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sevikasbooyahh · 2 months ago

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𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐇𝐂'𝐬

Just random random headcannons about my wife <3

She makes lots of noises; grunts, sighs, groans. It’s basically a language that only you can understand at this point.

“Hmph,” she grunted with her usual grumpy expression. “You want cuddles?” She nods her head in response.

Snores but denies it. It’s like when you’re sharing a hotel room with your family and your dad’s snoring keeps you awake; staring at the ceiling. You’ve told her multiple times but she just doesn’t believe it.

“You kept me awake all night,” you said in disbelief as your utterly exhausted eyes met hers. “Uh-huh, how? Do NOT say because I was snoring.””You were snoring.”

But in all seriousness, she started sleeping on her side—the snoring was due to her sleeping on her back.

Doesn’t care for public affection, not that she won’t slip her arm around your waist or have her hand on your thigh once in a while—but it isn’t often.

(Saw someone else say this)—absolutely loves dad jokes. She won’t laugh at anything else but dad jokes.

“Hey babe,” you slid next to her on the couch. “Hm?””What days are the strongest?“ you asked. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Saturday and Sunday,” you started to smile. “Why?” She was slightly curious. “‘Cause the rest are weekdays,” she couldn’t even hold it before she burst out laughing.

Takes her mechanical arm off before she goes to bed because she doesn’t wanna hurt you.

Tough with everyone else but you, Jinx and Isha (they’re alive and well).

Isha made a cheerful noise as she raised her tea cup. Sevika sat across from her, hunched over the small table, teacup in hand. She pretended to drink from it, “Mm, nice.”

Perfers actions over words—for example, her version of an apology is by doing more of what she should’ve done in the past. If she wasn’t spending much time with you before, she’d immediately take it upon herself to fix her schedule.

VERY protective, especially when you’re at The Last Drop, nothing escapes her vision.

Once, this guy attempted to flirt with you but before he could get a word out, he was immediately met with a deadly glare from her. She pulled you closer towards her with a raised eyebrow, “You got something to say?” That sent him babbling in fear, “Uh-no, no, of course not!—“”Get out of my sight.”

Claims she’s not an animal person but will come home with a kitten she found on the street.

“It wouldn’t stop following me,” she said while avoiding eye contact with you. You knew she was lying.

Sometimes when she comes back from work she’ll just collapse on the couch. She’s a busy woman, alright?

Jinx cut her hair then made fun of her afterwards.

Jinx cackled after she looked at the final product, “Sweetcheeks ain’t gonna love you now, are they?” The older woman simply grumbled under breath, “You’re the one who cut it.””Yeah and I made it ugly on purpose.”

You ended up loving her hair anyway.

Secretly likes when you lay on top of her; loves seeing how comfortable you are

She’s always warm; your personal heater

Somehow gives the best hugs—bear hugs, but is so awkward with it

Takes the longest showers known to mankind; once she gets in, be prepared to wait about an hour. Meanwhile, half the time it’s just her staring at the wall.

Will let Isha climb her on rare occasions; sometimes the girl gets insanely hyper and is moving all over the place.

Says she’s “not fond of kids” but has a soft spot for them.

A little boy with blue-dyed hair walked up to her while she was outside one day. “H-hi, can you please sign this?” He asked in a soft-spoken manner, showing a drawing, offered with a crayon. She didn’t respond but took the paper and signed her name on the back. Internally, she was in disbelief that this boy looked up to her in some way. “Thank you!” He gave a big smile before running back to his group of friends, happily showing them the signature. A twitch edged at the end of her mouth.

#ARCANE #i love sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevikasbooyahhworks #headcanons #sevika headcanon

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grandisknight · 5 months ago

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at your service | rafayel

summary: Gaining the upper hand in Kitty Cards has its benefits, which solely consist of making the loser (Rafayel) comply to the winner’s choice.

tags: nsfw (mdni), established relationship, kitty cards (derogatory), teasing, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), 'miss bodyguard' name mention, thomas mention, maid!rafayel, sub!rafayel, costumes, roleplay, maids, photography, kissing, praise kink, ‘master’ kink, brief mouth fucking, finger sucking, handjobs, m!orgasm, ejaculate, implied/suggestive ending

wc: 3.0k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: don't ask me what happened but just know i will die on the hill that is maid!rafayel

You couldn’t believe your luck.

