wrapped tightly in Mihawk’s warm embrace.

“Did they fall asleep?” Crocodile’s deep voice cuts in

Mihawk remains silent. He continues caressing the child, gently ruffling their hair. Then he softly turns his head to peer up at Crocodile, still sitting behind his desk.

“Yes.” Mihawk’s voice is still calm and tranquil despite his expression turning cold and serious

That soon changed, however, as the third founder slammed open the door as he came in, startling the child wide-awake, childish cries echoing through the office.

Mihawk tightened the grip around the child slightly.

Crocodile looks up from his desk, and his eyes narrow as he sees the third officer standing at the door.

“What are you doing, Clown?” he asks coldly.

Buggy’s eyes widen in surprise at his tone. He stumbled back, and then tried to compose himself*

“I…I was just-”

Before Buggy could finish, Mihawk’s gaze pierced through him. His eyes are dark and menacing, looking like he’s about to attack him at any moment. Mihawk’s hand tightened around the child again, and he was clearly agitated.

“Out!…” a low, deadly tone leaves Mihawk’s voice. Buggy’s eyes widened in shock, even he could not ignore the seriousness of Mihawk’s tone and expression. His eyes darted to the child, still sobbing and buried in Mihawk’s arms. Buggy gulped before quickly turning to leave the office. The whole place became silent again, with only the sound of the child’s soba as they cried into Mihawk’s chest.

“I’m going to pulverize him,” grunts Crocodile

Mihawk’s attention goes from the doorway towards the crying child in his chest.

Eventually, and with the help of Mihawk’s warmth and comfort, Reader’s cries recede. They are still snuggled close to Mihawk and can feel themselves surrounded by his warmth and presence. His fingers still brush through their hair while his other arm holds onto the child firmly.

Mihawk gently moves Reader from his chest to between his legs, grabbing his sword and continuing to sharpen it

Reader looks at his actions entranced, his attention captured by Mihawk’s strong but careful sword care.

Mihawk’s hands move gracefully over the blade, which shines brilliantly in the candlelit room. His motions are quick and efficient, and he works accurately and skillfully. His face remains calm and unconcerned as he continues sharpening his sword. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Reader staring at him with a mix of curiosity, fascination, and admiration. The unspoken question lingering in the air.

“No, you cannot work on this sword.”

Reader frowns at the rejection without the child having the chance to ask but makes no comment.

Mihawk notices the expression but does not say anything. He looks at the child and raises an eyebrow before turning his attention back to the sword. He runs his thumb caressingly along the blade but then stops abruptly.

“However, I can find a sword you can work on if you so desire, Blade Child.”

They smile and nod.

“I want to. Can you tell me how to do it?”

“Yes,” Mihawk replies in a low tone as he finishes sharpening his sword. Pulling Kogatana out from its sheath in his pendant and showing it to Reader.

“You may use this sword to practice on,” he says as he puts Kogatana down and hands Reader the sharpening stone, helping them grab it correctly and guiding their hands in the appropriate motion.

The child laughs gleefully, excited to be able to repeat the similar actions they saw their father do minutes prior

Mihawk relaxes slightly at the child’s enthusiasm; he watches as Reader sharpens Kogatana with gentle but firm guidance and hand placements. After a few minutes of instruction, Reader feels comfortable enough to sharpen the sword on their own. The light sound of the sharpening stone against the blade echoes through the office.

“I did it, Dad!” Reader exclaims, showing Mihawk the freshly sharpened Kogatana

Mihawk’s expression softens as he looks at the blade with the sharp edge.

Then he looks over at Reader proudly.

He nods his head.

“Yes, this is much sharper now. Not a bad job for your first time.”

Mihawk places the blade back on the sheath on his pendant.

The child laughs at the praise, knowing it is as strong a compliment as he could pull from their stoic father.

Not sure how to feel about this one; what do you guys think? Please send in requests for what you guys would like to see next!

[yeahdhfjfjf]

Mihawk X Child Reader

Stealing your dad's clothes

You were allowed to be in his room but you weren't allowed to touch anything. Once he caught you snooping around his office and lectured you for hours about the importance of personal space and trust and parent-child relationships and blah, blah, blah. One thing did stick out thought which is what he said in the end.

'I respect your personal space and I expect you to respect mine are we understood my dear one.'

'Yes dad.' You had agreed but you hadn't stopped thinking of it since you saw it. It was beautiful and you didn't like to admit it but your dad had great fashion sense.

I'll just try it on and he'll never know. You said to yourself while tiptoeing into his bedroom.

You reached the wardrobe and when you opened it there it was in all its goth glory, a dark red corduroy blazer freshly pressed and ironed. You quickly took it off the hanger and put it on looking at yourself in the mirror attached to the wardrobe door.

It looked weird on you not what you expected it to look at all. It looked like you were playing dressup with your dad's clothes which is what you were doing you just thought it would look baggy in a cool high fashion kind of way. You were about to take it off in disappointment until...

"What are you doing with my blazer y/n?" He asked flatly. His tone always made if so hard to know if you were in trouble.

"Nothing..." You said sheepishly.

He stared.

"Ok it is but it's just sooo pretty. I just wanted to try it on." You were looking down now completely embarrassed as he made his way closer to you. "I'm Sorry..."

"Tuck in your shirt"

"Why w-" Before you could say anything else his gentle hands were already doing it for you

"The hem draws the eye to your waist line." He said bluntly, turning you around to see yourself in the mirror.

"See?"

"Wow!" You were so surprised at how huch one simple adjustment like that could change such an ill fitting outfit into something very chic.

"And wear this too." He gave you a rings that was on one of his fingers. "Accessories are a very important part of an outfit my dear they can create needed visual interest and guide the eye trough your ensemble. It's not just what you wearing..." He continued to lecture but you stopped listening which you often did not because what he was saying was wrong or boring but he had a tendency to go on and on. "There you look lovely my darling." He said admiring his beautiful work.

"So you're not mad?" You asked as you admired yourself in the mirror.

"No but if you were to touch my hat then we'd have a problem."

He would secretly loved it though. He liked that you wanted to look like him; even though you weren't related, it made him happy to see parts of his character appearing in you as you grew.

"Thanks daddy..." You grinned at him. "So can I have it?"

"No."

You giggled and hugged him. You knew what his answer would be, you were just happy you weren't in trouble and that you had the most stylish farther in the world.

..........................

I hope there aren't any spelling mistakes <3

[urinarythreatinfection]

Cross Guild Masterlist

💋 Smut ❤️ Fluff 💔 Angst 🔥 Joke 💘 Suggestive 👍 Platonic 👨 Male 👩 Female 👤 Gender Neutral 👶 Child Reader ✏️ Drabble 📃 One Shot 💭 Headcanons 🪧 Scenario 💕 Family 🩸 Violence ✅️ Finished

Crocodile

Reptile Break for the Reptile Broken 🔥✏️

Crocodile is tired, so he visits the bananagators.

No Reader, Post Crossguild

Crocodile the Lovestruck (Reptile) Fool ❤️👩💭

You've been with him since Alabasta, and he's starting to think of you as more than a loyal employee.

Post Cross Guild.

Its Good to See the New You 💕💔👨💭

You joined the Strawhats after your father was defeated in alabasta, when you meet again his daughter is now his son.

Small Marineford and Alabasta spoilers.

Mihawk

Boredom and Jokes 🔥 👤✏️

Mihawk's older than you and Buggy thought.

Mimi Mihawk ❤️👤✏️

Mihawk reads the paper while you give him affection.

Post Cross Guild.

An Awkward Child 🔥💕👶🪧

You aren't really the best at getting along with people, Mihawk doesn't mind.

Pre and Post Cross Guild

Think About It ❤️👩👤📃

He's more oblivious than you thought, by a LOT.

Romantic(?) ❤️👨👤✏️

You're a romantic pervert.

Skating on Thin Ice 🔥👍👤✏️

You tell a dirty joke at Mihawk's expense.

Looking Elsewhere 💔💘👨📃

Your love of boobs causes conflict with your boyfriend.

Oops! Just a Dream 💔❤️👤🪧

You almost kill Mihawk over a dream.

Buggy

Boredom and Jokes 🔥 👤✏️

Mihawk's older than you and Buggy thought.

[naraeragon]

The deeper the bond with him

Bond 1: Strangers, close interactions unavailable

Bond 5: Let Yidhra hug him all the time

Bond 10: Hugs Yidhra on his own will and refuses to let go

[writingoddess1125]

The Sunset Pirates pt. 1

Old Men Series Masterlist <<<

Support ne on Ko-Fi ☕️ Helps me make more stories

"Hey I wanted to say something-" Vivian said calmly, the doubt of Alucares words eating into her, Dee raising a brow and nodding in wanting to hear her out. "Shoot-"

• The new shamble crew had been at sea for a few months and truthfully getting along quite well.

• While Vivian still seemed to dislike Alucare the two were civil with each other- Vivian mostly becoming good friends with the twins, especially Dee who had turned into a great friend for her.

• Bee and Alucare had become overnight friends it seemed- Alucare was calm and collected while Bee was a wreck yet the two of them seemed to mix well.

• The crew had fallen into their rolls it seemed as well- Dee acted as a Captian and Navigator, Vivian the Gunner, Alucare the Sword and Bee who was the Explosive expert and General Blacksmith.

• Was it odd? Of course! However they all seemed to work well together and got along great

•For the most part-

"Huh- I never noticed till now" Alucare mumbled as he looked to Vivian who glared at him-

"What?" She snapped, the dark haired teen rolling his eyes-

"You're the only girl here-" He said with a shrug, Taking another bite from his breakfast still half asleep as he ate. Vivian raising an eyebrow at him saying this-

"It's just weird- we need another on the crew to help balance it and make sure it's not weird... No two" He grumbled sipping the burnt coffee as he dozed off.

While Alucare was talking about number of crew mates needing for the ship to not be run weird so two addional people were needed and genuinely didn't mean anything by his words forgetting about them 5 minutes later; Vivians mind was running on overdrive. Was it weird? She was on a crew with 3 guys and the only female- What if they thought their relationship was more then she thought?- What if they expected something from her?

These thoughts circled her mind as anxiety build in her chest the rest of that morning- Even when she went to hang out with Dee.

"Are you okay?.." Dee asked, the two seated next to each other.

A bit hesitantly she rubbed the back of her neck "You do realize we are friends right?.. I don't like you in a romantic way and want to misinterpret our friendship as romantic in anyway" She said as calmly as possible. Dee making a slight choking noise in surprise before chuckling softly.

"Couple of things wrong with that sentence- me being friends with you doesn't constitute me having a crush on you, my brother liking you doesn't mean I have to like you- we are twins but still separate people and lastly you aren't my type-" Dee said calmly and with smile.

Vivian blinked in surprise at several parts of that. First that Bee liked her- second was the utter take down of the illusion she had for him and last was the 'Type'.

Dee nodded at seeing her confusion and gestured to his head the side, Vivian following the motion to Alucare to the left training on the decks....

Wait..

.... Ding Ding Ding! 🏳️‍🌈

"You like guys?" Vivian said in shock and Dee nodded calmly at this. Watching the red head flush in embrassment "I-I am so sorry I didn't know- You never said anything"

"Why does that need to be something I promote? My private interest doesn't need to be involved with what I do as a pirate" He pointed out.

•"...Holy shit I'm a asshole I'm so sorry-" Vivian admitted with a heavy sigh. Dee smiled at this and patted her shoulder.

"It's kinda something that has to be learned since so many people have many different ways of promoting their Sexuality. So it's fine, I can understand the confusion and its forgiven" He reassured, always willing to forgive especially since he was sure she was mentally beating herself up anyway.

"Yeah... I shouldn't have assumed- I'm defiently going to punch Alucare after this.." Vi said with an embarrassed sigh. Dee raised a brow at Vivians words, The red head explaining that Alucare had brought some level of worry of her being the only girl on the ship-

Dee rolling his eyes "Give him one for me too... By the way you dont have to worry about me or Bee, Me for odvious reasons and Bee wont cause he respects women too much and would never stoop so low- It may not seem like it but he is a huge Mamas boy and wouldnt do anything to disappoint our mother or our father in such a way"

Bonus:

"Hey Luffy! Look at this!" Usopp called out, smiling as he rushed to Luffy who was on the deck eating away at some breakfast.

The rest of the crew who had been out and about on the desk. Being the crew of an Emperor of the Sea and King of the pirates had been amazing, the flush of food laid before them all as they all chatted and joked.

They all paused at Usopp running to them with the newspaper and new bounties- Laying them all on the table. Luffy pausing mid bite as he saw Vivian, a grin stretching over his cheeks as he proudly looked at her bounty.

The rest of the crew reading the paper of how they bested the Vice-Admiral Beckman and got away from the Marine Vessel.

"That kid must be related to Mihawk- Look at his eyes.. Gold Gaze" Zoro hummed as he stared at a younger copy of his mentors face in the paper, Others agreeing at this.

"Woah! Is that the Twins that Buggy had?" Sanji said as he remembered the two little squirts from before- Nami nodding in agreement and gushing at remembering how adorable they were then and how cute they are now.

"Who would have thought it would go full circle?" Jinbe muttered, having heard the stories of their parents having sailed together. Two of which were Emperors of the sea and the other a Legend of the sword- Now their child in a crew together.

"Welp!- Sounds like we have to head to the East Blue!" Luffy proclaimed as he jumped up. The crew looking at him confused-

"What for?" Franky asked, Seeing Luffy grin at them all.

"Drop off a Gift- Just like a promised" He said with a smile.

[this-blog-needs-a-name]

One Piece Fic Recs

This is a list of incredible One Piece fanfics I have read either on Tumblr or Ao3 the majority of which are character x reader/oc.

📝 Ongoing/Unfinished

Long Works (>25,000 words)

It Comes in Waves by analogwriting Trafalgar Law x f!reader (71k)

The Bird & The Mermaid (Trafalgar Law x F!Reader) by BlackOrchid1004 (40k)

Small Changes by SweetScentences Platonic Law and Corazon fix it (37k)

The Daughter's Return by @cozage Portgas D. Ace x f!reader (126k)

Birds of a Feather by flyingfishgirl Marco the Phoenix x f!reader (74k)

Inked on Skin by Archaeological / @tackyink Trafalgar Law x OFC (385k)

📝 Home of the Sun by Nahella Portgas D. Ace x f!reader (167k)

📝 Free (Trafalgar Law/Reader) by ElenaMoon (153k)

📝 Throne by teroinreadsteroinwrites Shanks x OFC (41k)

📝 This is Us by Anonymous Portgas D. Ace x f!reader (90k)

📝 Card-Sharp by VintagexTypewriter Shanks x OFC (90k)

📝 Home Is Where the Hearts Are by brouhahas Trafalgar Law x f!reader (37k)

📝 Rare Whales, Shining Seas, and the One That Dreams of Them by NunTheWiser Platonic Whitebeard Pirates, Platonic Heart Pirates x OFC (339k)

📝 Bound by Silver by ToastedMilkBar Corazon x f!reader (46k)

📝 Immune To Your Charms by @grandline-fics Donquixote Doflamingo x f!reader (26k)

📝 Chaos in Their Bones by @eureka-its-zico OPLA Zoro x f!reader (148k)

📝 Determination! by @thesharktanksdriver Platonic multiple characters/crews x child!reader (69k)

Puzzled by @mynewblackdress OPLA Sanji x f!reader (35k)

Medium Works (10,000-24,999 words)

Epiphytism by Jarchetype Dracule Mihawk x f!reader (23k)

Little Blue Bird by MidNightWriter42 Marco the Phoenix x f!reader (12k)

📝 Affiliation by maybeitsdee Portgas D. Ace x f!reader (23k)

📝 The Beast and the Mouse by @simpleeindulge Eustass Kid x f!reader (12k)

📝 Little Game by @gingernut1314 Dracule Mihawk x f!reader (16k)

the blade daughter by @halfvalid OPLA Zoro x f!reader, Dracule Mihawk x daughter!reader (24k)

You Should Be Sad by @fanaticsnail Dracule Mihawk x f!reader (14k)

put my name at the top of your list by @ladadiida Sanji x f!reader (12k)

Through Shadow by @gingernut1314 OPLA Sanji x f!reader (10k)

Your Highness by @nanawritesit OPLA Sanji x f!reader (13k)

Come Sail Away by @sassenach-on-the-rocks OPLA Sanji x f!reader, OPLA Zoro x sister!reader (15k)

📝 Stowaway by @spitfire-of-the-sea Platonic Whitebeard Pirates x f!reader (10k)

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Dracule Mihawk (1/2)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

1/2: Mihawk x Reader Length: 18.5k+ Rating: 18+ Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence (Eventually), Psychic Invasions of Privacy, Obsessive Tendencies, Emotional Dysfunction Played for Humor and Angst, Questionable Consent (Mental Realm), Long-Term Ghosting, Suggestive Themes, Unsolicited Sword Metaphors, Language, Mentions of Hormonal Meltdowns and Crayon Consumption

Having Mihawk as a soulmate is like being spiritually handcuffed to a haunted cryptid in a cape who thinks silence is foreplay and emotional repression is a personality trait. His presence is sharp, cold, and somehow always judging you mid-snack. He’s been lurking in your head like a cursed wine sommelier since the bond activated—critiquing your sword form, your taste in literature, and once, your soup. “If my soulmate’s a child, I’ll wait until they’re old enough to hunt.”

Part Two

For @ari20002

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

You’re a proud little girly-girl, equipped with dreams, skills, big ideas, and exactly thirty books of varying fairytales featuring soulmates you have been studying since birth.

It all starts innocently enough. You’re sitting in the corner of the room, reading fantasy books and chewing on crayons like they’re gourmet snacks. No shame. You’re living your best life, and crayons taste better than people think, okay?

And then—bam.

Somewhere, miles away, a certain swordsman with an unnerving mastery of Haki and a complete inability to handle social interactions hears you. 

Growing up, you assumed your soulmate is either dead, fictional, or a weird pile of emotionally repressed sea foam that’s just out there… somewhere… probably not interested. You’ve never met him.

And when he finally does decide to open his mental mouth? It’s always one of three things:

A single, cryptic monologue about blade technique that definitely sounds suspiciously sexual.

A scathing insult aimed at some rival you’ve never met, but somehow you’re still offended by.

Two words, maybe three, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You: “Am I being haunted??”

Older you, lighting a cigarette: “Oh, honey. That’s just him. He does that.”

He doesn’t talk to you directly. He just... vibes ominously from across the soul realm, like some emotional tornado.

You try calling out through the bond? Silence. You try threatening him? A single cherry blossom falls dramatically from nowhere, like, you didn’t order that. You think a lewd thought? Your pillow spontaneously combusts.

You had dreams. You thought that maybe you’d meet him one day; he’d sweep you off your feet, kiss your forehead, maybe let you ride on his sword like it’s a magical broomstick. You had a dozen memorized stories telling you exactly how your soulmate should act. 

Meanwhile, your actual soulmate is out there, somewhere, fortifying his mental palace with stone walls, a moat, and a polite “do not disturb” sign carved from obsidian.

He ghosts you so thoroughly, so methodically, that you grow up convinced that your soulmate bond is just some cosmic glitch, like some weird, one-sided internet connection to an emotionally unavailable man. It’s like a weird echo chamber of self-inflicted torment.

You know nothing about your Prince Charming. Nothing at all.And the blanks? Oh, you fill them in… so badly.

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

Age 8:

You feel the bond click into place: a soft, clear sensation, like a silver bell ringing deep in your chest. You gasp dramatically, eyes wide, staring at the horizon as if something monumental is unfolding in front of you.

Your book goes flying into a bush.

"He’s here," you whisper, breathless, your voice full of awe. "My destiny."

You turn to the chickens behind your house and, almost without thinking, speak to them with conviction. "He’s probably a prince," you muse, excitement building. "With a tragic past. And excellent hair."

You’re positively buzzing with fairytale dreams, convinced that the universe has just handed you a perfect destiny. The moment the bond snaps into place, you practically spring from the ground, running barefoot outside like some mythical prophecy has just awakened.

"My soulmate is out there!" you shout, grinning from ear to ear. "I knew it! We’re going to get married on a cliff during a lightning storm. He’ll save me from a dragon, make breakfast in bed, and maybe, just maybe, we’re secretly royalty."

Meanwhile:

Mihawk, at the age of 16, is in the middle of training. His mind is sharp, focused, and his brooding demeanor makes it clear that he hasn’t smiled since he was a child. In fact, everything about him exudes an almost otherworldly calm, like a sword waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The bond pulses, and Mihawk feels you: your presence, your bright, chaotic energy. 

He pauses mid-training, his grip tightening on his sword hilt, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if he’s made a mistake, if this feeling is some kind of trick.

A voice. Soft, bright, and completely innocent.

"Do you like roses or daisies more? I wanna match!"

You’ve named the bond and named it something ridiculous, something cute. 

"Soulbeam," you called it. "Soulbeam" sticks in his mind like a dagger, a constant reminder that he is now tethered to this irreverent, energetic little creature, one who thought soulmates were meant to be some grand, poetic connection. And every time the bond flares, Mihawk feels you. He hears you. And the words you say are both nonsensical and endlessly annoying.

"Soulbeam reporting for duty! I think my neighbor’s goat is evil. What’s your opinion?"