And Rafayel couldn’t understand his lack of it.

The Evol kittens were no better in-between the two of you—some were happily purring or fast asleep, comfortable in their colored teacups. More importantly, unbothered and unaware of the two players on opposite spectrums in their aftermath.

Out of the nine creatures, an overwhelming majority belonged to you. After a long, arduous dual and third round sweep, you had overshadowed Rafayel with a score of thirty-two points to his measly eight sum. He held a quarter to your victory.

“This game sucks,” Rafayel sulks. His frown mirrors one of the red Evol kittens closest to him, rounded tears blobbing down its cheeks. Both defeated, worse for wear at the outcome.

You let out a small laugh. “You say that, and yet you still play with me every week.”

You poke the cheek of a cheery green Evol kitten, who nudges against your touch in turn and meows. “Isn’t that right, little fella?” It delightfully purrs back at you, the accordance only rubbing more salt into Rafayel’s poor wound.

“Hmph.” He doesn’t fight you there, chin resting in the palm of his hand and averting your teasing gaze.

You collect your hand and his, returning all cards to the discard pile with a satisfied hum. No sooner did a café worker come by to clear your table, leaving the two of you to your devices.

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” You lean forward, reaching to his sulking demeanor. Catching the sleeve of his blouse, you lightly pinch the silk between your fingers, putting on your own petulant expression. “Unless you forgot so soon.”

As long as he breathed and lived, it was actually Rafayel who would constantly have to remind you of things said and done in the past. Less of the forgetful one between you, he takes pride in his memory retention.

Even so, he couldn’t stay upset with you for so long. His shoulders relax at the sound, back straightening and taking your hand into his. A scoff of, “Puh-lease, of course I remember,” answers your questions.

“Loser does what the winner wants,” he tacks on in confidence.

It was the terms agreed upon when stepping into Meow Meow Café earlier that day—he didn’t think much of it at the time, confident he would win today’s rounds.

But, that wasn’t the case. Right. You won the first, he the second, and as for the third…

Rafayel pauses then, dual-chromed eyes now narrowing in suspicion. “Wait a minute. I’m the loser.”

You nod, a grin plastered to your face. “Today you are, yeah.”

“And you’re the winner,” he follows up.

(If you look close enough, you could make out swirls of equations and calculations floating around his head.)

“Two for two, you’re absolutely correct.” With a gentle tug and rise from your seat, you string along a bewildered artist in tow.

It came altogether then. A sense of dread at your unrevealed schemes quickly fills his tone, face already draining of its color. “Oh no,” Rafayel groans.

“Oh yes,” you chirp. “I have a wish that needs to be granted, and you’re going to help me out!”

—

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

You stood outside the bathroom door, which was currently (and firmly) locked from within. Not that you were going to barge in unannounced, but surely it warranted some concern when Rafayel hadn’t stepped a single foot out since entering. Only the rustles of clothing and hushed utterances echoed the acoustics of tiled walls; you couldn’t really make out any of the finer details otherwise.

And it’s been ten minutes.

You clear your throat, wondering if he missed the first time you called out. “Ra—fa—yel—“

The door swings open then, the man of the hour greeting you with, “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

It took a second to register his reappearance, and your mouth fell slack taking him in. “Woah,” you breathe out in awe.

No longer in his casual blouse and accompanying slacks, the artist stood before you in a newly picked attire.

White knee-high socks stuck to his calves, with the edge of their supporting garters partially hidden and neatly wrapped all the same. A frilled apron of ivory linen rested neatly above his kneecaps, blanketing the black satin of a dress in an equally-met length underneath. Sleeves puffed around his shoulders, and a pointed collar was tastefully unbuttoned in fashion—undoubtedly of his own doing, revealing the flush of his chest and collarbone that homed one of his many beauty marks.

To which, he instinctively covers up with a defensive cross of arms and ears tipped in a bright red. Embarrassment follows his rather meek stance. “So like, that’s all, right? Can I take this off now?”

You take a step closer, hands clasped behind your back in observation and hum. It was well-fitted to his body, hugged neatly in all the places where it mattered. Thomas came in clutch when you asked him the other day, catching him at Flux Arts during one of the slower viewing hours.

“His measurements?” The agent pondered your request. A couple swipes to his tab later, he adds on with a smile, “Sure thing. If it’s for Rafayel’s sake, then I’ll send them over.”

A little secret kept between the two of you, unbeknownst to the wearer. It was probably for the best, you wouldn’t hear the end of his moping otherwise.

Rafayel whines under your scrutinizing gaze that was lost in thought. “Hey—“

“Not yet,” you say with a shake of your head. “Indulge me for a while more. You took forever in there all by yourself, anyhow.”

You reveal a matching headdress between your once hidden fingers, a row of pleated ribbon swiftly placed amongst his wavy locks. The final piece of the puzzle, a maid in all his glory and in the comforts of your humble abode. A sense of glittering pride holds your gaze to his.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he points out.

Your shoulders raise in a slight shrug. “Of course I am, it’s the winner’s right.” A hand trails down to the curve of his jaw, holding the face that continues to pout. With a light snicker and compliment in attendance, you tell him, “You look very cute, by the way.”

Rafayel’s pout twitches for a second, slyly revealing his enjoyment to the compliment. He clears his throat, saying, “Yeaaah right. Take a picture, I’m sure it’ll last longer.”

Oh, but he spoke too soon. His eyes widen when you actually take out your phone, much to his better judgment. “Hold on, you’re not planning on really keeping a memo, are you?”

“It would be a shame if I didn’t,” you counter. He said so himself—might as well take his word for it.

Swiping to the camera app, you position the lens inches away and see his furrowed brows through the viewfinder. You gently tug him forward, fingers fully curled underneath his chin. On the other hand, he purposefully sways back and forth in an effort to blur your captures.

You tsk. “The more you squirm, the longer I’ll have to keep trying to take a shot.”

“What, you don’t like my blurry faces too? They’re all handsome,” he huffs. Though a squish to his cheeks cuts him short, stilling him long enough for a ring of shutters to seal the deal.

“Alright, alright,” you coo to console his woes. “I think I managed to get a good one.”

You lower the phone in observation, scrolling through the new gallery additions. The flurry of dark lavender and hazy skin aside, a few select shots captured the paused moment of time where he did behave.

Device neatly tucked away into your back pocket, your attention turns back to the subject of your newest wallpaper. Even if this was a reward for you, he deserved just as much in compensation.

A soft kiss to Rafayel’s jutted lip melts some of his tension, brows no longer scrunched together. You smile at his relaxing shoulders and opening arms when you give another.

You shower him in adoration, butterflied smooches and his closing eyes soon pressing against the closest wall. Your hands run over the frills of his skirt, smooth to the touch and gently laid out atop his thighs. The barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the amount of warmth emanating through, the effect of your touches having a clear reaction on him.

You wondered if there was more to be seen—only one way to find out.

Shifting, you drag your lips away from his and to the sweet spot where his jaw and earlobe meet. You ask in a low voice, “So, what do you think?” His blush steadily follows into the very space, worsening when you blow gently over the affected skin. “Dressing up like this for me.”

“My thoughts?”

Whether it was in disbelief or furthered embarrassment—perhaps a fine condition of both—Rafayel could only exhale. You could feel his legs pressing together in unspoken confirmation, and a bashful turn of his head carries his murmur of, “What do you think I’m thinking about when you touch me like that?”

“Well,” you trail off. “I’d rather show and not tell.”

In a blink, your fingers bunch up the skirt fabric into messied pleats that reveal the answers you sought after. And it truly was a lovely sight to see—you let out a low whistle, impressed at the state he’s in. Through the sheer lace of white trim, a curved tip as red as his ears was weeping quietly, soiling the undergarment dutifully.

“Don’t look,” he whines, attempting to cover up his hardened arousal with the satin.

“Would you prefer if I touched instead?” You tease, catching his wrist in apt timing. You guide his hand over where his body couldn’t lie, and he noticeably twitches. “Oh? Maybe you prefer touching yourself.”

“I can’t do that,” Rafayel weakly counters. It breaks into a low moan when you slowly inch him closer to the beads of precum pulsing past his slit. He hisses when your thumb slips against it, purposefully smearing his come against the lace. “You’re so, so mean, Miss Bodygu—“

“Ah, not so fast.” You tut, drawing back and a string of his arousal follows. He gasps at the unexpected loss, protests shaping his lips before you continue your turn. “That’s not my proper title.”