He stands there, frozen. His mind reels, and for a second, it feels like his internal organs are on fire. It’s the strangest sensation; a pull, a presence that somehow makes everything inside him go still and wild all at once.

“Absolutely not.”

He didn’t block you out because you were weak. No, you were strong, too strong, in fact. You were a force of nature, filled with glitter and hope and an unfiltered belief that soulmates were supposed to love each other.

Mihawk, however, wasn’t interested in any of that.

He wasn’t interested in being “fixed.” He wasn’t interested in being attached to some tiny, romantic child who thought the world was a fairytale.

So he slammed the bond shut with the kind of telepathic force that one usually reserves for banishing devils, immediately, with no reservations.

And just like that, it was gone.

You?

You took that silence as a mystery. You figured he was brooding. And that? That was hot. Maybe he was mute. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he just couldn’t handle the intensity of the soulmate bond.

Back to you:

Your side of the bond? Nothing. Just… static. A void. You once tried shouting into it, and it echoed back like a haunted well. 

You: “Hello???”

Bond: [Muffled noise of a door locking.]

You start thinking maybe it was a weird fever dream. Maybe your soulmate died. Maybe they’re in another dimension. Maybe you’re the hallucination? Your fairy tale books haven’t given instructions on this sort of thing.

Meanwhile, Mihawk is actively dodging it like it’s jury duty.

-X-Passages from Your Childhood Psychic Transcript. Aka, silence.-X-

Age 9:

“Hello?? Mister Sea Ghost? I think you left your sword feelings in my head.”

You tried again and again. Sometimes, asking questions like “Do you like cats?” or “Do soulmates get presents or just the shared trauma?”

Every time, you were met with the deep, echoing void of a man willfully choosing psychic silence. 

But every time, you’re met with nothing. Not even a whisper. It’s like you’re shouting into the dark and waiting for someone to throw you a rope. You can’t even get a single scrap of acknowledgment.

Frustrated, you run to the library, a sanctuary of your own. You’ve always loved the smell of old pages and the promise of endless knowledge between covers. But today, it’s not for the stories. It’s because you want something to fill the silence.

You pull a book from the shelf, one that catches your eye. Something that might finally give you an answer about him. You shuffle up to the counter with a stack of books you’re not supposed to check out yet, hoping one of them has the magic key to unlocking this mysterious bond. The librarian glares at you, but you barely notice. You’re too wrapped up in trying to figure out if soulmates are supposed to be this distant.

“Do you want romance?” you whisper to yourself, flipping through the pages. “Or just awkward silences?”

The librarian sighs, taking the books from you and giving you a pointed look. “I’m not sure that’s what these books are for. You shouldn’t be looking in the adult section yet.”

“Do you accept interns?”

“Not under 12.”

You huff and roll your eyes, muttering something about soulmates not being nearly as fun as everyone makes them sound. You leave the library with nothing but more silence, and a creeping sense that maybe, just maybe, Mister Sea Ghost is the worst roommate the universe could’ve given you.

Elsewhere:

Shanks hears about it over sake once.

“You blocked your soulmate?”

Mihawk, sipping dark wine: “They were a toddler. I am not raising a mini swordsman with sticky fingers and jelly on their face.”

“So you just disconnected?”

“I meditated. With extreme prejudice. I don’t talk to children.”

Shanks: “…they’re like, small and have feelings. You could’ve just muted the telepathy.”

Mihawk: “I did. With violence.”

Age 10:

"I drew us getting married. That’s you. I made you a cape. You feel ‘capey.’"

Silence.

You flip open your new costuming book on princes, trying to fill the void. "Do you think our souls touched in a past life? Were we gladiators or pirates? Or royalty?"

More silence.

You sigh, glancing at the bond, hoping for a response. But it's as empty as ever, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your ‘capey’ drawing.

Elsewhere:

Mihawk, age 18, buries his face in his gloved hands. Seriously considers abandoning the concept of feelings altogether. Pauses mid-duel with Shanks. Visibly flinches. Shanks politely asks if he’s okay. Mihawk lies and says he’s allergic to pollen.

You: “HI. I HAVE A STICK. I’M NAMING IT SWORDY.”

Mihawk, mid-swing, freezes. Blade humming in the air. A vein in his temple throbs.

This man, a literal weapon-in-the-making, immediately drops his sword, turns on his heel, and starts walking. Doesn’t say where. Doesn’t say why. The monk who raised him just watches in silence.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from this bond before it gives me a migraine and a court summons.”

Age 11:

Over the Years…

“Do you like roses or daisies more??? Please, I'm planning the wedding!!!"

Mihawk at nineteen, in the middle of a bloody duel with three grown pirates. Someone lands a lucky cut. He blinks, distracted.

“My soulmate just proposed to me.”

Enemy: “What—”

Mihawk: [kills him in one stroke] “And I’m still not answering.”

Age 12:

You start writing letters to your soulmate like a tragic romance heroine:

“Dear Mysterious Mister Sea Ghost, I stubbed my toe today, and also no one loves me.”

He reads every mental blip you scream into the void.

And then he slams it shut.

Again.

More Silence. 

Years of it.

You do end up interning at the library.

Age 13:

Puberty.

“So I think I’m dying. Or my soulmate is. Or both.”

Mihawk stands and walks to the wine cellar. Opens the bottle labeled “For Soulmate Emergencies”. 

Pours a glass. “Absolutely not.”

“I got my period today. Is this a shared sensation, or should I send you a warning next time?”

Mid-wine sip. Chokes. Drops the glass. The entire forest around his castle hears the sound of despair.

He began meditating by candlelight, the soft glow flickering like a whisper against the encroaching darkness. But then, like a rogue wave, a hormonal surge hit him, crashing through the bond with all the subtlety of a glittering tsunami. It was a chaotic mixture of frustration, rage, and way too many crushes on fictional characters. The kind of feelings you only get when you’ve been reading too much and can’t decide if you’re emotionally destroyed or just overly horny.

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how this is my life now.”

Age 14:

By now, you’re fully leaning into delusion because it’s all you have.

You’ve embraced it. Leaned into the madness like a warm blanket.

You still call the bond “Soulbeam.” It sounds better than "Psychic Invasion Hour", and it feels more romantic, like you're waiting for some tragic prince to finally cross the distance.

You journal about your imaginary man like he’s a mythic creature, half in jest, half in the hope that someone might believe it. You write about him with all the drama of a fairytale heroine; his soft eyes, his untold mysteries, the way he probably looks in a cape. You paint him in broad strokes, the perfect romanticized version of a man you can’t even meet.

It’s ridiculous. You know it is. But it’s all you’ve got now. So you document your imaginary soulmate's every flaw and glory, carefully cataloging his existence as if he’s a figure in a book, a beautiful, unreachable fantasy.

“Dear Prince Quiet mystery-man, I hope your cape is warm. I’m learning embroidery for our wedding.” PS: Do you prefer pink or yellow for curtains?”

Still, nothing. Not even static. Just spiritual tumbleweeds.

You start assuming:

He died tragically.

He’s a specter.

Or, worst of all, he knows about you and doesn’t care.

Your inner monologue morphs into a full-blown one-woman show. You whisper to the wind like a theater kid who’s way too familiar with the phrase “I’m just misunderstood,” but, worse, like a book nerd who’s read one too many romance novels and is about one tragic love story away from collapsing into a puddle of overdramatic angst.

Elsewhere:

You have feelings. Strong ones. For some bard. You cry. You scream. You throw a shoe at a tree.

Mihawk feels the hormonal flare hit his soul like a cannonball.

“Nope. Nope. This is a divine punishment. I will not engage.”

He adds a second moat around his estate. Trains baboons to intercept mail. Builds a telepathic firewall out of willpower and petty hatred for emotional chaos.

Age 15:

Every once in a while, your voice tries to come through again.

And Mihawk, cold, brilliant, emotionally allergic Mihawk, feels the bond tickle his consciousness with:

“Today I ate three peaches and cried for no reason. Is that… normal?”

He closes his eyes and forces his Haki to mute. At least you’ve lost your penchant for detailing your dreamed romances between the two of you. He’s tired of your mental monologues about him being the sleeping-beauty knight, the lone prince of some tragic story you’ve written in your mind.

“I will not be emotionally blackmailed by fruit.”

He once dueled a Yonko. He once cut a tsunami in half with a single swing of his sword. He once made a man cry from sheer presence. But teenage melodrama? Teenage love fantasies about someone who isn’t even in the same hemisphere? That is what’s breaking him.

It’s absurd, really. But here he is: tired, exasperated, mentally dodging your romantic rants about fruit, your attempts to weave him into some grand fairy tale that he’s long since dismissed.

“I LOVE BOOKS!” You scream it like you've just discovered fire, but instead of warmth, it's an unhealthy obsession with fictional characters who can't text you back.

And yet, despite his best efforts to ignore it, he’s still there. Still listening. Still unwilling to let you go. Because somewhere, beneath the layers of disdain, a part of him is invested in this bizarre, ridiculous game you two are playing. Even if he refuses to admit it.

Unholy. Unmanageable. Unwanted.

Every time you get dramatic, like crying over some village boy who won’t kiss you during festival season, he feels a distant pulse through the bond.

Your heartbreak echoes across the sea like a cursed foghorn. And Mihawk? Mihawk does the only logical thing.

He attempts to remember the spell to permanently silence the bond.

Back to you:

You start to spiral, your thoughts tumbling into chaos like a jar of marbles being shaken up. Everything is slipping through your fingers; your sanity, your grasp on reality, maybe even your sense of self. You’ve had enough of your soul-crushingly silent bond with him, but now you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole of existential dread.

It coincides at the same time your local library runs out of young adult fiction. Of course. You’re stuck with nothing but dusty classics, historical fiction, and some guy named Sir Nietzsche.

You accidentally pick up the book, thinking it’s just some old philosopher, and within ten pages, you’re questioning everything you ever believed in. The world? A dark, cold place filled with nothingness. Your soulmate? A twisted joke, just like everything else. You wonder if he, too, is secretly reading Nietzsche somewhere in the ether, sighing dramatically over the futility of existence.

It’s too much. You’re way past the point of asking for your soul back. You just want to close the door on this whole miserable mental game.

But, no. You can’t. Because, just like with the library books, you're stuck with this: your thoughts, your bonds, and him.

You sigh and shove the book aside, realizing you’re too deep now. There's no escaping it.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t have a soulmate. Maybe the universe gave me a soul void. A romantic absentee landlord. A soul eviction notice.”

Your frustration builds, and you hurl your arms out, gesturing dramatically to the empty air, like it’s the most insulting thing in the world. You start talking to the void, out of sheer spite.

“I bet you have terrible posture. You probably eat dry toast and act like it’s a five-star meal. Maybe you iron your socks like some kind of psychotic neat freak. You know what? I hope you step on a sword facing up. A big one, too. The kind of sword you don’t even deserve. You’re probably the type to judge people mid-bite of a sandwich.”

Still. Silence.

Your heart beats a little faster, not from fear but from a building, bitter sense of ridiculousness. You’ve been yelling at nothing. Nothing that’s listening, at least. You’re pretty sure the bond’s somewhere out there, but it’s as empty and oppressive as ever, like a vacuum that absorbs all your thoughts and spits out none in return.

You let out a long breath, crossing your arms, pacing in circles. “You know what? Fine. You’re probably emotionally unavailable. Maybe you’re not even real. Just some idea floating around in the universe to torment me, like some cosmic joke that I’ve been too dumb to get.”

The silence presses down harder, like it’s taunting you, and you’re done.

You grow convinced your soulmate is:

Emotionally unavailable 

Possibly fictional

Statistically likely to be the worst man alive (You are accidentally right.)

There’s a painful pause before you finally mutter to the void, “If I ever meet you, I’ll be surprised if you’re even human.”

Still, nothing.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t matter. You’re done letting the bond have control over your headspace. You’ve spent too long trapped in the cosmic void, waiting for someone who isn’t even sending postcards.

It’s clear now: your fairy tale dream of princes and seafaring romance is dead. Maybe it was always a stupid dream. Maybe you were just a kid throwing wishes into the stars, hoping one would land on someone with a cape and an absurdly sharp sense of decorum. But reality? Reality’s a bitch with a wicked sense of humor.

You pause, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the moment settle in. You’ve outgrown the idea of soulmates, of “destiny.” Screw fate, screw this soul bond that’s only ever been a reminder of how badly you’ve been ignored. You can’t spend another second waiting for a man who thinks “communication” is a weapon of war, one he’s long since abandoned.

“I’m done,” you mutter to the room. To the void. To whatever’s still listening, which is probably nothing.

Your dream of some grand, seafaring romance—of some mythical, sword-wielding prince who’d sweep you off your feet—shrivels up and dies like a flower left too long without water. You’re no longer holding onto the idea that he’ll come to your rescue, because the truth is: no one’s coming. Not him. Not anyone.

Age 17:

You’ve grown accustomed to the silence. It’s no longer unsettling. You’ve come to accept it, even embrace it, like that one sock you can’t find the pair to, but just keep anyway. The void is just… there. Like an old, familiar shadow that doesn’t judge you for binge-reading romance novels at 3 AM. Sometimes, you speak to it out of habit, though you no longer expect a response. It’s like you’re in a one-sided conversation with the universe, and it’s too busy to even pretend to listen.

It probably helps that you now work full-time at the library, where silence is practically a job requirement. And the books? Well, they don’t talk back, but at least they don’t judge you for talking to yourself.

"You probably read the dictionary for fun," you add, “and then rate it like it’s some high-class wine. 'Ah yes, this page really brings out the notes of 'preposition' and 'conjunction'...'" you mutter one day, tossing a stone into the nearby pond. "And never laugh. Or cry. Or do anything fun. You're probably allergic to happiness."

The bond remains silent, of course. A solid, oppressive wall. It’s just another thing in your life that refuses to engage with your existence.

So you do what every curious young woman does. Things.

Elsewhere:

Mihawk is alone. Reading. A glass of wine in one hand, a polished blade in the other. Entirely unbothered.

Until he feels it.

That snap. That flush of heat across the bond. The unmistakable psychic echo of you going:

“Screw destiny, I’m taking control of my own pleasure for once.”

And his whole body locks up. Wine shatters on the stone floor. The castle trembles.

“…No.”

He closes his eyes. Tries to mute the connection like he always has.

Fails.

He is pacing. And that’s the problem. Mihawk doesn’t pace. He’s muttering to himself, cape flaring like he’s fighting the wind indoors.

“She—why now—she chose this moment? Of all the moments? What happened to journaling? To princes? To dramatic poetry about rain? No. No. I refuse to acknowledge this.”

But he does. Because the bond is alive. And so are your extremely specific fantasies. And he cannot unsee them.

Back to You:

You don’t realize what’s happening yet. But suddenly, you feel… watched?

Judged?

Psychically menaced?

The candle flickers. A cold chill moves through the room. You glance over your shoulder.

“…Okay, maybe not tonight.”

Age 18:

Eventually, you come to terms with it. You’ve been haunted by a spook with an impeccable fashion sense and a crippling fear of emotional connection. It's fine. Really. You’ve learned to live with it, like that one awkward roommate who keeps leaving their shoes everywhere, but you’re too polite to ask them to leave. You’ve got books and some friends. Mostly books, though.

One day, in the middle of a particularly rough shift at the library, you finally snap. “Where the hell is my mysterious phantom husband when I need him!?” you shout, thoroughly annoyed. The nearby librarian gives you a look, but she’s used to your bizarre monologues by now.

In a moment of pure frustration, you smack a late-returning patron with a frying pan (gently, of course, no need to ruin the books) and mutter, “I don’t need a damn soulmate.”

You’d long stopped broadcasting deliberately. You weren’t trying to reach him anymore. It was just... venting. Like singing in the shower or talking to your houseplants—except your houseplants actually exist compared to your ghostly soulmate.

But then one fateful day, you stub your toe on the corner of the coffee table, and the sheer force of your colorful curse causes the bond to flare up. Somewhere across the sea, Mihawk’s wine glass shatters mid-air, and for the first time in... well, ever, he cracks.

“…Fine. I’ll say hello. But only once.”

You: “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?!”

He vanishes in a swirl of cape and roses, because apparently, dramatic exits are part of his "soulmate package."

From that moment on, you can feel it. You’re being watched. Not in a creepy, "I’m lurking in your bushes with binoculars" kind of way, but more like, "I’m perched in my emotional fortress, judging your life choices while sipping my imaginary tea and judging your book choices."

You screech.

SENGOKU, GARP, AND KONG.

He exists. He actually exists.

Like, of course he does. Why wouldn’t your emotionally unavailable Mr. Sea Ghost make a grand entrance right when you’re losing your mind? And here you thought you were just talking to yourself... But nope. Apparently, your elusive, emotionally distant phantom husband has been there all along, waiting to judge you from the comfort of his invisible high tower.

And now it’s clear he’s been doing phantasm recon until you're at least old enough not to use a juice box as a shield. 

You’ve never felt so... tracked. You’re sure that one day, you'll turn around and catch him lurking behind a tree, sipping his wine with a judging glare, and mentally critiquing your posture as you reach for a snack.

Quietly. Judging. Possibly now interested.

Possibly against his will.

Ah, romance.

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 19:

Okay, so your soulmate does exist.

Asshole.

You’ve realized that he’s definitely one of the worst soulmates in history. It’s not just that he’s a wight with a suspiciously good wardrobe (he vibes it) and a penchant for haunting your emotional well-being. No, it’s that he’s the type of visitant who shows up only when you’re trying to have a normal life.

But you don’t hide from him. No. That would imply effort. That would imply fear. And you’re way past the point of letting some cold-eyed, cryptid-in-a-cape, emotionally constipated wraith ruin your self-esteem.

You simply... decline to reach out.

Like a soul who’s unionized, demanding appropriate breaks from emotional trauma. You’re not scared of this poltergeist. You’re just profoundly uninterested in opening your heart to a man who:

Ignored you for over a decade.

Psychically recoiled every time you had a thought that was remotely more complex than, “Wow, clouds look nice today.”

Once accidentally received every single vivid, shameful detail of your first-ever kiss and responded by judging you so hard through the bond that you got psychically bullied. You just thought it was a hormonal downturn.

In retrospect, the impending sense of doom made a lot more sense. You weren’t depressed, you were cursed.

And now? Now you’re mad. Mad enough for a retry.

You lit candles. You were trying to move on. You were dignified, adult, and empowered. But just as things were heating up, somewhere across the Grand Line, Mihawk paused mid-training with the slowest, most dramatic blink.

“…Really? At this hour?”

And you felt it. That sharp, flat slap of his contempt. Not anger. Not awkwardness. Just pure, unadulterated bored disdain, like you were the most minor inconvenience in a late-stage opera rehearsal.

You’re pissed. Like, seething. You’ve spent years talking to an emotional spirit who barely acknowledges your existence, and now you finally summon the courage to put your foot down…and this is the response you get?

“Ah. So Mister Sea Ghost does exist,” you mutter under your breath, as though you’ve just discovered that the universe has decided to bless you with the worst astral gag ever.

His voice slices through the bond, so cold it could freeze lava. "You're more obstinate than I expected."

You don’t even flinch. You fire back, without missing a beat, "And you’re colder than I remember. Still judging people mid-orgasm, or was that a me-only feature?"

There’s a moment of utter, bone-deep silence. You can almost feel his internal eye-roll like a physical force traveling through the bond, so strong you almost choke on it. But you don’t care.

In fact, you almost relish the fact that he’s so ticked off. It’s like a small victory for the soul.

You stand there, stewing in your own indignation, while your soulmate—somewhere out there in his little fortress of icy emotional neglect—probably battles with his own internal conflict. You can almost hear him, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering something about how much he regrets existing in the same universe as you.

You’re beyond giving a damn. You’ve got dignity to salvage.

And besides, it’s not like he actually knows what to do with you, either. It’s a one-sided dance of chaos at this point, and if he doesn’t want to tango, then fine.

You don’t need him.

So, with all the confidence you can muster (because hey, if your soulmate wants to be emotionally unavailable, you’ll just outplay him at his own game), you take a deep breath and mentally shout, "Get lost."

No more messing around. No more waiting for his ice-cold self to finally stop being a spiritual lurker in your life. You’ve got better things to do than entertain a man who critiques clouds and judges your most embarrassing moments.

The silence stretches between you, long enough that you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is the one time it’ll be permanent.

And then, finally, his voice cuts through the bond, thick with irritation and, surprisingly, mild regret. 

"I will not be disrespected like this."

“Really?” you shoot back, leaning into the chaos now. “If you were going to keep being a judgmental wraith, you could at least have some respect for your own mental bandwidth. I’m not your emotional punching bag, buddy.”

And just like that, you shut the door. Not literally, obviously, because you're not physically anywhere near him, but mentally? You’ve slammed that thing so hard metaphorically that you think you might’ve left a dent.

You don’t need him. You don’t. You’ve got your dignity.

"Is there a special class for being this moody when absolutely nothing is happening, or do you just come by it naturally? You’re like the emotional version of a fog bank."

And if he wants to sulk in his silent, censorious stronghold while you live your life? Well, he can knock himself out.

You hear it.

A single exhale.

So faint you think you imagined it.

But it was a laugh.