Confusion tints the hues of red and blue that, already, were far dipped into the seas of lust. “I call you that all the time though.”

In hindsight, you are his Miss Bodyguard. Have been, for months on end, and with generous bank statements stamped with his name as a source of proof. One who graciously accompanies him when your schedules allow it, to even sightseeing trips for both business and pleasure.

He pauses, then notably gawks with the cogs of realization spinning. “You… Don’t tell me, you want me to call you that?”

It wouldn’t be the first time this particular name has come up in conversation, but the circumstances were vastly different. You bring your soiled thumb to his lips, swiping it across and allowing it to settle into a thin layer of gloss.

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

“Sorry, are you talking to me right now? I only listen to those with manners.” His eyes only grow in size, yet you feign indifference to it. Of course you would hear him out—though only with the proper name.

Ignorance was never bliss, but rather a crude form of torture for Rafayel. “M… m…” The word laid on the tip of his tongue in a hesitant sound, before a quick mumble follows.

“I can’t hear you.” Your fingers curl themselves once more in a grip over his chin, directing his gaze to go nowhere else but to you. And your eyes were steadfast, committing his flustered face to memory.

“Speak up,” you encourage.

The air above sea had never felt so suffocating yet enticing all at once. Rafayel couldn’t help but enjoy the heat, and the root cause of it, to which he says in a low groan, “Master.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Your faceted praise comes with a tilt of his head and a kiss to reward his newfound diligence. He sighs into your warmth that welcomes him, though it shifts to a whine when you pull away too soon.

Rafayel nudges your nose with his, a pity show pooling in his eyes. “More, Master.”

“More of what, exactly?” You contemplate, before a decisive, downwards push of his lacey underwear has him sighing.

His length stood proud against his abdomen, way past a softened state, firm and twitching to the exposed air. You draw a fine line from base to sensitive head, gauging his reaction. The other hand toys with the closest garter on his thigh, fingers dipping past the fine leather. “My sweet Rafayel,” you purr. “What should I do with you?”

“Want you to touch me,” he strains, an edge of impatience to confession. His lips move to mouth at your collarbone, no longer hiding his neediness and taking it in stride. It was rare for you to see this side of him, so vulnerable yet entirely reserved for you—a face he wouldn’t dare show anyone else.

Rafayel spoke with heat in his voice and hazy stars in his eyes. “Master, please. I swear I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything,” you muse, squeezing his thigh thoughtfully. “And all you want me to do is touch you.” You can’t help but chuckle when his enthusiastic nod only adds to your point.

You could see his illusory fox ears flatten in disappointment when you pull away, against his wishes. He lets out a small yelp when your fingers release the garter and smack against his skin.

“Master, I—“

“Open,” you instruct, fingers searching his lips once more.

And Rafayel does, choking a moan when you place them against his tongue. Carefully, you stroke his warm cavern, to which his mouth closes around and sucks with zeal. He swirls his tongue against the pads of your fingers, determined to please you.

His canines briefly graze your skin when you depart with a faint string. Now finely coated in a layer of his saliva, you dip your hand downwards—curling the sticky fingers around his nearly-neglected cock. Rafayel cants his hips immediately, supporting the salaciously wet noises that echo in tune.

You squeeze his length in warning, pressing the other hand to his abdomen. “Stay still,” you scold, feeling him contract beneath your pressure. “If you can’t follow a simple order, I’ll leave you high and dry.”

“No, no, no,” he whimpers, shaking his head adamantly. His hands grip the skirt, desperate and knuckles almost turning white from their strength. Something to keep him grounded, to make sure he listens well to his beloved—“Master, I won’t move, promise.”

You purse your lips. “We’ll see about that.”

Up and down, you tenderly attend to his arousal in generous strokes. Steady rubs and an occasional swipe to his sensitive head last for what feels like an eternity to Rafayel. He was so well-behaved when his orgasm was threatened, all in the palm of your hand.

“You’re close,” you observe with a particularly firm flick, “Aren’t you?”

“Mhm, ‘m very close,” Rafayel quickly admits, his breaths ardent and changing in pitch. He looked so beautiful like this, prettily wrapped around your fingers and a sweet song of your name resonates from his throat.

Abandoning the languid strokes, you angle your elbow to reach him sooner—faster. “A good, honest boy,” you coo. His blush only deepens at the sound, and his keens grow in volume. You’d apologize to the neighbors later.

“Should I let you come?” You ask knowingly.

“Master, Ma—ah—ster,” he cries out. “Can feel it, I’m about to—“ A tear rolls down his cheek, matching the one threatening to bead past his slit. “Please, please.” Overwhelmed and in a desperate need for relief, Rafayel’s expression stirred a flame within you.

“Let it out,” you coax, pace unrelenting and threatening to cramp your fingers. The finish line was only a step away, and you say with a smile, “Do it for me. Come undone, my little maid.”

Blissful orgasm wrecks his body, accompanying his labored whines and pearls of white leaving his spent cock. Both the fabric of his outfit and your hand became victims to the viscous liquid, with the air equally met with nothing but the scent of it.

Rafayel was boneless by the time he was nothing but dribbles of cum and a wrinkled skirt, slouching against the wall.

Your dry hand finds its way to his face, kindly stroking his cheek and adding a kiss to his relaxed brow. “You did so well, Raf.”

“Course I did,” he manages to jest in a hoarse voice. He eyes the state of his clothes and your dirtied hand, to which he nods towards. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” You look down, before raising it between your faces. It glistens, brought to the light and sinking into the creases of your skin. “Why—Ah.”

Obediently, Rafayel takes your fingers dripping in release to his mouth. He licks in strides at the leftovers as if it were a swirl of ice cream on a hot, summer day.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” you muse, though make no movement to stop him. “What a dutiful maid I have.”

He nips your now unsullied fingertips at the comment. His hold on your wrist brings you closer—you stumble unexpectedly, letting go of his face to steady a hand to his chest.

“Raf—“ Your voice stutters when you feel his knee rub between your legs. Purposeful and angled, the pressure stokes the forsaken flames in your abdomen. “Rafayel,” you breathe, attempting to collect your bearings.

“I hope you know I won’t easily forget all the things you’ve done,” Rafayel murmurs, eyes glimmering in mischief. “I won’t let you off easy, Master.”

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yara0546 · 27 days ago

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Nct dream reaction you are crying because of something cute

୨୧ Pairing: nct dream x female!reader

୨୧ Genre: fluff, relationship.

୨୧ Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction from our imagination. It is not intended that the plot, theme, original characters, idols, etc. portray any real-life events/people. Plagiarism is NOT tolerated on this blog. If you believe we have copied an existing authors’ work, please message us privately. thank you and enjoy :)

Masterlist

✦ Mark

You were watching a video of puppies meeting their mom for the first time when tears started welling up in your eyes. "They're so tiny and fluffy," you sniffled.

Mark blinked in confusion, staring at the screen, then at you. "Wait… you're crying?" He chuckled softly but quickly stopped when he saw your teary eyes. "Aw, no, no don’t cry!" He gently pulled you into his arms, patting your head. "I mean, yeah, they’re cute, but… don’t cry, dummy. You're gonna make me feel bad now."

✦ Renjun

You were looking at a tiny duckling following its mom when you suddenly let out a choked sob.

Renjun turned to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious?" he asked, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away. "You're actually crying over a duckling?"

"It's just so small," you hiccupped.

He rolled his eyes but pulled you close, rubbing your back lightly. "You're ridiculous," he muttered, but he was already searching for more duckling videos just to see you smile again.

✦ Jeno

You were reading a webtoon where a cat saved a little girl from danger, and the sheer wholesomeness made you tear up.

Jeno, who was beside you, noticed your sniffles and immediately sat up. "Wait, what happened? Are you okay?"

You turned the screen toward him, your voice shaky. "The cat saved her! Look!"

He blinked at the screen, then at you, before bursting into laughter. "You're crying over a cat?" he teased. But when you buried your face in his shoulder, embarrassed, he just smiled and pulled you close. "Okay, okay, I get it. That’s kinda cute… but not cuter than you."

✦ Haechan

You were watching a baby laugh uncontrollably at their dad making funny faces. The joy on the baby’s face was so pure that you couldn’t help but cry.

Haechan gasped exaggeratedly. "Oh no, my baby’s crying!" He dramatically threw himself onto the couch, fake sobbing. "How could the world be so cruel to my poor angel?"