Elsewhere:

And then, it happens.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

Not a huff. Not a smirk. But a real, startled laugh; low, short, and completely unguarded. The sound is so unexpected that for a moment, Mihawk just freezes, as if the very act of laughing is something his body hadn’t done in ages. It’s the kind of laugh that escapes him without warning, a brief moment of human vulnerability in a world he’s carefully controlled.

He drops the book he’s holding, the pages fluttering uselessly in the air, forgotten. His gaze shifts to nothing in particular, staring into the distance, and for a long moment, he does nothing but process the unexpected disruption.

“…ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, the words somehow filled with both amusement and a strange fondness that he can’t immediately dismiss.

And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t mind it.

That’s it. That’s the crack in his armor.

Mihawk doesn’t get swayed by grand declarations of fate, doesn’t respond to insults or challenges with more than a cold stare or a heavy silence. He doesn’t even react to your complete disregard for the mystery that shrouds him. But you? You’ve broken through all that with nothing but a casual jab, a sarcastic remark thrown his way like a stone skipping across still water. The moment it happens, Mihawk sees it. A quiet shift. A soft, almost imperceptible movement, like a shadow flickering just out of reach.

You’ve made him happy.

It’s the smallest thing, barely audible, a breath of amusement that passes through him before he even realizes it. A chuckle, so unexpected it cuts through the suffocating silence that’s always hung between the two of you.

And in that brief moment, he wonders what it would be like to really know you.

His guard lowers in stages.

First, he listens at night, when the bond goes quiet and he feels the absence of your voice more keenly than he’d like to admit. He’s puzzled by it. It’s just silence, but it doesn’t feel like it should be quiet. Then, he notices when you stop talking. When the bond falls silent for a few hours, a day, or a moment. And, to his own surprise, he finds that he misses it. Misses you. Soon after, he starts remembering the ridiculous things you say. Not the cutting jabs or the sarcastic barbs, but the odd little details that make you who you are.

“She said her kitchen knife collection has a favorite. That one ‘just feels stabby, in a fatal kind of way’.

He remembers that. Oddly, he remembers it with a kind of fondness, even though it’s absurd. Who even says that?

He catches himself waiting.

Waiting for your voice to break the silence again. Waiting for your next ridiculous thought, your next unguarded, human comment that reminds him that you’re more than just an interruption to his well-ordered life.

And most of all, he waits for the next time you, without meaning to, see straight through him. You manage to expose something in him without even knowing it. Something he thought was buried too deep to surface.

He’s listening now. Not just because he has to, but because he wants to.

Age 20:

You stop broadcasting like a gremlin radio station. The shift is subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. You become quieter. Sharper. Focused. The chaotic stream of your thoughts that used to ricochet wildly across the bond settles into something more controlled. Something more dangerous, even. No more wild bursts of sarcastic commentary, no more throwing insults into the void. Now, when the bond hums, it simmers instead of screeches. It’s as though you’ve pulled the reins on a creature you never thought you could control, and yet, somehow, the bond feels more potent, more deliberate.

It isn’t long before he notices.

From then on, it’s a deeply predictable disaster of awkward sword flirtation, long silences, and mutual eye contact held for exactly 0.3 seconds too long. There are moments where neither of you speaks, but the air between you thickens with the weight of things unsaid. Your connection, once a tangled mess of desperate energy, has become something far more complicated. It's like a thread pulled too tight. One that can snap at any moment, but in a way that almost feels necessary.

You’ve never met him. You don’t even know his name. But somehow, you know he’s there. He’s listening.

It’s almost maddening at first. You can’t help but wonder when he’ll speak again. You stop trying to get his attention, stop throwing out your sharp remarks like they’re breadcrumbs meant to lure him out. Instead, you focus. You do your best to act like he’s not there. Like the bond isn’t there.

You’re muttering to yourself, still feeling the sharp sting of your latest rejection. A lord with a scent that could only be described as clove and desperation had just proposed to you, and you had turned him down with a level of dramatic flair that would’ve made anyone proud.

“My soulmate’s obviously a revenant,” you say, tossing a stone into the nearby pond. It skips across the water, barely touching the surface. “Or a weirdo. Or a dramatic loner with too many candles and commitment issues—”

And then?

He answers.

His voice cuts through the bond like a blade. Quiet. Dry. Absolutely him:

“I only have six candles.”

You freeze.

You blink, your hand still in mid-air from the stone you threw. For a moment, you think you misheard him. No way. He’s not responding. He never responds.

“...You’re listening?”

His voice is flat, as though this were some mundane conversation and not the soul-shattering revelation that it is. “Unfortunately.”

The words are out before you can stop them, the astonishment in your voice so clear that even you’re surprised. “You can hear? EVERYTHING?”

“Against my will.”

You can feel him, the weight of his presence pressing against the edges of your thoughts, filling the space with an unexpected, almost tangible coldness. It’s the most alive he’s felt in this bond in... forever.

For a moment, you just stand there, processing the ridiculousness of it all. He’s real. After all this time, all these years of ignoring him, of practically begging the universe to send you a sign, he finally shows up, and in the most unnecessary way possible.

“You’ve matured,” Mihawk’s voice comes again, almost like a quiet, distant comment. “You’re tolerable now.”

“Tolerable?” You almost choke on your own disbelief, completely forgetting for a second that this man, your mystery soulmate, has been haunting you from the shadows for over a decade. “Now you speak?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh ho ho ho. You’re real. And you’re a bastard.” The words spill out before you can stop them, the harsh truth ringing in the air between you.

His voice, colder than ice and sharper than steel, cuts through with no hesitation. “You named your blanket ‘Sir Fluffington.’ I was protecting myself.”

You blink, shocked by the audacity. “You ignored me for twelve years!”

There’s a silence before Mihawk responds, calm and collected as always. “You once cried over a seagull you thought was your cousin. Forgive me for hesitating.”

The mention of the seagull hits you like a punch to the stomach, and you can’t help but laugh. “GHOSTED!” you accuse, the bitterness still fresh.

Mihawk doesn’t even flinch. “I didn’t ghost you. I… delayed engagement.”

“Delayed engagement?” You can’t help the incredulous laugh that escapes you. “You spiritually blocked me for over a decade.”

“…It was necessary.”

You feel the weight of his words in the silence that follows. The bond is no longer just a distant connection; it’s a conversation. A connection. Something more real than you ever imagined. And somehow, you realize, you don’t want to let the moment go. You need vengeance.

You cross your arms, feeling more alive than you have in years. “You don’t get to come back after ghosting me through my entire emotional adolescence.”

Mihawk’s tone is casual, almost amused. “And yet, here I am. You don’t hide very well.”

“I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t even aware I had an audience!”

He leans in, his presence pushing through the bond with the force of a tidal wave. “Even worse.”

“Well, asshole. I’m disinterested now.” You say it like you believe it.

Mihawk tilts his head, that familiar cold glint in his eyes. You’re not sure how you know it, but you do.

“Liar.”

And just like that, the emotional distance, the years of silence, collapsed into a game. A game you didn’t expect. A game you didn’t want, but now you will play.

Because Mihawk? He’s petty.

He doesn’t force his way in. No, it’s far more insidious than that. He slips through the cracks of your defenses with such ease that you almost don’t feel it.

He doesn’t just break in.

He walks through your defenses, sits down, and leaves behind the unmistakable reminder that he could do this any time he wanted.

And you’re left with a choice: figure out how to shut it out, or play along.

Age 21: 

You’re grown. Battle-tested, emotionally disillusioned, and done with waiting for the “mysterious soulmate” who ghosted you harder than your absentee dad and that one traveling salesman who swore he’d come back with mangoes.

Your childhood fantasies? Dead.

Your teenage hopes? Buried.

Your bond? No longer silent as a crypt.

You don’t even know what he looks like. For all you know, your soulmate is a myth. A programming error in the universe’s romantic algorithm. A punishment for being emotionally available too early in life.

And he’s now invaded.

Your Thought Hut™: Formerly Private, Now Haunted

You used to have a perfectly functional internal monologue. Cozy. Chaotic. A safe space where you could:

Complain about the weather (obviously, it’s never good enough).

Think up creative insults for your enemies (did you really just make a creepy face at me, Roger?).

Overanalyze your own emotions (why do I cry every time someone asks about my hobbies?).

Narrate your day like a tragic anti-hero in a play no one asked for (cue the dark, somber music).

It was yours. Completely private. Your safe little corner of the universe where nothing could disturb your thoughts.

Until it wasn’t. Because, every once in a while, right in the middle of your most personal spirals, he speaks. Like a sword slamming into your breakfast table. No warning. No preamble. Just... there.

You, tripping over your own feet: “Ugh, I am elegance. I am grace. I am—falling on my face.”

Him, bone-dry: “Do you duel like that, or only descend stairs?”

You, contemplating your emotional wreckage: “Maybe I am the problem. Maybe I’ve been emotionally closed off because I’m afraid of being known—”

Him: “Or maybe you’re simply exhausting.”

You, when dinner burns: “If my soulmate were real, he’d know I’m suffering. And bring snacks.”

Him: “If you’d used the correct ratio of oil, this wouldn’t be happening.”

You, after a moment of poetic solitude staring at the waves: “The sea understands me. At least someone does.”

Him: “The sea is trying to drown you. Not understand you.”

You try to block him out. You really do. You talk less. You think in nonsense. You hum random songs in your head to fill the void. You even consider creating a mental “Do Not Disturb” sign made of barbed wire and spite. But it doesn’t work.

He still gets in. Not every day. Not constantly. But enough to be annoying. Enough to make sure you know: he’s still there. Still listening and still judging.

Once you get injured. Nothing life-threatening, just a cut or a bump that shakes you more than it should. You cry alone. But it’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. You mutter to yourself, half-laughing to keep it together:

“You’re probably thrilled. One less idiot to keep track of.”

For once, his voice doesn’t come in sharp. It’s... quiet.

“No.”

Just that. One word. A single syllable. But somehow, it lingers. It doesn’t hit you like the usual biting sarcasm. It doesn’t mock you. It’s just... there.

You freeze, blinking at the mirror. But he doesn’t speak again. And yet, that one syllable hangs in the air like a weight.

Later, you’re brushing your hair, glaring into a cracked mirror, your thoughts running a little darker.

“If I die, he'd better feel guilty.”

“I won’t.”

A pause.

“But I’d be irritated.”

You smile, despite yourself. That... almost sounded like interest.

“Wow. That almost sounded like concern.”

“Don’t push it.”

You don’t know his name. You don’t know where he is. You don’t know why the universe stuck you with the verbal equivalent of a gloved slap to the face every few weeks.

But you do know this:

He listens.

And that, somehow, is worse than nothing.

He’s suddenly your uninvited, deeply opinionated mental roommate. The kind that critiques your life choices while contributing absolutely nothing. He’s the emotional couch surfer who eats your snacks and somehow still manages to judge you for it.

And as much as you want to shut him out, there’s something about him that lingers. Like a shadow that you can’t quite shake off, no matter how hard you try.

Age 22: 

Your thought process: a perfectly normal house with a locked door.

Your soulmate: broke in like a nosy cousin, raided your liquor cabinet, and is now judging your life choices from your favorite chair.

You: “This is my mental space. My head. My domain.”

He: [already lounging on the couch with a glass of wine] “You live like this?”

It Usually Goes Like This:

 You: “Please leave.” Him: “No.” You: “Why?” Him: “I’m comfortable.” You: “You’re a soul parasite with a superiority complex.” Him: “You talk to your cutlery like it’s sentient.” You: “That doesn’t mean you’re allowed in here.” Him: “If you’re going to insult me, at least be original.”

And it just gets worse…

You try to meditate. You try to relax. You try to avoid bonding with a human man who is not your psychic wine-drinking punishment.

He interrupts.

Every. Single. Time.

You: “If you sabotage this date, I swear—” Him: “He’s using too much cologne. And his footwork is sloppy.” You: “You can’t see his footwork—” Him: “I know.” You: “GET. OUT.” Him: “Make me.”

At one point, you try freezing him out.

You stop thinking in words. Just walls. Ice. Silence. You go fully passive-aggressive, locking down your mind like a fortress. If he wants to get in, he’ll have to knock harder than that.

For a few hours? It works.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. There’s no voice in your head making sarcastic comments or evaluating your life choices with brutal efficiency. No dry commentary on your every move. It’s like he’s gone.

You start to relax.

But then…

“You missed a thread in your stitching.”

You freeze.

He’s back.

Commenting on needlework now, like a cursed aunt at a family reunion. His voice slices through your thoughts with that same unnerving calm, like he's somehow found the tiniest crack in your ice fortress and slipped right back in.

You hadn’t even realized you were stitching until he had to point it out. It wasn’t even a big deal, just a minor imperfection, something you'd fix later. But the fact that he noticed it? That it didn’t slip past him? It makes you grind your teeth.

You don’t even know how he does it. One moment, it’s all cold and silent, and the next, he’s right there, commenting on your needlework like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. You almost want to throw the sewing kit out the window and scream into the void.

But, of course, you don’t.

You just grit your teeth and mutter under your breath. “Auntie Sea Ghost strikes again.”

“Also, your soup lacks depth.”

You snap.

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD, VELVET NOSFERATU.”

“A stronger insult this time. I almost felt something.”

And he never leaves because: He’s bored, He’s petty, He is mildly invested in your emotional development, though he’ll never admit it. And deep down, some part of him thinks: “If I leave, who will keep you sharp?”

You try begging. You try threatening.

Nothing works.

So eventually?

You just start narrating everything to annoy him.

“Oh, I’m putting socks on now. One’s got a hole. I know that offends your noble sensibilities. You’re probably standing in a doorway again. You seem like the type. Do you own more than one shirt, or is it just one immortal shirt with a vengeance pact?”

Until finally…

You hear him sigh. Long. Sharp. Dramatic.

“You are intolerable.”

You grin.

“And yet. You’re still here.”

“…Petty,” he mutters.

“Exactly. LEAVE.”

Age 23: 

You’re in the middle of trying to live your life. Maybe eating, maybe healing from a fight, maybe just trying to have one private thought, when he slides back in, unprompted:

“You’ve been chewing that bread like it personally offended you.”

You snap. "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? For years—YEARS—you said nothing. Not a whisper. Not a name. Just silence and judgment! And now? Now you’re here every damn day with commentary like you’re hosting some twisted cooking show inside my skull!”

A pause, just so you can wheeze a breath mid-rant.

“Did you get bored? Did you miss the sound of my mental breakdowns? Did you fall in love with the decor? Because I didn’t invite you in. You’re not even helpful! You’re just—just—”

“Your better half?”

Silence.

Then, like the punchline to his own joke: “…Dracule Mihawk.”

You blink.

Because this guy, the one haunting your thoughts like an emotionally stunted soul phantom, is only just now giving you his name? The same man who sighed when you cried at fifteen, mocked your cooking attempts, and only speaks to you when you’re being “tolerable”?

 “…Sorry, what?”

“That’s my name.”

You stare into the mental void. 

“Dracule?”

Pause. He knows what’s coming.

“You mean to tell me you were judging me while walking around with a name that sounds like it comes with a velvet cape and an unpaid bar tab?”

He sighs deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of every sarcastic remark you’ve ever made. Long-suffering. “Yes. I figured this is how you’d react.”

“No wonder you didn’t say it sooner. If my name were a whole vampire aesthetic, I’d hide it too.”

“Are you done?”

“NO.”

He doesn’t leave. Of course not. He listens to the whole roast like a man sitting in a recliner he didn’t buy, in a house he doesn’t pay for, with snacks he didn’t make. You pace. You rant. You bring up the time he judged your taste in flowers but couldn’t even spare a syllable of acknowledgment when you were sobbing alone in the rain at sixteen.

“You—”

“Do you even realize how unfair this bond has been?”

Him: “Yes.”

You: “…And?”

Him, maddeningly calm: “I was waiting until you were worth speaking to.”

You go feral. A full-on growl escapes your throat. “Excuse me?”

But you quiet down after a moment. He’s still there, unfazed.

Now you know his name. Now you know he’s not leaving. But now? You get to judge him right back.

The bond is no longer a cold void. It’s a battleground. A sofa. A long, endless dinner table where sarcasm is the language and your soulmate is just the man at the end with a judgmental stare and the emotional range of a black-and-white movie.

-X-Unexpected Sights-X-

You’re working a quiet librarian job in a minor coastal town. The hum of the ocean outside is the only real noise, the occasional gull’s cry filtering through the dusty windows of the small office. Sorting archive files. Cleaning up old Navy intelligence and shredded wanted posters. Most are faded, outdated, forgotten; records of lives long past, irrelevant to anyone still breathing.

The pile in front of you is no different. A stack of yellowing papers, brittle to the touch, barely held together by fraying rubber bands. You sift through them, filing them into place, scanning for anything that might need attention. Nothing new. Nothing important.

Then, you find it.

A scrap of paper. Almost out of place, as though someone had tried to hide it away. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps by mistake. You lift it carefully, the edges crumbling in your fingers. The paper is yellowed with age, fragile. You can feel the years on it just by holding it, and your curiosity spikes. What’s so important that it would be tucked between two water-damaged records?

You unroll it slowly, trying not to rip it, and there it is.

Young. Grainy. Black-inked. It’s a wanted poster, as old as the rest of the clutter in this room, but it shocks you in a way no other faded page has. The image is of a man with an arrogant profile, his gaze sharp and defiant. And there, beneath his face, the name hits you like a slap:

DRACULE MIHAWK

The words almost seem to leap off the page. Hawk-Eye Mihawk: The Marine Hunter.

You blink, disbelief flooding your senses. 

You read on:

Age: ???No known crew. No known allegiances.Exceptionally dangerous. Considered a duelist of unnatural precision.“Presumed armed at all times.”

The final line leaves a strange weight in your chest. Wanted Dead or Alive.

He’s tall. Lean. Broad-shouldered. Black hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut silk, gold eyes gleaming like coins beneath candlelight. The outfit suits the name, a dark ensemble of black leather and red velvet gone vampire hunting, complete with what can only be a big-ass sword on his back.

You can imagine his hand removing a glove slowly, fingers long and calloused from years of wielding a sword heavier than most men’s dignity.

The dust motes in the air hang still, like they’re holding their breath. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just uncovered something much bigger than this coastal town, bigger than your quiet life as a librarian sorting forgotten pieces of history. It’s like the universe just handed you a secret and expects you to know what to do with it.

You blink again, your breath catching in your throat. “...I’m sorry. WHAT.”

And, of course, right on cue, he shows up through the bond.

Like a cold draft slipping through an unwelcome window, prickling your skin, his presence fills the space with an almost tangible chill. You’re already vibrating with indignation when the bond stirs, like he’s been waiting for just this moment.

“So. You’ve seen it.”

The voice is calm, almost too calm, like he’s expecting this reaction. Like he’s in complete control of the situation, as always.

But you can’t focus on his tone right now. The reality of it is too much: he’s real. The man from the wanted poster, the man whose name you only heard in hushed, fearful whispers, is standing in your mind, making himself at home like an unwanted guest.

You blink.

No fucking way.

“No. Shut up. Not you.”

“It is me.”

The voice is casual. Detached. Like someone trying to sneak into the kitchen at 3 a.m. but accidentally kicking the chair, the scraping sound echoes in the silence.

“You? The Most Wanted Man in the World is also my inner voice with the soul of a decorative gargoyle? No.”

“It is literally my name.”

The voice is casual. Detached. Like someone trying to sneak into the kitchen at 3 a.m. but accidentally kicking the chair, the scraping sound echoes in the silence.

“And I’m naming my next houseplant ‘Whitebeard.’ Doesn’t make it true. What are the odds?”

“I’d say absolute.”

You narrow your eyes at nothing, already painfully aware of who’s responsible for this intrusion.

“You.”

Him, unbothered, internally sipping wine:

“…Yes?”

“You told me your name was Dracule Mihawk.”

“It is.”

You stop breathing for a moment. The words hang in the air like the last few notes of a song you can’t unhear, and your thoughts spiral. The walls of the library close in around you, the books on the shelves suddenly feeling far too heavy, as though they know what’s happening and are silently judging you for it.

You lean against the desk, staring at the cracked, yellowing poster like it's going to answer for itself. Your fingers are shaking. You’ve been pulling at threads for days, and now that the knot is finally unraveling, it’s worse than you imagined.

This is not a game. This isn’t some misunderstanding. The man on that poster—the Mihawk—is talking to you in your head.

You feel like you’re losing your grip on something, but you're not sure if it’s the world around you or the reality you’ve clung to.

“You’re lying.” You hiss, your voice low enough to be a secret. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that my mysterious, emotionally unavailable brain spook who critiques my life plans and once made fun of my inner monologue is actually the Dracule Mihawk. That’s a real person. You are an asshole ghost with opinions and too much free time.”

“I am aware.”

You blink, a sharp laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “He’s six feet tall and kills people with butter knives.”

“Six-six.”

“Oh, good, you’re delusional and insecure.”

“I don’t care if you believe me.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

The bond crackles with that all-too-familiar, infuriating silence, like he’s weighing his words carefully, deciding how much of his charming self to offer. You know better than to expect anything resembling sincerity from him, but the defiance in his voice sets your teeth on edge.

You stand there, tension building, fighting the urge to shout at the bond to make it stop, make him stop. Instead, you clench your fists, the pressure of his indifference pressing down on you.

And then, his voice cuts through again, low and dangerous.

"Dracule Mihawk." The name feels foreign on your tongue, bitter. You toss the paper aside, ignoring the fluttering sound it makes as it falls to the floor.

His words twist through your mind like cold air.

"Yes, it’s my name. And you would do well to remember it."

You scoff, disbelief tightening in your chest, shaking your head as if you can shake off the absurdity of it all. "Nu-uh. No way you’re Dracule Mihawk, infamous Marine-hunter, the one who even I know about. That guy is a WARLORD of the SEAS."

You throw your hands up in frustration, your voice rising with each word, every syllable unraveling a little more of your sanity. "You’re just a menace and a liar! Mihawk’s a real person. A warlord. A swordsman. What are you?"

“Your soulmate.”

You freeze, the weight of his words crashing down on you like a wave. Soulmate. The word feels like a slap, ringing in your ears like it’s something that should’ve made sense, something that should’ve been welcome. But it wasn’t. Not now.

“No,” you mutter, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. "My soulmate died tragically or was raised by seagulls. You are not him."

There’s an almost imperceptible pause, a flicker of something familiar in the bond. A warmth. A strange ache you can’t place.

“I never claimed to be what you imagined.” His voice is quiet, like he’s finally peeling back layers, reluctant but steady. “But I am what you got.”

“You’re a pathological liar with a passive-aggressive tone.”

“You once named your pillow the Sultan of Snooze.”

“AND YET, I have not lied about who I am.”

You can feel him on the other side of the bond, his presence steady and calm like a stone in a raging river. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t explain. He just lets you stew in your confusion, letting your anger simmer until it’s boiling over.

"I am Mihawk, the one and only Dracule Mihawk," he finally says, voice dripping with a nonchalant edge that grates on every nerve you have. "You’d do well to stop underestimating me."

You huff, pacing in small circles, your mind racing in every direction.

"Stop underestimating you? You’re telling me that you are Dracule Mihawk, Marine-hunter, the guy with the goddamn title. But you relax in my head like a lazy cat who refuses to leave the couch, nibbling on existential dread like it's a snack???"

Your frustration is palpable, thick in the air around you, but you know he’s not even remotely fazed by it. That quiet confidence, that unnerving calm, it bleeds into the bond like an uncomfortable chill.

"A title I’ve long since outgrown. But yes," Mihawk’s voice comes in, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. "The very same."

You grind your teeth, a sudden, bizarre mix of confusion and annoyance settling in. "I don’t believe you.”

The bond hums with his presence, something cold and sharp at the edges, and his next words are almost... too calm.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

You freeze. His casual indifference lingers like smoke in your mind, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve gotten in deeper than you should’ve.

"I think you’ve misunderstood the situation," he says, and it sounds like an eerie kind of promise.

There’s something unsettling in his tone now, something that makes your skin crawl even as his words don’t hold the same bite they used to. It’s almost like he’s playing a game, waiting for you to catch on to some piece of a puzzle he’s only showing you in fragments. The more you listen, the more you feel a disturbing, silent pull in the bond.

It’s not just the words anymore. It’s the weight of them.

“Misunderstood?” you repeat, more to yourself than to him, feeling the heavy silence pressing in from all sides. “What, exactly, am I supposed to understand here?”

The bond shifts again, his presence curling around your thoughts like a shadow; quiet, precise, and strangely suffocating. You wish you could push him out, hope you could slam the door in his face, and be done with it. But he’s always there, always waiting, like an uninvited guest who’s already made himself far too comfortable.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and taut, like a wire drawn tight enough to snap. The weight of unspoken things pressed down on your chest, and despite the tension, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mihawk knew something you didn’t. That realization hit you harder than it should have, and you felt it settle deep, like a stone dropped into a still pond.

“This seems like something you should have mentioned before inviting yourself into my head. You know, if you’re actually a WORLD FAMOUS PIRATE.”

A long, quiet pause followed, and you felt the bond stir, his presence cool and unshaken.

“… I didn’t hide it. You just never asked the right questions.”

Your breath caught in your throat, disbelief mixing with frustration. “You’re a grown man! I’ve had this bond since I was eight. You could’ve told me anytime.”

“You were a child.”

“You’re avoiding the part where you are a demon with poor social skills.”

“That assumption wasn’t entirely off.”

The familiar cold presence eased in, settling around your thoughts like an unavoidable chill, a hand resting casually on your mental desk.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You keep talking.”

“You’re a fake. Some weird bounty hunter or cultist with soul bond tricks. You got into my head and started freeloading like a couch surfer with emotional issues.”

“You’re unreasonably hostile.”

“You’re allegedly a war criminal in a cape!”

“Alleged.”

“I hate that you sound so calm about this.”

There was a long silence, heavier than before, pressing down on you from all sides. And then, finally, he spoke again. His words were slower, more deliberate. 

“You’re defensive when cornered. Noted.”

You huff.

“If you’re him, prove it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Show up. Step out of the shadows with your spooky golden eyes and your vampire vibes and stab something accurately.”

“You just described every Tuesday of my life.”

“Again: not helping your case.”

And then, for the first time, you froze.

His words hit differently. There was something more in them. Something raw, something unexpected. A shift in tone that felt… almost human. Almost vulnerable.

“I wanted you to speak to me, not my reputation.”

You freeze.

The simple honesty in his voice broke through the layers of distance you had built around yourself. The mask of indifference he wore so easily faltered, just for a moment. And for the first time, you realized something that made the silence after his words feel like it was pressing into your chest.

He wasn’t just a cold, distant figure. He was real. And, somehow, despite everything, you felt something. Something that made you wonder if the bond was never really about the lies or the distance between you. Maybe it was always about this.

The faintest, guilty apology pressed between decades of stoic silence. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered if you’d gotten more than you bargained for.

He tries to say more, but you’ve already pulled away: emotionally, mentally, entirely. You shove the bond back like a heavy door, forcing your thoughts quiet. There’s no room for him here, not now. Not when you’re finally starting to make sense of things on your own.

He doesn’t push. Not right away.

But he lingers.

You feel it. That cold weight just outside, like a storm pacing the edge of your mind, threatening to break through. For the first time, he doesn’t have a sarcastic reply. He doesn’t taunt you or poke fun at your emotional state. Instead, you hear his voice, low and steady:

"I thought you'd be strong enough for it."

You freeze, the words hanging in the air. They don’t come with the bite you’re used to, the sting of his indifference. There’s something, something different in his tone. Something almost human. But you shake your head, the pressure building again. Not now. You can’t deal with him like this. Not when you’re so close to finally having control of your own thoughts again.

You don’t answer because you’re not ready to believe him. Because if he’s telling the truth, that means your soulmate is real. And he chose to abandon you until it was convenient. And he’s a real-life nightmare who unironically wears greatcoats and has a giant sword he uses to teach manners with.

And you’re not sure which betrayal is worse.

You’ve just spent years with this maddeningly silent, contemptuous presence in the back of your thoughts. A man who didn’t speak, didn’t share, didn’t even offer a name. For over a decade, he was nothing but a shadow of judgment and cold amusement. You assumed he was a repressed outlaw. A cursed monk. Maybe a bird.

The fact that he’s real and has been quietly watching you from a distance the entire time, or the cold realization that he had the power to speak up, to make things right, but chose silence instead. That decision weighs on you like a stone in your chest.

You swallow hard, the weight of it sinking deep. You can’t decide whether to scream or cry or just shut it all down.

So you don’t believe him.

You wouldn’t. You shouldn’t. Not after years of silence and disdain, only for him to suddenly start showing up like an emotionally unavailable gargoyle perched in your skull, and now you find out he’s ‘Dracule Mihawk’,  one of the most dangerous men alive?

No.

Absolutely not.

-X-Strange Happens-X-

You didn’t know what Haki was. Hell, you didn’t even know how to fight. You were just a normal person—scrappy, clever, sharp with your words, maybe—but not a warrior. No mental defenses. No training to ward off the most precise soul-knife of a man to ever walk the Grand Line. You worked in a small-town library, for god’s sake. Your biggest battles were with overdue books and keeping the library quiet. 

And yet here you were, tangled in a bond you couldn’t understand, with a voice that had been lodged in your mind for years.

Snide. Silent. Infuriating at times.

But recently? Lately, that voice had become too present. Too real.

You stare at the old wanted poster again. 

Dracule Mihawk.

The name still feels like an impossible thing to say aloud, something that doesn’t belong to you. But now, in the silence of your own thoughts, it’s there: solid, heavy, undeniable. His name had slipped into your mind like an unwanted guest.

You still weren’t ready to face it. Mihawk? Your soulmate?

It didn’t add up. None of it did. The bond. The silence. The years of torment, his casual indifference to your existence. It had to be a mistake. Or worse, some psychic scammer who’d been freeloading in your head for years, offering nothing but critique and emotional baggage.

But now...

"Tell me your name."

His words come in with a quiet finality, leaving no room for argument. You can’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet. Not when you’re still trying to wrap your mind around what’s real and what’s not.

You sigh.

It’s a long, drawn-out thing that seems to echo in the silence between you, a quiet rebellion against the inevitable. "You don’t get to decide that," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and for a second, you almost think you’ve won. But then you feel it—the weight of his presence, unwavering, unyielding. His patience isn’t endless, but it’s damn close. And you know... he’s not going anywhere.

You rub your temple. "This is insane."

Weeks, maybe months, you’ve spent ignoring his request, turning the idea of sharing your name into the one thing you can control in this unrelenting chaos. You won’t give him that part of you, not after everything.

You feel his eyes, cold and calculating, through the bond, even though he’s miles away. His presence hovers in your mind, lingering, steady. He’s waiting. Pressing. The tension is almost unbearable. He’s asking. But you’re not ready to give. Not yet. Not when you still don’t trust him. Not when you don’t even know who he really is beyond the cold, unyielding voice in your mind.

So you say no with the same tone you’d use to tell a child, “NO CUPCAKE!”

But you can’t make him leave.

“You had years to ask nicely,” you say snidely, crossing your arms in a futile attempt to hold your ground.

He pauses, the silence stretching just long enough to make you question whether you've actually won this small battle. Then, in that voice of his—calm, unbothered, like he’s had all the time in the world—he responds.

“I’m asking now.”

And you swear, for a second, you hear the faintest hint of a smirk in his words. Damn him.

You grit your teeth, feeling the pressure building. This bond, this curse, has become so much more than you ever expected. He’s more than a voice now. He’s a constant. A weight. A presence that refuses to let go, even when you desperately wish it would.

“You don’t get to pop back in like a psychic roommate and demand access to my name, weirdo.”

“You know mine.”

The silence stretches, thick and heavy between you, and for a moment, you think the bond might go quiet again. Then, like the most casual of comments, his voice slides through with that same unnerving calm. It’s almost too composed, like he’s been expecting this moment.

“Ha, nice try, fake swordsman.”

You scoff. It’s not a real challenge, you know it’s not. Still, his words irk you more than they should. The nerve. You treat the bond like a crusty old switchboard, using it when you feel like it, ignoring it when you don’t.

You occasionally blow mental raspberries into it, just for fun. Sometimes you sigh dramatically, whispering under your breath as if to keep the peace, or perhaps ruin it.

And other times, when you're feeling particularly petty, you drop spicy half-thoughts just to see if he’s still listening.

“Oh no. Someone handsome offered me rum and a massage. Whatever shall I do?”

Cue: a wineglass shattering somewhere.

You can’t help the little smirk that creeps up your face. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing you’ve triggered something, even if it’s just in his mind.

You know he’s listening. You know he’s there, waiting, his presence hovering in the bond like a shadow that won’t leave. He knows you’re not hiding. You’re not running.

You’re just… withholding.

It’s like holding up a very pretty, very emotionally unavailable middle finger wrapped in silk.

And that drives him insane because your soulmate is clearly a man who’s used to being the final page in someone’s story. The end boss. The goal. People fight for his approval. They strive for his attention. But you?

You treat him like an unreliable narrator with commitment issues. And somehow, that’s the one thing that gets under his skin.

So he retaliates.

You’re trying to sleep. Or focus. Or just have a single thought that isn’t under surveillance by the man you’re still not convinced is Mihawk.

You’ve locked the bond down tight. You’ve iced him out. You’ve mentally insulated your soul like a paranoid homeowner with psychic blackout curtains. You’ve made sure he can’t slip in unnoticed. You’ve kept him at bay, just at bay. It’s taken effort.

And he’s just there.

No knock. No dramatic flaring. No warning. Just a sudden, soul-chilling presence, like a sword being unsheathed inside your mind.

It’s not the usual invasion. It’s worse. It’s more intimate. More personal. The sensation of him slides through your thoughts like ice cutting through warm water, sharp and cold and completely unavoidable.

You sit up in bed, heart pounding, instinctively reaching out to slam the door on him, to shove him back where he belongs. But it’s too late. He’s already inside.

It’s nothing like the times before. You feel his weight in the air around you. Like he’s right there, just beyond the edge of your awareness, like his eyes are watching from the shadows. You’ve fought this, tried to control it, but now it’s him, and it’s real, and there’s nothing you can do but sit in the sudden, oppressive silence of his presence.

You feel it, but you don’t understand it.

It hits like a wave of stillness. Not threatening. Not loud.

Just this weird pressure in your thoughts, like something is waiting. Something watching. And suddenly, you’re… relaxed? Your chest is looser. The tension you’ve carried for so long, so desperately, starts to bleed away, as if his presence is lulling you into a strange calm.

You stop pacing. You stop fuming. You stop fighting.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe you’ve been holding on to something that doesn’t need to be held. Maybe you’re just tired of guarding everything, tired of pretending this doesn’t matter.

Maybe, just maybe, he deserves one piece of truth.

You hesitate for a moment, but it’s enough. Enough to finally lower your mental shields, to let the walls crumble. You throw up psychic defenses—visualized walls, closed doors, salt lines, sheer willpower—and yet, he walks through them like they’re made of fog.

It doesn’t stop him. He’s in your head. He’s always been in your head.

You sigh, letting your back rest against the cool wall, exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs. There’s no fight left in you, not right now. The mental exhaustion, the constant pressure of the bond, it’s all too much. You finally give in, allowing a surrender, just a small one, barely a whisper of what you’ve been holding in.

“…It’s—”

You almost don’t want to admit it, but the words come anyway. Soft, reluctant, but enough to let it slip through. 

“Okay? There. That doesn’t make you right.”

And then you freeze, the cold grip of realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

“…Wait. NO. NOPE—”

His voice cuts through the bond, calm, infuriatingly controlled: “Thank you.”

You feel your skin burn with embarrassment, a rush of heat flooding your chest. "What the hell was that?!" You lash out, the words a mixture of confusion and anger.

“You gave it freely.”

Your blood boils. “You did something to me. You opened a door without my permission.”

“You were already standing next to it.”

The words escape you before you can stop them. You can feel the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, your stomach churning as you slam the bond shut with all the force you can muster. You lock it down tight, shutting out his presence, slamming the door on him.

Humiliated. Exposed. Angry.

Because he stole something from you! Not with malice. Not even with violence. But with something much worse: MAGIC.

It’s like one of your fantasy books come to life, and this? This was your territory. You were the one who got to decide what parts of yourself to give away, not some brooding, cape-wearing sword enthusiast who seemed to think “sharing” was a one-way street.

That one piece of yourself: your name, the last shred of your identity that you hadn’t willingly thrown into the abyss, was now in his hands. *And you didn’t even get to make a bargain!

You stare at the bond, your mental fist clenched around nothing. You try to imagine the worst. Maybe he’s wearing your name like a necklace now. Maybe he’s polishing it with his sword. Maybe he’s planning to tattoo it on his chest like some kind of bizarre declaration of ownership.

It felt like he picked the lock of your soul with a flick of his wrist, and when you weren’t looking, he walked away with your real name as though it were just a trophy.

And worse? He sounds so damn calm about it.

There’s no anger in his voice. No smugness. Just that unnerving, infuriating detachment, as though what he did was nothing. He doesn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t feel bad. He’s just there, like this was just another Tuesday for him. And somehow, that’s what makes it worse.

The calmness of it, the way he’s so casually infiltrating your thoughts like he owns the place, is maddening. It's not even a victory for him, just a simple fact. And you can’t stand it.

You grit your teeth, feeling your fists clench at your sides. You try to bury your anger, but it's impossible. Not when he's so calm about everything.

Then you hear it. That voice again, sliding through the bond like he’s settled back in for a comfortable conversation.

“You’re not even cool!”

"I’m the world’s greatest swordsman. Did you think I wouldn’t have finesse?"

“YOU MENTALLY VAULTED INTO MY SAFE ROOM AND STOLE MY NAMETAG WHILE I WAS EATING NOODLES.”

The bond crackles with his quiet, mocking tone, and it makes you clench your fists.“You imagined me shirtless twice this week. The line is blurry.”

The audacity. The nerve.

That. That right there is the final straw.

You scream. The frustration rises like a tidal wave, swelling in your chest until you think you might explode. But he’s unbothered. Completely unmoved. That cold, impenetrable presence of his remains steady, unshaken.

You’re in the eye of a storm.

Your thoughts are a whirlwind of rage, confusion, humiliation, and he’s still there, calm, collected, like he’s simply watching the chaos unfold for his own amusement.

Age 24:

You’re in the bath. Alone. Vulnerable. And mentally roasting him like he's the worst TV villain you've ever watched, because, let’s face it, he kind of is.

You sigh, sinking deeper into the water, letting the warm waves of relaxation drown out the mental chaos. Just you, your thoughts, and the peaceful silence.

“He’s not even a real person,” you mutter to yourself, scrubbing shampoo into your hair. “Just a soul-rotted mannequin with tragic hair and a superiority complex. He probably doesn’t even have a heart. Or a libido.”

Silence.

You relax.

You pause, an eyebrow arching as you entertain the thought. “I bet he’s like, in a relationship with his sword. Doesn’t even like women. He’d have done something by now. Right?”

You let the thought sit there, a little too smugly. The image of Mihawk, sitting there like some brooding monk, whispering sweet nothings to his blade, makes you snicker under your breath. It's absurd, and for a moment, it gives you a sense of control. Because this, this is something you can laugh at.

You close your eyes and exhale slowly, your thoughts finally starting to settle. The warm water cocoons you, the tension from the day starting to melt away. The bathroom is quiet, peaceful, and for a moment, it’s just you and your thoughts. No Mihawk. No weird psychic bond. Just some much-needed solitude.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Suddenly, the air shifts. That cold, familiar weight settles into your mind again like a shadow.

You freeze. No. Not now.

“I do enjoy your little theories,” comes his voice, as smooth and unbothered as always. “But you’re wrong.”

You shoot straight up in the tub like a startled cat. Water splashes everywhere as you choke on your own breath, wide-eyed and flustered. You sit up in the tub, water splashing around you, every nerve in your body instantly on edge. "I— what?"

You scramble to grab a towel like that’s going to somehow protect you from the psychic stalker in your head.

There’s no logical reason for it, but you feel it; his presence is there, as calm and insufferable as ever.

“I’m not in a relationship with my sword,” he says, as though this is just a casual conversation. “And I’ve always been... quite interested in women, specifically annoying librarians.”

The words land with a certain unexpected dryness, and for some reason, that makes you squirm.

The words hit you like a bucket of ice water. He says it with such ease, like it's nothing, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s not just in your head anymore, like he’s in your bath, too. Your private space, your peace of mind, all invaded by the actual Dracule Mihawk, who’s somehow decided that this moment was the perfect time to have a heart-to-heart with you.

You clench your jaw, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. Annoying librarians? That's the best he can do? You're supposed to be angry, right? Furious, even. But there's something about his tone, something about the way he speaks without a hint of hesitation, that makes you squirm in the most uncomfortable way.

You grip the sides of the tub, your fingers trembling from a mix of frustration and... something else you can’t quite place. The water suddenly feels too warm, too suffocating.

“Oh, really? Really?” you snap, your voice rising despite your efforts to keep it contained. “What part of me saying you’re a weird, cold mannequin with issues is wrong?”

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, as if he’s measuring his response. Finally, his voice comes back through the bond, smooth as ever.

“You assume because I do not pant like a dog or whisper like a fool that I am not watching. Not wanting.”

You blink, not expecting that. It sends a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks, and you have to swallow hard to keep your composure.

You never thought faux Mihawk would feel anything beyond exasperation and annoyance.

“You mistake silence for disinterest,” he adds, his tone slightly amused, as if this whole conversation is just one big joke to him. “You mistake control for lack.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. Your mind goes blank, trying to process what the hell he's implying. What the hell he’s doing.

And then, in the calmest voice possible, he drops it.

“I have imagined the sound you’d make when you gasp my name. I have thought about it more than once.”

Your heart skips a beat.

Everything stops.

You’re clutching the edge of the tub like it’s a lifeline, knuckles white, the water around you suddenly feeling colder than it should. The rush of his words, that terrifying calm, makes your brain feel like it's melting.

Your soul? It’s screaming in protest, but you can’t seem to make your mouth catch up with the chaos in your mind.

“I—what—you never—”

“No.”

The single word cuts through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, and you can almost feel the edge of it pressing into your skin. “You only think I’m disinterested because you want a man who fawns.”