You sniffled, laughing through your tears. "It's not cruel! It's just so cute!" l

He grinned, sitting up and cupping your face. "Okay, but what if I make you laugh instead of cry?" He started making ridiculous faces, mimicking the baby’s dad in the video. You ended up crying from laughter instead.

�� Jaemin

You had been scrolling through pictures of tiny kittens sleeping in teacups when you suddenly burst into tears.

Jaemin, seeing your emotional state, immediately jumped into action. "Oh no, baby, who hurt you?"

"They're… so small," you wailed, showing him the pictures.

Jaemin nodded seriously, pretending to wipe away a tear of his own. "You’re right. This is too much. We need to adopt all the kittens in the world."

You giggled, and he kissed your forehead. "Anything to keep you smiling, my love."

✦ Chenle

You were watching a baby panda rolling down a hill, and suddenly, tears welled up in your eyes.

Chenle, sitting beside you, started laughing immediately. "Are you seriously crying?"

"It's just so cute!" you wailed. l

Still laughing, he pulled you into a hug, rubbing your back. "You're the cutest one here," he teased, his laughter softening. "But, wow, I never knew pandas could make you this emotional."

✦ Jisung

You were reading a manga about a boy taking care of a tiny lost bird, and the wholesome moment made you cry.

Jisung looked at you, panicked. "Wait, wait, wait! Why are you crying?"

You showed him the manga, sniffling. "He’s taking care of the baby bird, and...... "

Jisung awkwardly patted your shoulder, unsure what to do. "Uh… there, there?" But after a moment, he sighed and gently wiped your tears with his sleeve. "I mean… it is kinda cute."

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mercillery · 25 days ago

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CHIBI MIHAWK

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD NOTES: based on THIS absolutely cute Mihawk figure. This was done on a whim on a school night so there may be oopsies here and there.

Somehow, some way, for reasons that defy logic, science, and possibly even the laws of nature, Dracule Mihawk is now a chibi. A pint-sized, absolutely microscopic version of himself with all of his pride, dignity, and soul-piercing intensity still fully intact.

Despite his new… predicament, Mihawk flat-out refuses to acknowledge that anything is out of the ordinary. He does not see himself as helpless. He does not see himself as weak. He will not be patronized. He is still the greatest swordsman in the world, even if he now looks like he could be comfortably carried around in your pocket. And yet, despite his best efforts to maintain an air of authority, his tiny body betrays him at every turn.

You, on the other hand, have been gifted with a chibi Mihawk, and while this has certainly thrown your daily routine into chaos, you can’t deny that watching the world’s most fearsome swordsman struggle to do literally anything at this size is, frankly, the greatest thing that has ever happened to you.

Chibi Mihawk, who you desperately want to scoop up and cradle like a fragile little kitten, but who absolutely will not allow it. Do not be fooled. He may be fun-sized, but he is still himself—a walking embodiment of dignity, self-sufficiency, and sheer force of will.

If you so much as think about treating him like some kind of adorable novelty, expect an immediate and deeply unimpressed stare. Actually, scratch that—you’re getting the stare regardless. His golden eyes somehow retain the exact same sharpness as before, and there is something so deeply unnerving about being observed like a lesser life form by a man who is literally small enough to fit in a teacup. He does not blink. He does not move. He just watches you, silently, like a hawk preparing to swoop down on its unsuspecting prey.

And as if the sheer existence of a chibi Mihawk wasn’t enough, his sword shrank too. Of course it did. Yoru is practically an extension of himself—there was no way it wasn’t going to shrink right along with him. And now, you have not only a pocket-sized Mihawk but also a tiny, toy-sized Yoru that, miraculously, still looks just as menacing as the full-sized version. It is approximately the length of a butter knife. A very intimidating butter knife.

You have seen him attempt to sharpen it. With a rock. Like a miniature warrior preparing for battle, except there is no battle, just a very small man aggressively honing his skills on the coffee table. Oh, and his hat shrunk too. His entire outfit shrunk to match, and let’s be honest—the sight of him in his dramatically oversized coat, which now practically drags behind him like a royal cape, is almost enough to make you lose it. But you don’t. Because you know, deep down, that if you do, if you so much as let out a single laugh—he will remember. And he will wait.