He doesn’t let up.

“I don’t fawn.” You try to sound composed, but the words feel small, weak against his presence. “I claim.”

Your chest tightens. You want to shout, to say something sharp, to push back. But the bond presses on you with an unsettling force, and before you can even form a proper thought, he’s twisting the knife again, effortlessly.

“And for the record—I am not a statue. Nor one of your fairytale heroes. I won’t be treating you like a princess.”

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Oh, no worries. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

His gaze sharpens, a flicker of amusement hidden behind that impenetrable mask. “You think I’m here for your amusement?”

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much else to do with all this chemistry between us,” you quip, leaning casually against a nearby table, knowing full well you’ve just poked the lion.

“Your idealized fantasy man doesn't imagine the shape of your spine when you stretch.”

Your pulse quickens, skin prickling with the weight of his words, like they’re seeping into you from the inside. Your breath catches, a sharp intake of air, and for a moment, your body is paralyzed, like you’ve been struck by something far too real.

“Your little dream prince doesn't dream of how your throat would sound when you beg.”

You feel your chest tighten, the heat in your face blooming, a rush of emotions flooding through you that you can’t even begin to categorize.

“The creatures you read in your books don’t hunt like I do.”

Your mind spins, spinning out of control, caught in the rhythm of his voice.

“I have waited. With patience. Perhaps too long.”

The final words hang in the air like an anchor pulling you deeper, dragging you under the surface of your thoughts. You try to steady yourself, to stop your hands from shaking, but all you can do is slap a wet cloth over your face and scream into it, the noise muffled by the fabric but no less raw.

Mihawk doesn’t speak immediately, but you can feel him there, unbothered, calm as always. His silence is thick, pressing against you, like a weight on your chest.

Then, just when you think the storm has passed, you hear it.

“Do not question again whether I want you.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. The room spins, your thoughts scatter, and for the first time in your life, you feel like you're losing control of the one thing you've held onto for so long: yourself.

And then, before you can recover, the final words slip in, cutting through your thoughts like a blade.

“Question only how long I’ll wait before proving it.”

The room around you shifts, the edges of your vision blurring. It’s not a dream. It’s not a thought. It’s him—right here, now, with you.

Suddenly, you’re not alone. You’re no longer in the safety of your room, the familiar scent of your surroundings replaced by something heavier, darker. You’re seeing through someone else’s eyes. His eyes.

You’re pressed against a cold stone wall. The air smells like aged wine and salt, the tang of something ancient that lingers in the corners. There’s candlelight flickering, barely illuminating the dim, damp space around you. The fabric of your clothes is torn open, the rough edges brushing against your skin as his hand grips your chin, tilting your head just enough for him to invade your senses.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging down in a motion slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s marking you, branding you.

And then his voice, not just in your mind, but at your ear, low and ragged, like he’s already there with you.

“Pay close attention.”

You can feel it. Every inch of it.

The heat of his breath against your skin, the possessive weight of his palm on your waist, the way his fingers seem to hold you in place. The press of his mouth along your neck, not kissing, not yet, just hovering. Like he’s waiting, enjoying the anticipation.

You don’t understand it. You don’t know how to react.

“If I touched you,” he says, his voice rougher now, “you’d forget every version of your name except the one I gave you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You shudder involuntarily, the raw intensity of his claim sending a flood of heat through your body.

“Do you want to know what I see when you sleep?” His voice cuts through the air, sharp and dark, like a whisper that feels far too intimate. “Do you want to know what I think about when your voice goes quiet?”

Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between desire and horror. You try to pull away, to escape, but there’s nowhere to go. The bond is pulling you deeper, dragging you into the storm that he has created.

You try to scream, to force him out of your mind, but the vision only grows stronger.

Your hands are on his chest now, trembling, desperate. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, hear the soft, restrained sound he makes in the back of his throat, like he’s holding himself back, barely controlling the storm inside him.

And then you stand bolt upright in your bath, spilling water everywhere.

The sudden motion catches you off guard, and you gasp for air, your skin clammy, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as if you’ve just sprinted through a thunderstorm. Your heart is racing, and it’s all you can do to hold onto your thoughts.

“Mihawk,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and breathless. “What the hell—”

“You wanted proof.”

His voice slides into your mind, calm as ever, cutting through the chaos.

“You think I feel nothing? I could show you a hundred things that would make you burn.”

You swallow, your pulse quickening. 

“This was restraint.”

You throw a soap bottle across the room in frustration, your hands trembling as you try to regain control. You can’t process what just happened. You can’t even think straight.

“You violated my mind,” you snap, your voice shaking with anger and confusion.

“You said I didn’t want you.” His voice is still smooth, as if he’s not even slightly bothered by your outburst.

You cover yourself with a towel, red-faced, furious, and something else—something dangerous—lurking in the pit of your stomach. Something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“I showed you what true want looks like.”

You clench your fists, your chest heaving with a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. You want to fight him. To argue. To shut him down once and for all. But a part of you knows you can’t.

There’s a long pause, an agonizing silence that makes your heart thud louder in your chest. And then, finally, his voice. Low. Calm.

“Next time,” He murmurs, voice low but firm, “I’m making you beg. And I’ll be the one with a book, lecturing you.”

The bond goes silent, leaving you trembling in cold air, your heart pounding, and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts you can’t quite control.

Elsewhere:

Inside Mihawk’s head is the ongoing epic of eternal suffering.

He doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need softness. He’s never asked for those things.

What he does need, what he longs for, with a desperation he refuses to acknowledge, is five uninterrupted minutes. Five minutes where he doesn’t have to hear the constant flood of your thoughts. Five minutes where he isn’t trapped in your mental whirlwind, where he can have a single moment of peace without you mentally debating the politics of kissing someone with a mustache.

It’s maddening.

Mihawk is a man of patience. Of discipline. His entire life has been built on control. Control over his blade, control over his actions, control over his thoughts. He’s spent years honing himself to perfection, shaping his mind into something sharp, precise, like the edge of his sword. He’s never needed anything more than that.

But you?

You’ve managed to unhinge it all. All of it. Simply by existing in his mind.

You, with your distracted, erratic thoughts, your endless stream of overanalyzing, your sudden jumps from one topic to the next without rhyme or reason. You’re like a feral ball of energy with anxiety wrapped around every thought, bouncing from one question to another, never settling. And no matter how hard he tries to concentrate, it’s impossible to ignore you.

One moment, he’s lost in his own thoughts, strategies, training, and the plans he’s meticulously crafted for years.

And then there you are, wondering if your favorite color is really as important as you thought, if cucumbers are technically a fruit, and no, you didn’t just think about kissing someone with a mustache.

And yet, he can’t escape it. He has to hear it. The quiet, constant hum of your mind, like an unfinished symphony playing in the background of his every waking moment. It never stops. He hates it.

But there’s something else there, something unsettlingly fascinating about you. Something that keeps him tethered, keeps him from slamming the door to this ridiculous, chaotic bond.

Because for all your chaos, your incessant mental chatter, and your complete disregard for his peace of mind, there’s a strange allure in it. A part of him—one he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself—finds himself waiting for your next thought, your next outburst, the next wild tangent that takes you away from the seriousness of everything else.

You are the only thing that ever disrupts his perfect control. And somehow, that makes you all the more... compelling.

But still, the tension builds, unbearable, nagging at him like a constant itch.

“Five. Minutes.”

He’s had enough. His patience has worn thin, but the temptation to break his composure is almost too strong to ignore. He could.

“I could kiss you so precisely you’d forget every man who ever looked at you. I could carve pleasure into your throat with my name alone. I could use my hands like instruments. Not to undress you. To ruin you. Slowly. With reverence.”

The words land heavy on the air, slow, deliberate, almost too much.

His voice weaves through the chaos inside your mind, cutting through your scattered thoughts with unnerving precision; sharp, deliberate, almost too calm.

He could.

Grip the back of your neck like it was his to claim, a possessive hold that leaves no room for resistance. He could lay you across black silk and never raise his voice, only your standards, until the very air between you shifts, heavy and expectant.

He could speak only once, low and final, and watch you shatter with a single word.

He could make you beg without ever laying a hand on you.

But instead?

You’re currently imagining what he’d look like in a cowboy hat. You’re thinking about cats in little boots. You are thinking of other pirates. 

And that, of all things, is what twists in his gut.

You are, in his words:

“A walking contradiction—an unsolvable riddle wrapped in soft hands and frivolous thoughts.”

He’s helplessly intrigued. And he hates that he wants to solve you anyway.

“Stop thinking about grilled cheese. Stop wondering if seagulls pair-bond. Stop thinking about Benn Beckman. He’s not me.”

The words slice through your thoughts, sharp and pointed, like ice chiseling its way through the storm of your mind. His voice isn’t angry, it’s just there, unwavering and direct, commanding the space in your head like it owns it.

“Just... breathe. Sit still. Be worthy. And I will show you things no man could dream of offering.”

The calm in his voice almost makes it worse. There’s a quiet authority behind every word, a silent promise woven into the spaces between his sentences.

You can feel him now. His presence is suffocating; always there, an unshakable weight in your thoughts. His gaze presses against your mind like a physical thing, impossible to ignore, far too present.

“…You’re thinking about cats in little boots again.”

The frustration pulses through him like a crackling storm. “You’re lucky I’m even bonded to you.”

The irritation in his voice is masked by the quiet amusement, but you feel him so close, so insistent, cutting through your thoughts with perfect clarity.

You cringe. You don’t want to think about cats in little boots. But here you are, trapped in his attention, unable to escape, unable to stop.

“I could’ve had a sweet carpenter husband. A dog. A porch swing.”

You chuckle, but it’s not the lighthearted laugh it should be. It’s twisted, tangled in the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid between you. A bitter laugh. One that feels like a release, but also like the air’s been taken from your lungs.

And then, without hesitation, his voice slides into your thoughts again, low and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for you to admit it.

“You don’t deserve a porch swing. You deserve to be pinned to the wall and read like scripture.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your breath catches in your throat. You trip over your own thoughts, your pulse quickening, a rush of heat flooding your face. You’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else. Maybe both.

“What?” you breathe, unable to keep the confusion and something else from rising in your chest.

He sighs, exasperated. The sound cuts through your mind, filled with a mixture of admiration and something raw. Something that makes you feel exposed, like he’s peeled back a layer you didn’t even know was there.

“You see? Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

Your mind spins. The words make your head reel, but the confidence in his voice makes it worse, makes it feel real. Too real.

“But no cats in boots.”

-X-Branching Out?-X-

You had a plan. A beautifully petty, completely unhinged, desperation-fueled plan to rid yourself of the relentless, mind-numbing chaos that had become your existence.

Step one: Find a perfectly attractive, fully consenting, not a psychic sword-wielding cryptid man. Step two: Seduce said man. Step three: Break the soulmate bond by committing the age-old act of physical defiance: horizontal cardio, maybe some nice hair-pulling.

It wasn’t about romance. It was about peace. Quiet. An hour where your brain didn’t feel like it was being sharpened by a murder monk with control issues. The idea of real, uninterrupted silence. Without Mihawk’s voice invading your every thought, without his smirking commentary. It was enough to make you feel like you could breathe again.

Sex.

You knew it was unhinged, but what else was left? What other choice did you have when the mental cage you’d been stuck in for years had become unbearable?

You needed peace. So, you picked a target. Someone uncomplicated. Handsome. Local. Alive. No swords in sight.

A nice, normal man who wasn’t bent on dominating your mind.

Great smile. Even better eyes, soft and warm. Everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving until now.

You could already feel the weight lifting, just by thinking about a night without Mihawk’s presence hovering over your thoughts.

You lit a candle. The soft flicker of the flame felt grounding, almost soothing, as you took a deep breath. Your heart raced, though, as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

For once, this would be your choice. Your decision. You’d finally found a way out.

You made your move.

But as you reached for the door, a single thought threaded through your mind. One voice, low and impossibly calm, cutting through your confidence like a blade:

“No.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a request. It was an order, one that reverberated in your skull, sinking deep into your bones. Your breath caught in your throat, a shiver of something both dark and maddening rushing through you.

The bond had never felt this loud before. This forceful. His presence, once a quiet annoyance in the back of your mind, was now an undeniable command. He had crossed the line, stepping out of the shadows and slamming his authority against your will.

You flinched. Your date blinked, confusion flashing across his face as the room suddenly shifted. The candle flickered, its soft flame dancing for a moment before—by some unseen force—it was snuffed out, leaving you in the dark.

Your heart raced, the tension in the air growing thick, suffocating you from all sides. Mihawk’s presence in your mind tightened like a vice, smug and unrelenting. You could almost feel him, a cold, invisible force swirling through your thoughts, tightening his grip on your every move.

And then came the commentary; uninvited, unwelcome, and cutting through the fragile thread of your focus like a blade:

“His hand placement is sloppy. He smells like regret. Are you actually going to let that jawline near you? That’s the chin of a tax fraud. Pathetic. I could undo you with a look and a leather glove.”

You fought it. You tried to ignore him. You leaned in closer, closing your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace. Your date, still unsure, placed his hand on your waist, hesitant. It was just a simple touch, just a normal kiss. 

“That hand moves one inch lower, and I will dismember him.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You choked. Literally. Mid-kiss. The world seemed to stop. Your date pulled back, eyes wide with confusion and concern, his face a mixture of disbelief and alarm.

“Are… are you hearing voices? Like soulmate stuff?” he asked, his voice trembling, his face pale. You could feel the heat in your cheeks as Mihawk's influence weighed heavily on you. 

“Yes,” you hissed, barely able to hold back your frustration. “And he’s an asshole.”

And there it was, the smirking satisfaction that Mihawk never failed to bring with him. In the back of your mind, his voice whispered, smooth and cold, like velvet over broken glass.

“Also,” Mihawk continued, without an ounce of remorse, “I know where this man lives. His mother gardens. I will salt the soil.”

You shrieked into a pillow, the sound muffled, but not enough to hide the complete mortification coursing through you. Mihawk’s casual cruelty stung more than you wanted to admit. The complete absence of empathy in his voice, the sharpness of his words, left you frozen.

Your date, now visibly horrified, took a cautious step back, eyes wide with panic. "I—uh, I think I should go."

"Good idea," you muttered, unable to meet his gaze, still too raw from the invasion of your thoughts. Your date, with what could only be described as the fear of God in his eyes, excused himself quickly, leaving the room with a shaky goodbye. You could practically feel him racing out the door.

The next day, Mihawk was smug. You could feel it all the way across the sea. His presence, cold and unyielding, filled your thoughts again like a shadow, casting its weight over everything.

You could almost picture him, sitting back in some dark room, swirling wine in a glass, completely at ease. You knew it well enough now: Mihawk, with all his quiet arrogance, was mentally filing away blueprints labeled “Plan B: Possessiveness.”

You tried again. And again. Same result.

Every time you so much as thought about someone else touching you, his voice tore through your mind like a banshee armed with fencing commentary and relationship ultimatums.

You could practically feel his smug satisfaction as it reverberated in your skull, like his very thoughts were carving paths into your brain, suffocating all other possibilities. It was maddening.

When asked why you were drinking on the roof, you just muttered, “I’m being held hostage by a man in my head who thinks monogamy is enforced through psychic terrorism.”

Your friend nodded, passed you the sake, and said, “At least yours isn’t a cook.”

At first, you thought the other things were a coincidence.

A gentle flirtation with a local shipwright? He tripped walking away and broke two toes. An amiable chat with a traveling bard? His instrument exploded, the sound so sudden and violent that it made everyone in the vicinity jump. And then there was the marine lieutenant. He was trying to help you off a dock, his hands on your waist in a too-familiar way. The moment his fingers brushed your skin, he screamed. Dropped like a stone. Convulsed. His eyes were wide with terror.

No marks. No wounds. Just pure, unadulterated agony.

And there, in the back of your mind, you knew. You knew.

Because somewhere, far away, tied to your soulmark like a bloody signature, Mihawk was watching. Using that stupid black magic you knew he had.

And laughing.

Not loud. Never loud. It was always a soft chuckle, a smirk that rippled through the bond with the same unsettling calm that he always wore. That soft, smug mental chuckle that raked across your nerves like velvet over broken glass.

“I didn’t kill him,” Mihawk’s voice whispered into your mind, impossibly calm. “You should be grateful. The urge was considerable.”

You screamed into your pillow, the weight of his words cutting into you. That sickening feeling of helplessness, knowing that somewhere, deep down, he was always there, always watching, always controlling.

It got worse from there.

Every time someone so much as glanced at you with prolonged interest, the air around you thickened. It was slow, heavy, and suffocating, like a shadow descending too quickly, too dark. The pressure would build, suffocating your thoughts, until something bad happened.

A cracked rib.

A pulled muscle.

A debilitating charley horse at the worst possible moment.

You felt like you were losing your grip, like you couldn’t escape the invisible force that hung over you every day. You hated it. Hated him. The constant, omnipresent weight of his influence.

“Stop injuring people, you petty knife rack!” you shouted mentally, desperate, the anger clawing its way out of your chest.

And he—of course he—was utterly unmoved.

“If they valued their lives, they’d keep their eyes to themselves.”

You tried. You tried to explain the simple concept of consent. Boundaries. Reason. You yelled at him, vented your frustration, but he simply countered with the same cold logic that had been his hallmark for so long.

“I have never interfered with your choices. I only correct the foolish who imagine they had one.”

The words made your blood boil, but it wasn’t enough to break through his calm, calculated demeanor. His indifference was maddening, and yet it was what gave him such power over you.

You threw a chair. The loud crash echoed through the room, the sound sharp and jarring against the walls of your mind. Mihawk, from his distant perch in your thoughts, just complimented your form. It felt like a mockery. The very thing you had been trying to fight off (the control, the manipulation, the presence) had become so pervasive, you couldn’t escape it.

Now, most people won’t even stand within ten feet of you without checking the sky first. Your reputation has taken on a life of its own. You’re known as “the cursed one,” and, most depressingly, “Miss Librarian, please don’t smile at me, I have a family.”

It’s absurd. And yet, there’s something in your chest that twists when you think about it.

You’re not even sure if you should laugh or scream.

You’re definitely going to fight him when you meet him. If he ever lets anyone get that close to you.

But for now, with your heart still racing and your mind still at war, you can’t help but mutter, “You’re not even my type.”

And, almost immediately, you feel his presence in the bond again. He’s there, waiting, his cold, unfazed calm bleeding into your thoughts like ice.

“I like emotionally present people. With basic communication skills. Who aren’t legally classified as bladed weapons.”

Your words are sharp. A declaration. But it doesn’t seem to faze him.

“So not the world’s greatest swordsman?” he asks, his tone completely unbothered. You can practically feel the smirk, the satisfaction radiating from him, knowing he’s pushed you further than you’d ever admit.

You grit your teeth, and your mind spins with the frustration, but somehow, there’s a strange sort of pull. Something dark and undeniable that keeps you tethered to him.

The frustration simmers in your chest. “Seriously. If you were actually Mihawk, why the hell would you waste your time teasing some random nobody through a soulbond you’ve ignored for years?”

You wait for his usual biting response. The sarcasm. The sharp retort. The unmistakable sting of his presence in your mind. But instead... nothing.

And that? That’s worse. The silence lingers, heavy, suffocating, filling your mind with its oppressive weight. You can almost feel it pressing against you, like an invisible hand gripping your chest.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“If you would just… sit still for five minutes.”

As if that’s your fatal flaw. As if you’re the one at fault. Not the fact that his voice has tormented you for years. Not the way his cold, calculating presence threads through your thoughts like some twisted, invasive force, stitching together moments of torment.

Not the way he sends you sensory simulations of what “patience tastes like”. Which, apparently, involves mahogany desks, silk ties, and being pinned against a wall at sunset, unable to move, unable to escape.

You are the chaos. The disobedient spark that refuses to sit still, to be tamed.

And because of that, he plans. Oh, how he plans.

Dracule Mihawk. The stoic warlord, the emotional void, the sword-saint with a soulmark that binds you to him, and has conjured strategies for you. His mind is sharp, a finely honed blade, and his strategies are precise and meticulous. He waits for the moment when you finally stop squirming, when you stop snarling, stop stomping off every time he thinks “mine” just a little too loudly.

If you just sat still for five minutes? He could unbutton your coat with two fingers and a glance. He could press you back against a wine barrel and make you forget your name, your crew, your very mission. He could kiss you with the kind of terrifying precision that ends nations. Not with passion, but with intention.

He could use his voice. Not the cold, clipped one he always uses. No, the low one. The one that slips into your skull like molten honey at midnight, when your defenses are down, when the bond pulses with a frantic rhythm, and your soulmark burns like a warning bell.

“Five minutes,” he says again, his words curling around your thoughts like silk, slow, deliberate, intentional. “I wouldn’t even need five. But I’d take them.”

The weight of his words presses against you like a physical force. You slam a pillow onto the floor in frustration. Your heart is pounding. Your mind is a riot of conflicting emotions.

Your neighbor, ever the observant one, watches as you collapse onto the couch. "You having nightmares?" they ask, their voice filled with concern.

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you slump deeper into the cushions. "No, I’m not having nightmares," you mutter, your voice thick with exhaustion. "I’m having well-lit, fully choreographed mental war crimes from a man who says things like, ‘Hold still, darling. I’m aligning the moment."

You try to focus on anything else. You’ve taken to running drills, to burning off the restless energy that gnaws at your body. Anything to escape the suffocating grip of his thoughts.

But Mihawk? He knows. He knows every time you try to fight him. Every time you try to block him out. Every time you mentally scream, or imagine kissing a fisherman, just to escape the suffocating hold he has on your mind.

And each time, he responds with that same calm, smug satisfaction.

“Sit still,” he murmurs, his voice laced with satisfaction, as though he’s already won. “Or don’t. It makes no difference. I’ll have you either way.”

It’s suffocating. You haven’t known peace in years. You’ve become a woman possessed, consumed by a bond you never asked for, that you’ve tried to break at every turn. But Mihawk? He’s always there, watching. Waiting. With every passing moment, his grip only tightens.

@cupc4keics @eravariety @prorpy @sagyunaro @annieayuu @dearlymrme @alexicasa @selimaginary @mort-alicious @hephaestusx666 @sporkslol @verdantwyrmcat @ithoughtthinks @thatchickwithfoodintheback @orioncipher @wontknowbetter @cap-lu20 @nin-dy-tro @hiimhappysblog @panchadaara @uraritychain @mu5hro0m @dead-cipher @thecreativewayyysss @savvinion @svalrost @la-dee-dumb @mollys--stuff @wrens-versus-the-world @andreasaintmleux76 @ari200027 @ezzydantes @i-goon-to-doffy @littlebluepixxie @opscoups @estarosa34 @trouble-sistar @hisokas-fav-minor

[dreamlandcreations]

OPLA men - I licked it so it's mine

Shanks / Mihawk / Zoro / Sanji x Reader

this is @justnerdystuffs' fault idea with a little twist here and there and it has been sitting in my drafts for ages 🫣

Warnings: implied mutual pining, idiots (all of them), fluff, kissing, implied relationship afterwards and other stuff , height difference, not proofread (I just wanted to finish something finally 😭🤧)

• Shanks masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

It's been weeks since you have had a decent meal.

After such a long time, you finally landed on an island with a nice-looking bar where the rest of the crew could celebrate whatever excuse they could come up with for drinking and partying. You couldn't care less at the moment.

You had half the menu ordered, knowing full well some of the guys would join in on the feast whether you invited them or not. And that was fine, really, until they tried to take a bite of your steak. Roux was indeed lucky not to lose a hand.

However, your dearest captain had no such self-preservation instincts. You were on very good terms with the man, Shanks was easy to get along with, but he could be such a child sometimes.

He was sitting right next to you and he moved in the moment you turned your head in the other direction to look at some stunt Yasopp was trying to pull. You turned back just in time at the sound of the fork being stabbed into meat.

You moved fast, but not fast enough. The red-haired manchild took the last piece of your steak and quickly licked it from bottom to top, grinning at you with sauce staining his cheek right from under his scars all the way to his chin.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I licked it so it's mine."

From the other side of the table Ben was watching the scene in morbid fascination, ready to save his captain from certain death once again and he didn't like the sinister grin slowly pulling at your lips.

"Hmm," you leaned closer as Shanks put down the food on his plate, reaching for a napkin to wipe his face before you grabbed his hand, yanked him closer, gripping his chin in your other hand, you slowly licked the sauce off the side of his face before you pulled away and smirked at him as you claimed, "I guess that means you are mine now."

The room turned silent, all eyes on you two, as Shanks regarded you with a strange expression, and Ben stood still right where he jumped up when you launched for the captain, while you just stared at the man before you with slowly widening eyes as you just realised what you have done.

Before you could pull further away, Shanks quickly lifted you from your chair, making it tumble back as he pulled you into his lap with his smile quickly returning but with a new warmth to it, and you already knew you were in trouble before you heard what he had to say.

"Yours, huh?" he asked, cupping your cheek gently as he leaned in impossibly close, playfully nudging your nose with his and whispered, "I think I like the sound of that."

Steak forgotten, the crew's cheering ignored, you kissed the grinning idiot and you could't help but smile into the kiss too.

Ben in the background collapsed back into his chair, grabbed a large bottle of rum, and took a big gulp, already dreading what these two will put him through together.

You didn't know how Shanks convinced the swordsman to stay for the celebration but you were having fun watching your captain get on his nerves and when you saw the opportunity to join in that fun, you just had to do it.

There was no shortage of alcohol but Dracule Mihawk has a certain taste and you knew he would go for the good stuff, so you acted as soon as he got up from his seat from next to Shanks.

You took your time to pour out the remaining wine from the last, almost empty bottle and waited until the warlord got close enough that you could tease him without too many witnesses.

He towered over you somewhat menacingly, slightly raising his eyebrows expectantly as his gaze travelled down to the glass in your hand and back to your face in a meaningful motion. You were not intimidated in the slightest though.

On the contrary, you faked innocence as you mimicked his gesture before locking your gaze with his and letting your lips pull up into a little smirk then you lifted the glass and slowly dragged your tongue around the edge of it.

"I licked it so it's mine." you stated cheerfully and shrugged at his almost unperceivable widened eyes that betrayed his surprise or anger. Definitely disbelief, you decided.

Following a tense silence, a rare smile graced his lips, and you stopped breathing for a moment as he leaned in closer. 

"Is that right?" he murmured. His usually bored tone a mix between amusement, mocking and challenge.

Mihawk didn’t wait for your response but took a hold of your chin and smashed his lips against yours just as you gasped, and he took the opportunity to immediately deepen the kiss and lick into your mouth, letting you taste the wine he has been drinking throughout the night and you had no opportunity to sample because you dropped the glass as soon as his lips touched yours.

He didn't seem bothered by the pricey drink going to waste or you knocking down his hat as you desperately reached out and hang onto him by his nape while you tried to keep up with his maddening, passionate, slow, seductive kiss that made you feel like the room was spinning around you.

He pulled away just as abruptly as he started the kiss but he didn't let you go while he regarded you with a smug expression.

"I believe that makes you mine." When you failed to reply, he faked thinking about it for a second, then his smirk returned and he added, “Hmm. Perhaps I’ll have to be more thorough with my claiming.” before capturing your lips again and lifting you up into his arms to take you away somewhere private to make good on his promise.

Luffy claimed most of the food as you sat down, and he did it in the most disgusting but interesting way possible. He stretched his tongue out and licked over all the plates at his half of the table, grinning as he yelled excitedly, "I licked it! So it's mine!"

A moment of horror passed then everyone dug into (the safe part of) the feast. Everyone, except the green haired menace next to you.

Zoro collected both bottles of wine to himself opening them and storing them on his other side, even though he knew that was the only drink you'd find acceptable and it was pretty much all the same to him as long as it had alcohol in it.

He didn't react to you theatrically clearing your throat as you turned to him so you kicked his leg with a force that made him jump up a little.

He looked at you with surprise that quickly turned into annoyance then a wordless challenge. When the silent staredown didn't end with his win he sighed and reached for both bottles, and he extended one of them towards you but pulled back before you could grab it and went to lick over that bottle opening and then the other. Smiling at you in triumph as he said,

"Heard the captain. Rules are rules!"

Huffing at the audacity, you waited until he raised a bottle to his lips and hit the bottom, tipping it so he would spill the wine on himself.

He stood abruptly, making the chair almost fall over as you laughed.

The others' only reaction was a look in your way, they were used to your antics by now, they expected a fight as soon as you sat down beside the ex pirate hunter.

What no one, including you saw coming was your next move. Your eyes followed the droplets of wine dripping down Zoro's neck as he tried to dry his shirt with a napkin. It was all in vain, the fabric was soaked through.

You blinked a few times, trying to gather some sense into you, and obviously failing as you batted away his hands, produced a knife and slit his shirt open in a flash. Then, as you stood up you licked over his toned abdomen and chest, all the way up to his jaw before biting him teasingly there.

He blinked rapidly, taking in a staggering breath as he looked down at you, fixing his gaze on your now wine red lips. You licked them to savour the taste then you took the other bottle, sauntered over to the door and paused, looking back at Zoro with a challenging eyebrow raise before you left.

"Huh," was all he said before he followed you to your room.

You narrowed your eyes at Sanji, eyeing him with growing annoyance as he ate the rare bite-sized food that was gifted to you as the last creation of the chef who the cook obsessed over for the entire week. He moaned and swooned over the taste as you clenched your teeth together, trying to come up with an appropriate revenge.

Sanji looked at you with innocent eyes, smiling sweetly as he ased, "What?"

You looked down at the empty plate pointedly and then back at the thief just in time to see him shrug. "You know the rule, I licked it so it's mine."

Your body moved before you could think it through, grasping his chin with one hand, brushing away his hair from his face and grabbing him by the back of his head with your other hand as you quickly licked the side of his face and pushed him back a little as you stepped back. There, the gesture says.

Waiting for his disgusted reaction, you started to grin, satisfied with your little revenge for now, at least for a moment or so because he didn't react how you thought at all.

He seemed to be frozen in place except for his slowly widening eyes, then he gasped, giggled, and turned to you with a grin, exclaiming loudly that, "I'm yours now, no takebacks!"

You huffed at the ridiculous train of thought and turned to leave but he hugged you from behind, nuzzling into your neck, arms circling around your waist and you couldn't help but smile as you sighed dramatically but placed your hands on his, letting him pull you into an even tighter embrace that you would be trapped in for a while.

• Shanks masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

• Taglist •

[kaivenom]

Hey same person who asked for OP DILF x MILF reader

How about them reacting to MILF reader having a kid? (Even funnier if it was like luffy or zoro lol)

OP DILFS dating a MILF who has a kid

Characters: Mihawk, Doflamingo, Crocodile, Smoker,Shanks.

A/N: Two things. First one: i love this, i really had a good time writing it, you have great ideas my dear anon. Second one: exams are finally oveeeer, so i would be trying to update more than usual to get all the requests out of the hoven for everyone.

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

After taking care of Zoro and Perona, he thinks that he is ready for everything.

One day you were both on the kitchen and he like ussual is reading paperwork.

"It looks like the new generation it's going strong, this kid seems a good swordsman." he shows you the picture.

"Drac, i think it's time for us to talk." he almsot felt fear for a moment, "that kid it's mine, not like you and Zoro, literally that is my son." his mind exploded, you never saw him that concerned.

"And when will you have said this to me?"

"I am telling you now... you know how difficult it's to date at our age, especcially being a woman who already has a kid?" he nodded and pushed you closer, "i planned on telling you soon, i just, didn't know how, i was expecting something like this to happen to have the oportunity to tell you.

"You are lucky i already have practice with that green haired boy... call him, we can set a dinner and i can meet him formally, maybe even bond?" you coudln't help but smile and kiss him.

Donquixote Doflamingo

He already has experience with children since he literally adopted a lot of them.

One day someone robbed on the royal treasure chamber of Dressrosa and he was furious, he was looking for you to help him relax.

"My dove, i need some of your assistance on my d..."

"And when i tell you i date someone your best idea it's to rob him? you are lucky i found you and your stupid friends before he did? and.... " you finally became aware of his presence, but his eyes were already glued to the teenager.

You grabbed your child by the collar of the shirt and went to the door, your previous angry look bacame softer seen how Doflamingo's eyebrows were frowning.

"This is my son... i called him to Dressrosa so you could finally meet him but he decided to 'prove you'... i dont know what was on his mind. I have the treasure located and coming back to the chamber."

"You have a child." Doflamingo looked at the verge of an aneurysm, gritting his teeth.

"I do, please, don't punish him... i thake the responsability." his lips curled in a strange smile, like he was trying to fake it.

"I am honored to meet your son, it's impressive to know how skilled he is, maybe he can join court..." clearly Doffy was having a hard time trying not to kill you son.

Sr. Crocodile

Experience 0, oblivious 100%

He was on his office, doing work and you appeared with your son.

"Croc..." he turned the chair and looked at you both, "dear, i told you i don't need more agents... i don't know how you contacted someone with such a high bounty but i don't need it." and he turned the chair again.

"This is my son..." Crocodile was thankfull for being backwards to you cause he choked on the cigar.

"Your what?"

"SIr Crocodile, i am (Y/N)'s son, i was hoping to meet you and bond a little, i wasn't expecting a job... but if you give it to me i am not going to complain."

"You already have a job as bounty hunter, don't try to take advantage of this." you poked your son's cheek under Crocodile's surprised look.

"I..." he cleared his throat, trying to sound serious and prepared, "pleasure to meet you child, i would have appreaciate it a warning."

"I warned you, i left a note on the fridge that said 'special meeting today, i have a surprise'" your son started to laugh.

"That sounded like a booty call, jajaja, maybe he was expecting you to come here in lingerie." you punched your son on the head to make him shut up.

"I can make a reserve on the restaurant we both like and i can know you better." he tried to sound profesional but your son was right, he tought you would give him a sexy surprise, not this.

Smoker

He was really tired of dealing with teenage pirates.

He spent the last week chasing and fighting agaisnt a new supernova, he was tired and just wants to get home to you.

"Hello love." he said while hanging his uniform, then he got to the living room and saw that same supernova playing cards with you, "i don't know what you are doing here bastard but you are not going to hurt my..."

"Relax old men, i was just paying a visit to my mother." Smoker got his mind reset.

"Smoker sweetie, this is my son."

"How couldn it be your son? you are a marine."

"Same happens with Garp, but he is a grandfather.... i think maybe this is a nice time for you two to meet." you were really nervous but tried to sound chill and smooth.

"Oh mother, we already know each other, thi sis the man that has been chasing me all week." the moment got worse every second and you wanted to hide, but you felt Smoker sat next to you and put his arm on your should, "noooo, cut the romantic things, i am going to throw up."

"Don't talk to us like that, yesterday i was furious that you were so childish but right now, i wont tolerate you talking to your mother or me with such a disrespectful tone." you had to hide a laugh, he clearly was getting his frustations out but at the same time trying to be nice. "so tell me, how can a son of a marine officer become a pirate?"

"Well..." and you knew that this would be a long night.

Akagami Shanks

Since Luffy and Uta, he was out of the parenting thing, for now.

You were sleeping and suddently canons started to burst on the ship, you got dressed and prepared to a new day at board.

"I am xxxxx, and i will defeat you, Red Head SHanks."

"On your dreams, child." canons were still bursting when you got on the ship and saw the attacker of the ship.

"Mom?" "Son?" you both said at the same time, Shanks mouth touched the ground.

"Come here you little prick, how could you blow the ship of your mother's fiancee."

"You are engaged? i didn't got the letter nor invitation, you don't love me or what? i know we don't live together anymore but..."

"I sent it yesterday, it should get to you in a couple of hours but... we took the covers of various newspapers, how could you not saw it?"

"You know i don't read that bullshit..." you both were yelling at each other from the ships, until Shanks decided to finally talk.

"And when i was going to know this?"

"Today!" he coudln't even talk, his mind was going to fast, another problematic child.

"Boy, stop blasting canons and get on the ship... i love your mother and i want to marry her, i can kill you."

"You are not going to kill me, i am going to defeat you."

"You can try, after the wedding and only if i am looking." you yelled at him and went to Shanks, "leave him, he is excited in reality to meet you."

"I must recompose myself, i must make him see i am a good stepfather."

[dexlexia]

how to deal with 3 warlords (while pregnant) - cross guild x reader

pairing: dracule mihawk x buggy the clown x reader x crocdile rating: 18+ summary: Three warlords, three of the most vicious men in all of the world. And somehow, someway they are at your beck and call. What started out as an arrangement with Sir Crocodile turned into a liaison with Mihawk and somewhere along the way you ended up in bed with the clown. tags: long fic (over 5k), polyam!cross guild, smut, pwp, table sex, couch sex, lingerie, slight possessive behaviour, good ol' time, fingering, outdoor sex, clothed sex, cowgirl position.

join me on discord! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Three warlords, three of the most vicious men in all of the world. And somehow,someway they are at your beck and call. What started out as an arrangement with Sir Crocodile turned into a liaison with Mihawk and somewhere along the way you ended up in bed with the clown. 

Now you were living quite well in a large manor on some island in the southeast. You spent most of your days reading, you had even taken up a little gardening. Anything you wanted the Cross Guild got for you. Not many people were living like you on the Grand Line. 

Then it happened. You ended up pregnant by one of the idiots. One of the three men was the father of your child. You expected to be on the next boat off the island, but none of the men were willing to send you off. They wanted to make sure their little lady was taken care of. While they bicker over who the father was, they each made sure you were taken care of. 

  ”Can't you hurt now.“ Crocodile told you as he brushed his fingers through your hair, ”If it isn't my brat this time, it will be next time.“ And he almost smiled around the cigar in his mouth.

So that was how you became the lovely wife to three of the most dangerous men on the high seas. And sometimes you wished their boat would sink. 

At six months pregnant it wasn't easy to get around, you spent most days rubbing the sore spot in your back and hobbling around the manor. Most of the time the men kept to themselves and allowed you freedom to roam around the place. 

There was something about the manor you quite enjoyed, even if the men barely got along they still cared deeply for you. You had the pleasure of being called more beautiful than any treasure. But it was Buggy who told you that and then he promptly passed out from too much liquor. So the compliment only went so far. 

It was a home, even with three fearsome men, you still were happy. You thought of it as a way to keep the men in check. You were like the glue that held them together or prevented them from killing one another. It wasn't easy work but it was your work. 

-

You rubbed your achy lower back and huffed, ”You better come out easy, or we're going to have a problem.“ You then poked your swollen middle. Your current wardrobe was clothing that belonged to the men. You hadn't had much time to find cuter clothes so you often were dressed like a mob boss or a gothic swordsman or a fucking clown. But none of them men minded, to be fair they'd preferred if you were naked. You however refused to give them the satisfaction.

You weren't a toy to be ogled at, and if any of them treated you like an object they'd be out on the yard before they could finish their sentence. You refused to raise a child to believe that a woman would be under a man. Even if their father was a warlord you'd teach them compassion and kindness in an unforgiving world. 

It was the least you could do. So even with the aches and pains you were happy to carry such a precious gift. You gave your belly and soft pat, ”I'm not mad at you“ You said, ”I just want everything to go smoothly, I'm excited to meet you. And the boys will love you too. They might be a bit much but you'll always have a home.“ 

  ”Talking to the baby again, I see.“ You heard.

  ”Crocodile.“ You responded as you looked up from your swollen middle. Hand on your lower back once more, ”I thought you were busy, Mihawk told me that.“  

You'd say out of the three of them, Crocodile was the most ”attentive“, there was a charm to him that you couldn't deny. You understood why he was able to charm his way through Alabasta. But anything you needed he got for you without question. He often enjoyed your pregnant state, the idea that he bred you so well left him excited. Such a good girl carrying his spawn, and if it happened that the baby belonged to the swordsman or the clown, he'd make sure that next time he finished the job. 

  ”I'm never too busy for you. Where are you going anyway?“ He asked,“If you need something, I will get it fo you.” He approached you and leaned down to caress your bump, “You will need for nothing. You should be resting.“

  ”I have to move sometimes, Crocodile. Even with the pains in my lower back.“ You huffed as you rubbed the sore spot, ”Can't be bed bound forever.“ 

He chuckled and kissed the top of your head, ”If you wanted a back rub you should've come to my office. Mihawk is too rough with you and the clown is an idiot. So why don't we get what you need and head to the bedroom.“ He leaned further down and kissed you on the lips.

You cupped his face and looked at him, ”If you can get me the ice pop from the freezer in the kitchen I'll happily accept your offer.“ And gave him the biggest puppy dog eyes you could muster. 

He chuckled, ”You always know how to get your way.“ Then took you by the hand, ”Why don't get go before the clown takes all of them.“ Then he started to slowly walk to the kitchen on the lower level.

The warlord had a soft spot for you, he was enamoured by you. You were so small compared to him yet you held your own. The kind of woman who would bear his young. 

Soon you were seated at the massive dinner table happily enjoying the blue ice pop that was in the freezer with your back turned to Crocodile. His hand was on your back slowly massaging the aches and pains on your lower back. You could tell he was getting aroused by the closeness to you. You smiled to yourself as he rubbed at your back. 

  ”How's the child doing?” He asked as the hooked hand reached around you and carefully rubbed your bump, “Is he behaving?”

You chuckled, “We don't know the gender of the baby.” And took another bite of the cold treat, “You better not be disappointed if they're a girl."

He chuckled and pressed at a sore spot on your back, ”I could never, not with you.“ Then pulled away, "You're still a marvellous sight, even this far in. You're a beauty to behold, little one.“ Then leaned in to get a good feeling on the tenseness of your lower back, ”You're a good girl, right?“

You turned your head to look at him, ”You're not just being nice for sex are you?“ You reached over and stroked his face, ”Right?“

He moved back a little, “No, of course, I'd only have sex with you, with you permission.” He swallowed. Only the warlord would get nervous around you.

You chuckled and patted him on the cheek, “Why don't you finish this up for me.” You placed the ice pop in his mouth and moved off the chair. You hiked up the shirt that looked like a dress as you hoisted yourself onto the lavish dining table with a huff. It's hard to be sexy when you're so pregnant. 

  “Oh?” He said, “And here I thought you wanted a massage. But if there's something you desire, I'm happy to provide.” He smirked at you as he got up from the other chair.  He stood in front of you and admired you, such a beautiful woman in his eyes. 