You keep chibi Mihawk near you 24/7. There is no negotiation, no room for argument—this is non-debatable. The paranoia is REAL. He is the World’s Greatest Swordsman, and now he is the World’s Tiniest Greatest Swordsman, and there is absolutely no way in the nine circles of hell that you are letting him out of your sight for even a nanosecond.

What if he gets lost? What if someone steps on him?? What if a seagull snatches him up like a breadcrumb and carries him off to parts unknown?!? No. NO. Not on your watch. You have seen firsthand how ridiculously overpowered Mihawk is in battle, but even you have to admit that at his current size, he is disturbingly close to being classified as a snack.

Of course, Mihawk, being Mihawk, has very specific terms and conditions for how he is allowed to be carried. The only acceptable method? Perching on your shoulder like some kind of regal falcon. That is it. That is the rule.

Attempt to hold him any other way—cupping him in your hands, cradling him like a baby, or heaven forbid, tucking him into your pocket—and you will be met with a stare so chilling it could freeze the sun itself. And then, in a voice that is far too calm for how deadly it sounds, he will warn, “You’re testing my patience.”

Translation: You are moments away from death.

That being said, whether you like it or not, he is going to be on your shoulder. You are now a full-time, unpaid Mihawk perch. He will not ask permission, nor will he give you a choice in the matter.

You could be sitting down, minding your own business, and suddenly—boom—there he is, climbing up your sleeve with the sheer determination of a man who refuses to acknowledge that he is, in fact, fun-sized. You are now his personal throne, and he expects you to act accordingly.

Oh, and speaking of things you have no choice in? It is now your job to protect him from birds. You don’t want to? Too bad.

The moment Mihawk shrunk, he went from world-renowned swordsman to potential bird food, and the reality of that is absolutely terrifying. You have no idea how many times you’ve had to aggressively wave your arms and hiss at an overly curious pigeon while Mihawk simply crossed his arms and stared at it like he was daring it to attack. Like, sir, I don’t think you understand, you are one second away from becoming someone’s lunch.

Mihawk, despite being pocket-sized, still commands authority and expects to be treated with the same level of respect as before. Just because he is now a fraction of his usual height does not mean he is any less of a threat. (His words, not yours.) That means he still demands his wine, his alone time, and most importantly, his dignity. However, this is now impossible.

His first real struggle with his new reality? His wine.

Mihawk, being the man of refined tastes that he is, insists on drinking his wine as usual, except there is now a very specific and hilarious problem: the glass is twice his size.

Watching him attempt to lift it is a test of willpower on your end, because if you so much as smirk, he will know. And he will remember. Eventually, after a long, suffering silence, you had to find him a thimble just so he could properly enjoy his drink.

A thimble.

The World’s Greatest Swordsman is now delicately sipping wine from a thimble.

But don’t say a word. Do not react. Do not acknowledge the absolute absurdity of it all. Because if you do, you will be on the receiving end of the most powerful side-eye of your entire existence.

Good lord. Good. Lord. You lose him a lot. And every single time, it shaves years off your lifespan. Your anxiety? Through the roof. Through the atmosphere. Through the stratosphere.

This man is naturally quiet, an observer more than a speaker, and now that he’s chibi-sized, he is literally a walking jump scare. One moment, he’s perfectly within sight—perhaps perched on the windowsill, staring out dramatically like he’s pondering the weight of existence, thimble of wine in hand. You blink. Gone.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even do it on purpose. Mihawk doesn’t wander off to be mischievous—he just moves effortlessly, like some kind of stealthy little shadow demon. You could be in the same room, watching him one second, and then the next? Vanished.

And now you have to search for your tiny, lethal gremlin of a swordsman, all while panicking because what if you accidentally step on him?!? What if he’s under a cushion?! What if you sit down and crush him?!? You’ve started moving around with the same level of care and fear as someone navigating a minefield.

Mihawk, for his part, is completely unbothered. He does not understand why you’re always looking so frantic when you find him. He gives you a look that speaks why do you look so distressed? completely serious, as he lounges inside the empty fruit bowl on the counter like a very judgmental, brooding plum.

Reaching things has become an ordeal. Mihawk will not ask for help. Ever. If something is out of his reach, he will stare at it. Long and hard. Silently. Contemplating his options like he’s trying to calculate the meaning of life itself. He will not break his dignity by requesting assistance.