Crocodile was such a fearsome man but here he was in front of you, with a glint in his eye as he watched you unbutton the shirt you wore and soon revealed your almost naked form. He had noticed that your breasts had gotten a bit bigger during the time you were pregnant so far, and that only made the man smirk. 

  “Let's get you out of those." He remarked as he helped you out of your underwear, you held onto his broad shoulders as he slipped them off of you. He placed your bum back down on the table and carefully spread your legs. His hook grazed at the soft flesh of your inner thigh and he carefully licked his hip lip.

  ”Don't stare at me like I'm meat, Crocodile.“ You remarked as you held onto the front of his shirt, all three of the men admired you but you had to warn them sometimes not to view you like a slab of meat for sale. They were yours as much as you were theirs, there would be a level of respect you demanded. 

You didn't think it was too much to ask considering you were carrying one of their children, you weren't a broodmare goddamnit! 

He reached over and patted you on the head, his face got closer to yours as he smiled at you, ”Don't you worry, baby. I would never. You're less like meat and more like the finest gold in all of the blue.“ His broad hand reached to your cheek and rubbed it, ”The others should be lucky I even let you in the same room as them.“ Then kissed you on the forehead. He carefully held your legs open for him, he exhaled deeply as he admired your sweet sex, ”Now let's get the show on the road before the others find us.“ Then with a little help from you, he slid his cock into you. 

Taking him was like a punch in the gut sometimes, even when he was being slow. He was just so BIG. It was hard to take him all at once. But he took his time, he didn't want to leave you too sore. His hand was on your waist as he started to thrust into you. The hook on his other hand held onto the side of the table for support. He leaned down and kissed at your neck, ”That's it.“ He said almost breathless against your neck, ”There we go. Such a good girl.“ 

The table made small noises as it was pushed ever so slightly across the carpeted floor. But you didn't pay much mind to it, you were too concerned with the feeling of euphoria that came over you. It was a great feeling, even with the minor stretch you were in good hands with the warlord. 

  ”Crocodile.“ You said softly, ”Fuck.“ 

He chuckled, his warm skin was pressed up against you, ”I know, you like when we have sex. I wouldn't have it with anyone else, those other idiots should be lucky that they get to have a taste of you.“ His voice was low, there was a possessive edge to it that sent a shiver up your spine. While the agreement worked you knew that Crocodile would rather have you all to yourself.

The sex was quiet and secretive. Hot breathing and soft moans filled the air of the lavish dining room. Crocodile's larger body stayed around you as he thrusted up into you. But even the warlord couldn't keep his composure for long.

  ”I want you to finish at the same time as me, baby.“ He said hotly into your ear, ”I want to feel you get very tight around me when you finish. Can you do that for me?“ His breathing was rapid and his shirt was sticking to his muscular back as he thrusted up into you. 

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment as you felt the wave of pleasure over your body, ”I can do that.“ You panted. Your body jolted with the thrusts, your pregnant belly and heavy breasts moved with each thrust of his hips. 

He pulled you into a deep kiss, he even explored your mouth with his tongue while the intense feeling of climax took hold. It wasn't long before you were clinging onto him for dear life, you belly pressed against him. Then with one last thrust of his cock, you moaned into his mouth and climaxed at the same time as him. You let out a sharp squeak before a primal groan as you felt the wash of pleasure through your system. It made you go lightheaded. 

Soon Crocodile pulled away and patted you on the cheek. He looked over at the half melted popsicle beside you. Between his breaths he said, “Let me get you another one.” then leaned in for one last kiss. The thrill of pleasure still coursed through his body. He cleared his throat and asked, “Blue, right?”

You giggled, your head still a haze and replied, “Or we could go again?” And spread your legs a little further. And what kind of husband would Crocodile be if he didn't give in to his wife's request?

-

It had been about a week since your encounter with Crocodile. And while you were achy for days later, it wouldn't be the last time you'd have sex. Mihawk had just come back from a trip abroad and while he brought nothing for the other men, he was more than happy to show you what he got you. 

You were now almost seven months and the baby in you was feeling a lot more active, which made you out of breath a lot of the time. But you were determined to see what the swordsman got you. One of the gifts was a lovely dress made for someone as far along as you and while it was a little tight around the belly, you were happy Mihawk even thought of you. 

But there was still more he wanted to show you. The other men were out of the manor, so you went looking for Mihawk. You were occupied all morning with prepping for dinner, between the three warlords not a single one of them knew how to properly cook. They were as clueless in the kitchen as they were competent in combat. So it was just easier for you to cook, there was less of a chance that a fire would break out. 

 “Mihawk!” You called out as you climbed the long staircase upstairs. You peeked into the rooms until you found the man in his study. You let yourself in.

  “You know you can't just- oh, I didn't hear you, my love.” He got up from his chair at the desk, “You shouldn't be putting so much strain on yourself. Come.” He guided you to the old style leather couch at the other end of the room, “You should be resting.” 

  “Well I heard that someone bought me presents while away, and I want my presents.” You smiled at him as you tried to get comfortable on the chair, “Can you blame me?”

 “I'm sorry, I should've found you sooner.” he replied, “Let me get them for you.“ He quickly left the room only to swiftly return with delicately wrapped gifts in hand. He put them on the table in front of you then sat beside you. He watched you with careful eyes as you grabbed the first one. His lips were close to your ear as he said, “Open it.”

It was a floral patterned wrapping paper and underneath was a black box with a white ribbon tied around it, there was a note attached to it that read, ”Forever yours, Mihawk.“ You turned to look at him and he softly kissed you. You then went back to opening the box. It wasn't long until you discovered the contents of the gift. Inside in a bed of tissue paper was burgundy lingerie. 

You turned to look at Mihawk who had his eyes on you. You said to him, ”You shouldn't have.“

He tilted his head to the side, ”What I paid for is nothing compared to how much you're worth. It should fit you.“ His hand played with your hair gently, ”Will you try it on for me?“ And smiled when you slowly stood up, he even carefully supported you while you moved. 

You responded, “Of course.”  With gentle hands you pulled the bra and matching panties out. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw how little fabric there was. You guessed he was right, it would fit if there was nothing to put on. You felt his eyes on you as he got up and started to undress you.

His hands found your swollen middle and he sighed contently, “You've been taking care of him while I've been gone. Good girl.” 

You turned around to him and started to take the dress off, “You men are so possessive. I'm your wife, not a broodmare.” You reminded him.

He leaned in for a kiss and before he did it, he replied, “Of course, I could never remember you as anything but my wife. I am just glad that the others weren't too rough with you. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you.” 

  “Nothing will ever happen to me, I have the best protection on the planet.” You said as you stepped out of your dress. Soon your undergarments came off and he slowly put the pieces on you. 

You noticed right away that in the crotch area, there was an opening. You looked at him with a bit and shock and he got even closer to you. His bare chest was pushed against you and his hand dipped down between your legs. 

  “It's your gift. But under my conditions.” He remarked before he pushed two fingers inside of you. His skillful digits massaged the inside of your pussy and felt just right that you went on your tippy toes and clutched onto him. 

Your nipples grew hard from the sensation and them being practically exposed. Your cheeks grew warm and he went in for another kiss. You held onto him tightly as the pleasure raced through you. This felt amazing. 

Mihawk's favourite position was when he had you so close to his bigger form and fingered you. He prioritised your pleasure first, he wanted to see every expression you made when he pleasured you. He wanted to see and hear how good it was for you. And he was one to never disappoint. Those sharp gold eyes trained on you as he brought you into his lap with your legs open and facing the door. He kissed your neck while you panted and moaned. 

His other hand wandered your bump, “I want it to be mine, I want you to bear me a child who'll truly be the greatest. I have high hopes that it'll be mine.” Then left a deep bruise on your neck.

Your moans often got stuck in your throat from the immense pleasure that Mihawk was giving you. You hooked your hands under your knees to give him a better angle, with your back pressed against his chest.

The thrusts of his fingers were powerful and left your head spinning. This was euphoric. Soon his hand was on your breast and he skilfully fondled it as he continued to finger you at a punishing pace.

Your moans rung clear in the office while he pleasures you on the couch. At least your wetness can easily be cleaned off the leather. Your eyes rolled back as you gripped your thighs in a heightened pleasure.

  “So good for me.” He praised, “A beautiful woman I am able to give pleasure to, it's an honour.” He knew your heart was racing, he could probably feel it. He continued to kiss at your neck as his pace quickened even more. 

Your toes curled in the intense feeling and you moaned loudly as you rolled your hips in time with his movement which caused your breasts and belly to bounce. The knowledge of that made Mihawk's cock twitch in his pants. You really were a remarkable woman. 

He pinched at your nipple and your moans got louder. You pussy clenched around his fingers and he groaned into your flushed skin, ”So perfect.“ he thumb gazed at your clit and you practically jumped but you didn't get too far. He pulled you back in and you got louder as he pleasured you further.

You felt a grip around you as hot pleasure raced through your body. Your core felt on fire from the sensation. And Mihawk thought it was divine.  You looked angelic, especially when he hit just the right spot and you climaxed. 

He groaned into your skin as you tightened around his fingers. You tensed for a moment before you relaxed against him and tried to catch your breath. Yor head was spinning but you felt safe in Mihawk's arms. 

  ”How was that?“ He asked, ”You looked divine when I was pleasuring you. Do you want more?“

You exhaled deeply and slowly got up. You stood in front of him, ”Well.“ You said, ”Let's see how resilient this lace is?“ Then slowly he brought you back to the couch with the full intention of seeing what 'damage' he could do before the other men came home. 

-

Buggy was home the most, while the other two had matters to attend to off the island, Buggy was well Buggy. He was a fearsome clown but you spent the most time with him. You enjoyed his company, even when it was something as simple as watching over you while you gardened. 

It was the middle of summer and everyone was in their own little corner of the house. You were out in the garden behind the manor waddling around with a watering can in hand. You were tending to the roses portion of the garden before you moved on to the strawberries nearby. 

You didn't mind the alone time, it gave you time to think. You tried not to get too anxious about how your life is going to change once the baby is born. It felt so far away yet so close. Before the first autumn leaves you were going to be a mother! And at times it left you rather anxious. 

You shook off the thoughts while you poured the water over the roses. You heard the back door open and close. You turned to look over and saw Buggy. And when your eyes met, he broke out into a grin. 

  ”Well there you are, my peanut!“ Then made strides to get closer to you. You quickly noticed in his hand was your large sun hat. He approached and placed it on your head, ”I don't think now is the best time to get a sunburn. You know Crocodile will kill you.“ Then leaned in for a kiss. 

While the other two were mysterious, Buggy seemed normal in comparison. Well, for a clown pirate anyway. He had a very sweet spot for you and while you hadn't seen much of his feared nature, you enjoyed your time with him. He was an open book to you.

  ”You know one of us can do that, like you don't have to keep coming out here. Especially alone, what if you slip on some mud or like... A bird drops a rock on your head!" 

You laughed, ”Buggy, I think I have bigger things to worry about than a bird."

He shrugged before he took the watering can from you, “I'd hate to see anything happen to ya, so let's go. It's time for  a break!” Then placed it down before he guided you away from the garden and towards the shade under the largest tree on the property. 

He helped you down onto the grass and he went in for another kiss. He moaned against your lips as gloved hands cupped your face. It was almost romantic if not for the heat between your kisses. Your heart jumped.

  “You shouldn't be out here all alone, angel. What if someone hurt you? What if someone took you from me?“ He stared down at you.

You smiled back at him and reached out for him. You placed a hand on his cheek and assured him, ”No one would ever dare.“ Then went in for another kiss.You felt excitement race though you as he laid down in the grass with you on top of him. 

  ”Good, because you're mine, peanut. Just like that kid in your belly.“ He grinned at you and nodded. Soon with the help of his powers one of his hands reached down, detached from his body and lifted up your dress. He slipped his hand under and found the less than stylish maternity underwear you wore. 

  ”What do you think you're doing, clown?“ You asked, as you held his face, ”Did you come to check on me so you could fuck me?“ 

He laughed, ”Of course not, having sex with you is just a bonus!“ Then with another hand, pull down the underwear to the middle of your thigh, ”C'mon, then afterwards I'll even help ya water the garden. Seeing you all domestic has really turned me on.” Then he grabbed your ass. 

You moaned and he pulled you in for a searing kiss. He continued to gab at your ass as the kiss deepened. He pulled you dress up further to expose your bare ass to the afternoon air. 

  “You drive me crazy.“ He remarked before he created a bit of room between you two to get his cock out of his pants, ”So why don't you be a good girl and get me off.“ He beamed at you. 

You squeezed his nose between your thumb and pointer finger, ”And what do we say with that, Buggy?“

He frowned suddenly, ”Please. Please angel, sugar, honey, peanut, please, please!“ His cock was out of his pants and pressed into your swollen middle, ”I'd love to see that belly bounce while ya ride me.“  Then he attached both hands to his wrists and held onto your waist. ”I want you.“

You chuckled and held onto the bottom of your dress so a bit of your belly was exposed as you eated yourself onto him. You held his hand for support as you slowly seated yourself onto him. You exhaled deeply, “Yeah.“

  ”Doing alright there, peanut?“ He asked as he rubbed your hip with his free hand, ”That's it, good girl.“

You moaned as you started to roll your hips.  You held onto his hand and the bottom of your dress while you rolled your hips. You felt his cock nudge against the most sensitive spots. For a clown he was a good fuck.

Your eyes closed and your mouth slightly opened as you moved faster.  Buggy groaned and soon both hands were on your hips as he tried to meet your pace. “Shit.” You moaned as you felt pleasure spread through your body like warm butter on hot toast. Your cheeks were flushed as you continued to move your body. 

The two of you went at it, you kept the pace steady. It was getting quicker but the depths that he pushed against made you see stars behind your eyelids. Your heart raced as you moved against him. The feeling of overwhelming moments. Sex with Buggy left you breathless as it did with the other men. You were glad that your pussy could take a beating. The thought made you smirk for a second before you felt his thumb rub up against your clit. 

You jolted up but he used his other hand to keep you back down on his cock. He chuckled, “You're not getting away that easily, angel. I know I make you feel good, that's why the brat in ya is mine. His hand moved to your belly to feel around it while he played with your clit.

You felt moans bubble up in your throat as you rode him. You picked up the pace as the swirl of pleasure moved in the pit of your stomach. Your breathing was rapid as your belly moved with your movements. A sight the clown would never get out of his mind. His girl pregnant with his brat riding him on a sunny afternoon, he couldn't luck out more than this!

Soon the pleasure became an overwhelming feeling for both of you. He handed onto your belly with both hands as he pushed up deeper into you. Your coe felt soaked from the stimulation of his cock as you thrust your hips. Soon your hands were over his on your bump as you moved as fast as your pregnant body would allow.

Buggy's eyes rolled back as he gripped onto your belly, your dress fell back down over the bump as you two met each other's pace. Pleasure coursed through you and you tilted your head back in an attempt to catch your breath as you moved. 

You felt your dress cling to your sweaty back as the two of you made love under the sun. The feeling was euphoric. You reached down and grabbed him by the font of his shirt as you felt on the very tip of orgasm.

The moa got caught in your throat as you climaxed. You tightened around him and he soo finished off too inside of you. He painted your inside white as he let out a loud groan and went limp on the ground. 

You slid off of him, cum stained your inner thigh. You wiped the sweat from your forehead and said, ”C'mon now, Buggy. You have to help me water strawberries.“ But his hands, that were detached from his wrists, pulled your dress up once more.

Soon he was on top of you, squishing your belly as he said between ragged breaths, ”Not until I make you scream, peanut.“ With a wild grin on his face. 

[alexa-yukiyu]

Hello Alexa! Hope your doing well as always seems like your not lacking requests so put the other requests before my own ♡

An idea came to me last night when I failed a test for the third time- and need to redo it, when I'm sad or something bad happens I go hide in my closet with blankets and pillows, like a child- so how would the whitebeard pirates or mihawk react to child dokusha hiding when their sad? Like their because they got in trouble or isn't allowed to go with the crew on an island and instead has to stay on the ship?

As someone who had gone through a lot in their early childhood I find these stories so comforting and sweet. I often find myself only opening Tumblr to see if you've posted. Remember to take care of yourself, because someone really cares about you♡

Solace and Comfort (Whitebeard pirates, Mihawk x gn!child!reader)

A/N Hey hey Holo! I absolutely love when you request and as a a ghank you for being such a sweetheart I went ahead and did both :) I also do the same thing, when im upset I like to find a closed or cozy space and just huddle up and hug my plushies. Your words really mean a lot, I appreciate them and it makes me so giddy.

Reader is replaced by Dokucha as a placeholder which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

Thatch found himself in his kitchen, preparing the next meal for his Captain. He made sure to take into account his current condition and choose the right ingredients to alleviate it.

"Hm, should I use kale or broccoli for this one?" he inquired to Izou, who had joined him earlier to escape the rowdiness of the crew as he completed maintenance in his pistols.

"I'm hardly the person you should ask Thatch."

"Kale it is," he exclaimed, beginning to chop down said vegetable, the tapping of the knife hitting the cupboard echoing around the otherwise quiet room

"Regardless, it is about time we addressed it, isn't it?" Izou spoke, pushing the lock back in his flintlock, a snap resounding across the kitchen

The chef stops chopping the kale at the comment, glancing up at his brother and letting out a sigh, putting the knife down

“I suppose so.”

“How about it, Dokucha? Want to come out and talk about it?” The sniper called out, walking around the counter to stand next to Thatch

A few beats of silence filled the room after that statement until the sound of ruffling came from one of the cabinets in the kitchen as Dokucha slowly crawled out of it, a stuffed bird held tightly in their arms

“How did you know I was here?” They mumbled, drying their teary eyes

“You usually hide here when something happens,” Thatch answered, kneeling down

"You should consider branching out," added Izou with a smile

"Would you like a hug?" Thatch offered

They nod, running into his arms, cries escaping them as he crashes into him

Thatch hummed, wrapping his arms around them and picking them up, swinging them from side to side for a few minutes until their cries lessened

"What's going on?" Izou questioned, glancing at the child, who by this point had positioned their head on Thatch's shoulder and looking back at Izou

"I wanted to go with Ace," they sniffled

"I know you do, but he had a risky mission he had to go on," Izou replies gently

"Why?" they cried

“They had something of ours, so Ace had to get it back.”

“I wanted to go with Big Brother too!” They cried, beginning to struggle against Thatch’s embrace

“Let me go!” They scream, beginning to throw punches his way

“Hey, Hey, it’s okay,” the man reassured them, tightening their hold, ignoring the shrill screams that now escaped them

“Hey, Hey, Dokucha, he always comes back, just like he came back from his previous mission and the one before. Just like I come back, just like Izou, and everyone will come back. But we need to calm down so we can welcome them back.”

“We would love to take you with us, Dokucha, but we want to keep you safe even more; we couldn’t bear something happening to you,” Izou continues, rubbing the child’s head

They sniffle, relaxing in their hold

“Hey, how about we go see Pops?” Thatch suggests

“Papaw?”

“Yeah, I’m almost finished with his meal; how about you come with us to deliver it?”

“Okay”

“Pops, food is ready; we had special help today.” thatch announced approaching the man

Whitebeard glances down at the two commanders, about to ask what they mean, until he spots the ‘special help’ running towards him

“Papaw!”

He grins, lifting the child up

“Gurararara, what brings you here, Dokucha?” he questions, glancing down at his sixteenth commander as he spoke

“We were having a hard time earlier wanted to go with Ace.”

“Gurarara, why would you be upset about such a thing brat?”

They shrug

“Has the boy ever broken his promise to come back?”

“No…”

“Has he ever lied to you?”

“No…”

“Then why were you throwing a fit?”

“I didn’t throw a fit!”

“Sounds like you did”

“You’re mean, Papaw!”

“It’s called tough love.”

“It’s being mean!”

“If that’s the case, are you not coming to the celebration when he does return?”

“I want to!”

“Are we done with the fits?”

“Yeah!”

“Did someone say celebration? I could use some grub,” a voice joins in

Dokucha beams, jumping off Whitebeard's hand and crashing into Ace

“Ace! You’re back!”

“Just like I promised.”

“Where are they?”

The human drills look at each other nervously and turn back to the swordsman, letting out a string of hoots and sneers.

Mihawk narrows his eyes at this

“Is that the answer you wish to go with?” He said, pulling out Yoru from his back and pointing it against the apes

“I will allow you to try again; where are they? I am well aware this is where they run to when they grow upset.”

In response, the human drills sounds escalate as they pull out their own weapons, only to stop as a small voice joins in

“It’s okay, Ezra, Enrique.” A small child wrapped in a blanket spoke, patting the apes, effectively calming them Down as they slowly lowered their weapons

“Don’t hurt them, Papa,” they mumble, hugging their blanket closer to them

He sighs, sheathing Yoru once again and extending his hand toward the child

The child wobbles their way to their father, taking hold of their hand and looking back at the human drills, sending a wave their way

As they walked on, the only sound that could be heard was the sounds of the forest around them as insects and birds chirped together, the sound of the human drills still reaching their ears, and the sound of Dokucha’s blanket being dragged as they walked next to the warlord.

“Are you going to tell me why you ran off?” he spoke, breaking the silence between them

He sighs at the silence that followed, pausing to pick up the child and place them on his hip, in turn the child leans their head against his shoulder

“Is this about the sword practice you were doing before?” He inquired, letting out a hum as the child nodded their head against his shoulder

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I can’t do it,” he mumbles

“Do what?”

“I can’t make the sword cut like Papa’s.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah”

“That kind of precision takes practice, it takes time,” he explains

“But I want to be strong like you!” They cried, leaning back and glancing up at him

His eyes soften at this, halting his walking as he puts all his attention on the child

“I know you do,” he said, wiping the tears that began falling from their eyes

“But one cannot simply master the sword overnight.”

“Not even Papa?.”

“No, I am not an exception to the statement. I had to train for years to be able to reach my current state, and I don’t doubt you will one day surpass me; that day is just not today.”

They frown at that, lying their head on their shoulder again

“How about we begin with the move you were attempting before?”

“Papa will teach me?” They exclaimed, shooting up

He chuckles

“You should have asked; I am never below teaching you the way of the sword.”

They grin, hugging his neck tightly

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, dearest.”

Here we go! Two for two!! These are really cozy ones, loved how the Mihawk one turned out

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[yeahdhfjfjf]

Mihawk X sick child reader

"Darling why are you still awake?" You jolted in shock when you heard your father's flat voice from the door way. A few hours prior he had told you get some sleep to ease the symptoms of your flu but instead you were under your bed covers where you thought you were reading a book secretly. Of course your all knowing father caught you without even having to pull the covers off you. "Ha.. ha.. How long have you been standing there?..." You smiled awkwardly hoping it would charm him a bit but instead he just looked at you with a blank disapproving stare which you had come to recognise very easily compared to his other various blank expressions. "Long enough to know that you haven't slept at all since I've left you." He walked closer to you and you saw his expressions slowly changed from mildly annoyed to genuine worry. "I'm fine da... *cough! *cough! I promi- *cough!" You looked away from him a little embarrassed.

After carefully sitting at the edge of your bed he gently placed his hand your cheek and moved your head so his golden eyes would meet your (yec) ones again. His gaze was warm and you could see the worry it carried as he held you there for a moment. "As much as I enjoy how peaceful it is when you're too sick to cause any trouble I do still want you to get better." You giggled at his teasing statement and he smiled back at you before his expression became slightly more serious again.

"When I first met you I promised I would take care of you and I mean to keep that promise forever but you also have to allow me to keep it. Do you understand me?" His words were firm but full of affection. "Yes dad." you nodded he smiled and pressed a soft kiss on your forehead.

"I love you my dear y/n."

"I love you too dad."

Now get some rest darling." With that you closed your eyes and drifted off with your father's love warming your heart.

::::::::::::::::::::

My first fix omg

[matsookawa]

Title: How Exciting

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,033

Summary: Mihawk's wife has some life-altering news that has him on the edge of his seat in an emergency Cross Guild meeting.

Note: This was a request.

Despite having the last fifteen years as proof that her husband would move Heaven and Earth if it meant she was happy, the fear settling into her stomach is making that knowledge difficult to hold on to. She sits at a table in the conference room, her husband on the other end. It’s silent and [Y/N] has chosen to remain expressionless. It’s a blessing and curse to have a partner who can read every minute thing your body does, but right now it’s a curse. She can feel his eyes burning into her, yet hers remain locked on a one-inch scuff next to her hand where she’s been tapping her finger for the past five minutes. It’s the only indication of her nervousness, a trait not common in the typically steadfast woman.

The man, Dracule Mihawk, opens his mouth to inquire about her behavior and why she called an emergency meeting. Before a sound comes out, the conference room doors slam open. [Y/N]’s hand slaps down on the table and Mihawk is somewhat grateful he does not have to continue enduring the endless tapping. What he is not grateful for is the clown taking a seat at the table next to his wife, while their glorified accountant with a hook-hand sits on her other side. His eyes narrow and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What is this?”

[Y/N] takes a deep breath and clasps her hands on the table. Crocodile and Buggy look to her, clearly waiting for her to speak first. Mihawk immediately fears the worst. ‘Is she…. leaving me?’ His heart jumps into his throat at the thought. “I’m not leaving you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He breathes a tiny sigh of relief. “Buggy and Croc are only here as witnesses in case of legal retaliation.”

“What are you referring to, [Y/N]?” He is utterly confused and she decides it’s best to put him out of his misery. She locks him in with a hard gaze. The one she usually reserves for foes, however he can see her clench her jaw and hesitate. “There’s a bit of a… situation. One that has the potential to change things going forward.” Crocodile and Buggy’s sights set on Mihawk. His mind is a maze with each direction leading him to a horrible conclusion as to what this all must be about. ‘She is termin-‘ “I’m not terminally ill, Dracule.” He hears the clown mumble a “How do you do that?” under his breath. Mihawk decides the best option is to wait until she’s ready. After exactly thirty-six ticks of the wall clock, [Y/N] speaks.

“I’m seven weeks pregnant.”

His breathing stops, yet he remains narrow-eyed and if [Y/N] didn’t know him so well, it would intimidate her. It’s fortunate she can hold her own against anyone, even him. “And I know you do not want children. You made that very clear. So, I’ve called this meeting to announce my resignation as a member and negotiate the division of our marital assets. Buggy and Crocodile can sign as witnesses of the decision and I’ll file this with the local court.”

Mihawk sits up straight, his brain now catching up. “You think so little of me that one off-hand comment I made fifteen years ago means that your only option when you’re with child is divorce.” It’s not a question. [Y/N] swallows hard, her confident façade beginning to fall. “You have too many responsibilities. To the Cross Guild, to Zoro-“ “[Y/N].”

His chair scrapes as he stands. He rounds the table and Buggy slides his chair out of the way to make space for Mihawk to kneel beside her. Her breaths become deep and trembling and she struggles to hold his steely gaze. “I clearly have failed as a husband if that is your belief. Have I not made my unwavering fidelity and devotion to you clear? Do you not understand that every morning before you wake is spent pondering how I got so lucky to find a partner who not only understands every facet of who I am, but doesn’t seek to change it?” She has a white-knuckle grip on the armrest of her chair and tears brim her eyes at his words. He lays a hand over hers. “[Y/N], I was not in a place all those years ago to have a child. I was young and had no ambition until you came along. We’re now two of the strongest warlords on the four seas. Between your intelligence and my strength, we can handle a child.”

Tears fall over her cheeks and a choked sob escapes her. “I just didn’t want to force you into this, Dracule.” Mihawk sighs through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. They open once more and settle on her. “I love you, [Y/N]. I am in this just as much as you are.” The woman emits a loud cry and throws her arms around him, allowing herself to slide out of the chair. He’s able to catch her and hold her in his lap. She cries into his shirt and he looks up to his associates. “You two can leave. There is nothing to witness.”

Crocodile takes a puff of his cigar and nods towards the door. This cues Buggy to stand, the hook-handed man doing the same. “We can discuss the new arrangements in due time, Mihawk. Enjoy the pregnancy while it lasts. You’ll miss it later.” Said man is tempted to ask why Crocodile sounds particularly forlorn, but lets it go as he exits. They’re close, but not that close.

[Y/N] pulls her face away from his shoulder and wipes her face with the back of her hand. She’s finished crying, but can’t help but still feel a little daunted by the entire situation. She swallows hard and looks at him while he softly gazes at her and pushes some tear-ridden strands of hair behind her hair. “You’re sure you’re up for this? It’s going to be exhausting, unrelenting, and terrifying, Dracule.” A soft smile pulls at his lips and he holds the side of her face in his hand.

“Then it will be our most exciting adventure yet.”

Note: I have a headcanon that Buggy actually does know when to keep quiet. I've also always had this idea of Crocodile having a past lover, but their relationship ending in tragedy. Feel free to request more info or a fic on that. I write more than just Mihawk, ya know.

[naraeragon]

[Mihawk x Reader/OC] The strongest swordsman who was raised by a witch

Reader is my witch OC - Yidhra. I have been making arts about them and this is my fanfic for them. This mostly based on 'The witch and the kid' trend

Tags: mentor Reader, pupil Mihawk, witch Reader, old English pronoun, horticulture, BB x shota, slight horror

-----------------

Mihawk was 10 when he ran away from his home without much grief and frustration. He was abnormally calm for a young child and was able to live on his own as long as he could until he stumbled into the witch's wood. He was taken shelter inside a cave from the heavy rain, then the witch found him.

She could have penalised him for intruding her forest, Mihawk knew she would by the look on her face, and people rumored that witches always kidnapped and feasted on children. Mihawk would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid of her but he knew well not to show it. After all, he had been surviving until now with some tricks under his sleeves.

To his surprise, the witch just asked if he wanted to stay at her place. It came with a price of course.

“ I shall be thy mentor and caretaker. Thou may learn as much as thee want until thou reach thy adulthood and leave. ” The witch offered.

There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, was the first lesson Mihawk's learnt so instead of accepting the witch’s offer immediately, he asked.

“What do I have to pay?”

The witch seemed pleased with his sharp mind, not many children of his age are well aware of danger around them. Or perhaps any child who had suffered illed fate would develop that level of caution.

“Thou shall know until the time comes. Agree or not, the choice is thine.”

Even though Mihawk seemed to be more mature than other children of his age, there was no possible way he could survive alone without getting his hands dirty. He wouldn’t mind, yes, but if he had a choice to live a better life, he would definitely take it. In the end, he was just a mere child.

“I’ll follow you, mentor. My name is Dracule Mihawk.”

He thought maybe living with a witch couldn’t be worse than being a slave.

“I am Yidhra. I am a witch. Remember, thou art forbidden to speak of mi name to other individuals.”

Mihawk was adopted by a witch when he was 10 years old.

----------

[sanjisleggy]

it's a date (dracule mihawk x reader)

summary: how Dracule Mihawk behaves around you–the person he has feelings for who also (unfortunately for him) happens to be on Shanks’ crew

a/n: based on a super cute quest by 🪐 anon! :D a short and sweet one that’s purely yearning and fluff! hope you enjoy :>

contents: pre-relationship (obv :P), fluff, simp!Mihawk, yearning

wc. ~800

wanna be on my taglist?

first of all, it will not show on his face. ever. years of steeling himself to face any life-threatening obstacle has made it easy for the swordsman to hide his feelings under a facade of his typical cold  indifference… at least that's what he thinks 

meanwhile Shanks is over here like

bc he clocks it even before Mihawk himself realises he harbours feelings for you. Shanks could tell from the way his old friend would linger behind you at all times, eyes darting towards any sign of danger; how the ends of his lips quirked upward ever so slightly every time you speak to him and how intently he listens even if the topic is obviously not something the swordsman is interested in. your captain knows had it been anyone else (including him!) trying to make conversation about such mundane things, Mihawk would’ve long walked away

no one on the crew questions how often the Warlord seems to be tagging along, everyone just assumes he has his own business to take care of and hitching a ride on the Red Force just happens to be the most efficient way

you’re ecstatic that he’s coming aboard more frequently, however, and are not afraid to show it, often dragging him around the ship to show him your favourite spots. your shamelessness makes your fellow crewmates fear for your life but after a while even they get used to the sight of you pulling around the Greatest Swordsman in the World like a mother cat with her kitten. they dare not assume anything about the man but behind closed doors, some do gossip about how strange it is he’d allow you to do such a thing with no repercussions

Mihawk believes he fell for you after one particular interaction in which you forwent taking part in some festivities in favour of sitting beside him a distance away from the party

“shouldn’t you be dancing with the locals or something?” he’d commented rather snarkily, assuming you perhaps had some ulterior motives for staying by his side.

“i just want some peace and quiet tonight.” you shrugged. “it’s nice sitting with you in silence,” you added with a smile and for the first time in a long time Mihawk felt blood rush to his face. “but i can leave if i’m bothering you.”

“no,” he answered before he could even fully process your offer. “you may stay.”

your smile grew wider and some foreign feeling gripped at his heart.

it’s been a while since that night and he’s long since accepted that that feeling was some kind of infatuation; or at least, that’s what it started out as. day after day he feels his heart yearning for you; at first the feeling was simply small and nagging but it’s long since grown into something akin to desperation, like how one’s lungs would yearn for air after holding their breath for far too long

your voice is the sweetest sound Mihawk’s ever heard and on days he isn’t aboard your crew’s ship, he wishes to hear it more than anything. you could talk to him about snail anatomy and his need would be more than satiated

your touch burns his skin but it hurts more when you let go. so often you grab him by the wrist to pull him around, the contact itself enough to send his poor heart racing. the simple action flusters him so much he always wishes for you to let go before his facade breaks but when you finally do, arriving at where you wanted to bring him, he wants nothing more than for you to hold his hand again

Mihawk feels like a child. actually, scratch that, even as a child he’d never felt this way around anyone before. always laser-focused on his swordsmanship, he never saw the need to seek out companions in general. he’d keep the rare ones he stumbled across and liked well enough but never actively looked. even meeting you was purely a coincidence; had you not joined his old friend’s crew, he’s sure you never would have met 

he’s thankful that you did, though

“would you care to join me for dinner tonight?” the swordsman asks from across the ship’s library where the two of you had been browsing books in silence for a while now.

“dinner?” you respond rather lamely, surprised by the sudden invitation. he smiles to himself but you aren’t able to catch it from so far away. he, however, more than easily notices your flustered expression. “just us two?”

“yes.”

“... is it…” you look away from his direction and kick at the floor at some non-existent rocks, “... a date? like a… romantic date?”

your sudden shy demeanour is so endearing to the man he feels what can only be described as ‘cuteness aggression’ as he resists the urge to close the wide gap in between the two of you.

“only if you want it to be,” Mihawk replies rather smoothly, a stark contrast to his anxiety-ridden heart that’s currently pounding so hard in his chest it feels like it's about to explode. at his answer, your eyes meet his and you smile so sweetly it nearly knocks him off his feet.

“it’s a date then.”

gen taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui @paraparakiss @krooschl @teewon @olliesoxenfree @misstraffy @riftmage27 @aletch @somatchajade @kitsunechan707 @thesmolestsage @lunaizhere @saint-atlas @goldenpanda16 @Jordan03400 @rebeccawinters @glorywielder101 @slytherinambitious @the0twst0shrimp0mc

[sunandflame]

The Weapon with Her Eyes

During a mission for the Cross Guild, Mihawk encounters something the World Government was never meant to create.

Warnings: slight angst, mild violence, child soldier implications, government experimentation

Word Count: 1300~

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x F!OldWarlord!Reader x Seraphim!Reader

crossposted on AO3

The battlefield was silent.

No screams. No cannon fire. Just the creaking of ruined metal and the soft flicker of firelight licking over broken walls. The enemy base had fallen without honor, its defenders cut down, scattered like leaves before a gale. Mihawk stood at the center of the smoldering wreckage, Yoru dripping red, his cape fluttering in the scorched wind.

He had been sent alone, as usual. Buggy’s “genius strategies” usually translated to send Mihawk, pray for the other side. Mihawk never prayed.

He was turning to leave—his mind already drifting to where you waited, curled up with a book, perhaps, or tending the quiet garden behind the Cross Guild’s hidden estate—when the temperature shifted.

It wasn’t the heat. It was the flame.

A plume of fire bloomed in the corner of his vision.

He turned slowly, fingers tightening around Yoru’s hilt.

From the wreckage stepped a figure—tall, barefoot, cloaked in embers. Brown skin marked by Lunarian heritage. Snow-white hair. Jet-black wings. Fire burning at her back. Her pupils glinted like five-pointed stars. And her face...

His grip faltered for half a second.

Your face.

Younger—much younger, barely eight in age, but unusually tall for a child. The shape of your eyes, the arch of your brow, even the way she stood with her weight subtly shifted to the left, as you often did when assessing someone you didn’t trust.

The clone stepped forward, weapon in hand.

Mihawk’s breath didn’t catch. His heartbeat didn’t spike. But for the first time in years, something inside him stilled.

This was you. No—not you, he reminded himself coldly. This was a Seraphim. A government weapon. A counterfeit made in your image. Something made in a lab, shaped by data and devilry.

And yet—

The clone raised her blade. Not Yoru. A crueler thing—thin, jagged. Lacking elegance. The green glow of synthetic blood pulsed beneath her skin.

She lunged.

Mihawk parried without thinking, steel shrieking against steel. The impact sent sparks flying, the ground beneath them cracking. She was fast. Faster than her size should allow.

She came again, silent, precise. He countered. Again. And again. The clash of blades rang out like thunder in the hollow city. 

But then—something changed. She stopped. The clone backed off, lowering her blade slowly, eyes still locked on him. Her head tilted—slightly to the side. 

Just like you did.

Mihawk straightened, cape billowing with the wind. His sword remained in hand, yet he did not raise it. They stared at each other in the stillness. The fires crackled. Somewhere in the distance, the cry of a hawk echoed through the smoke. She blinked slowly. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes... they recognized him.

Not just as an enemy. But as someone.

“You were sent to kill me,” Mihawk said evenly. Not a question. A truth. “And yet, you hesitate.”

The Seraphim said nothing.

He studied her. Not with wonder. With calculation—and a tinge of something colder. So this was the depth of the World Government’s depravity.

They hadn’t just cloned his former comrades. They had taken the only woman he allowed himself to belong to. Turned her into a weapon. Dressed her in white flame and filled her with borrowed blood. Given her your stance. Your eyes. Your silence.

They had forged her into a sword meant for him.

His lip curled. Not in rage—but in something sharper, older.

Contempt.

“You mock the dead,” he murmured, more to the air than to her. “But she lives. She is no ghost for you to copy.”

Still, the clone stood there. Tilting her head again. The fire behind her flickered once, then burned brighter. And then—something terrible happened. She took a step toward him. Not fast. Not attacking.

Curious.

As if drawn to him. As if—like you—she found something about his stillness... comforting.

Mihawk stiffened. “I see,” he said coldly. “You inherited more than her face.”

A mistake. A flaw in the programming. They’d encoded too much. Her movements were too natural. Not mimicry. Instinct. She was imprinted. On him. The child—a living weapon made in your image—liked him. Just like you did.

He sheathed Yoru in one fluid motion. “Return to your masters.”

No response.

“I will not strike you unless you force me.”

The wind shifted. Her wings twitched. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her weapon. Then, slowly, she lowered it. Their eyes locked again—black steel and artificial starlight. For a moment, the battlefield no longer existed. Only the burning ruin of a home neither of them wanted, and the quiet tension of mirrored silhouettes.

She turned.

She left.

The flames did not follow her.

~~~

He returned to you that night without a word.

You looked up from your book when the door creaked open. The way your face softened upon seeing him—not wounded, not broken—was the only comfort he needed. But Mihawk didn’t speak right away.

You rose, setting your book aside. “Something happened.”

He nodded. Shrugged off his coat. It smelled of ash and ozone.

You reached for him instinctively, brushing soot from his collar. “Did it hurt?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Not physically.”

You stilled. That wasn’t like him. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the fine scar there. “What did you see?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “She had your face.”

That’s when your hands dropped. You understood immediately.

“A Seraphim.”

“Yes.”

He poured a glass of wine. Took a slow sip. “I fought her. Briefly.”

You didn’t ask if he’d won. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.

“But she pulled back,” he continued. “Watched me. As if—” he paused. “As if she knew me.”

You swallowed. “They say the Seraphim can inherit more than strength. That S-Snake... she acted like Hancock.”

Mihawk nodded. “Then this one—she tilted her head. The same way you do. Mirrored your stance. And when I spoke, she listened. Not like a weapon. Like a girl.”

You sat beside him, silent. The wine in your own glass was untouched.

“They used my Lineage Factor,” you whispered. “My mannerisms. My blood. And gave her his flames.”

Mihawk’s jaw tensed. “She looked at me,” he said, “the way you did, when we met. Curious. Not afraid.”

You reached for his hand. His fingers closed around yours tightly. There was tension in his grip, but not violence. Not directed at you.

“What did you feel?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said: “Disgust. Not with her. With them.”

Your hand squeezed his.

“I have hunted Marines before. But this—this is different. This is not war. It’s desecration.” He turned his face to yours. “They would have sent her to kill me. Your face—your likeness—striking at me in battle.” His voice was quiet, but lethal. “I will not forgive it.”

You nodded. “Then don’t.”

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “I wonder,” he murmured, “what she will become.”

You thought about what he had told you. Of the flame on her back. Of her star-shaped eyes. Of her watching him—not as a soldier, but as a girl unsure of herself. Searching.

“She has your face,” he said again. “But she is not you.”

“No,” you said gently. “But she’s not a monster either. Not yet.”

Mihawk didn’t reply. But the weight of his silence said everything.

He had spared her. But the Government would pay. They had crossed a line that night. Not by cloning him. Not by playing god. But by forging a weapon out of his one exception. The one person who made him believe peace was more than just a myth.

And if she ever turned against them?

Then perhaps one day, that white-haired Seraphim girl with your eyes would find her own sword. And the man who first spared her life would be the one to teach her how to wield it.

But until then, he sat with you. 

The real you—warm, breathing, and entirely your own.

Not a clone. Not a weapon.

Just the woman he would burn the world to protect.

@iloveseraphims my sweetheart, I hope this is to your liking ❤️