He will, however, accept help if you offer—but not without a huff and a very reluctant, “Do not make a habit of this.” Right. Sure. Whatever you say, chibi swordsman.

Being picked up? Absolutely not. You tried once. Once. And the look he gave you? Terrifying. You have never felt more pierced to your very core than when chibi Mihawk silently judged you for daring to lift him like a plushie. He is not a toy!

However, if you warn him beforehand, he will begrudgingly tolerate it—but only if absolutely necessary. If you say, “Hey, I need to pick you up,” he’ll fold his arms, let out a long, suffering sigh, and then mutter, “…Very well. But be swift.” Like you’re asking him to endure some great suffering.

That being said, no matter how much he despises it, he has no choice but to rely on you. And you know what? He hates that. There are certain things he simply cannot do at his current size—whether it’s opening doors, climbing onto furniture, or reaching high places.

And you? You, his beloved, have become his reluctant savior. He tolerates your assistance, but you know every time he needs your help, a little piece of his pride crumbles.

Teasing is absolutely not tolerated. If you so much as snicker when he struggles with something, expect a sharp remark or, worse, a long, judgmental stare. You have never felt so silently insulted in your entire life. And heaven help you if you get too playful—like when you start poking at him or cooing at how “precious” he looks. His eye twitches. His patience thins. You feel the silent threat in the air.

Sleeping is… complicated. His usual bed? Now far too big. You had to improvise—you put together a small, makeshift bed just for him. And while Mihawk said nothing, you swear you caught the faintest hint of approval in his expression. Was that… was that a glimmer of impressed respect in his eyes? You’ll never know for sure, because he’ll never admit it.

Despite your best efforts, though, Mihawk refuses to use the bed half the time. No, because that would be too simple. Instead, you often find him perched dramatically on a pillow, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like he’s contemplating the tragedies of life. Why? No one knows. It’s just what he does.

And then there was the night you woke up and found him curled up inside your scarf. Not for comfort—no, Mihawk does not need “comfort.” According to him, it was “the most efficient size” for him to rest in. You stared at him, half-awake, and he just stared right back, daring you to question it. You didn’t. You just went back to sleep, pretending you didn’t see anything.

Food has been an experience. You may or may not have handed Mihawk a sewing needle as a sword as a joke. He was deeply offended. The moment you presented it, he narrowed his eyes and stated, “You insult me.”

But guess what? He still uses it. Not because he wants to. No, he would never lower himself to such nonsense—except he has. He has resorted to stabbing pieces of fruit with his tiny sewing-needle sword, all while maintaining a level of dignity that should not be possible. He will slice his meals with precision—small, but still menacing. You have watched this tiny, furious chibi man cut a grape with the same energy he would use to cut down an opponent.

You laughed once. It was a mistake. The moment the chuckle escaped your lips, Mihawk slowly turned his head, golden eyes glowing with silent judgment. And then, with great deliberation, he impaled another piece of fruit without breaking eye contact. You shut up immediately.

When Mihawk finally returns to normal, he acts as if nothing happened. As if he was never a chibi. As if you never had to carry him around. As if he never sat in a fruit bowl or slept in your scarf like a very tiny, very dramatic king.

He refuses to acknowledge any of the more… humiliating moments of his chibi state. The silence is almost worse than if he had complained. It’s the kind of silence that says, “We will never speak of this. Ever.”

However, if you so much as bring it up… Oh, you fool. You absolute buffoon.

He will turn to you with one long, unamused stare. And then, with calm deliberation, his hand will subtly grip the hilt of his sword—a silent warning. A promise. Do not test me.

That said, you were particularly helpful during his time as a chibi, so he does, in his own way, show some small (read: microscopic) token of gratitude. Maybe he’ll pour you a glass of wine. Maybe he’ll spare you from one of his usual sharp remarks. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll allow you one victory and not punish you too harshly.

But make no mistake—he remembers everything. Every single moment. Every joke. Every time you teased him. Every time you picked him up without warning.

And if you mocked him too much? You should start watching your back. Because Mihawk is not a man who forgets. And perhaps, one day, you’ll wake up… and find yourself chibi.

And when that day comes? Mihawk will simply stand before you, full-sized once more, staring down at your tiny form. No words will be spoken. But his smirk will say everything.

Your fate has been sealed.

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