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

He’s got time on his hands, so he decides to rearrange your mental bookshelf by threat level. He critiques your sword form in your dreams, just because he can. And then he haunts your every single move until he decides you’re worthy of a proper visit, which is definitely never happening, because, who wants to be haunted by a guy who sounds like he doesn’t know how to speak to a human without causing emotional damage?

So you grow up assuming 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.

His mind? It’s like steel, wine, and death threats, written in calligraphy. His silence? Oppressive. His actual, rare transmissions? Somehow worse.

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.

Once, you heard him hiss “Barbaric utensils” while you were trying to eat spaghetti. He was eating with a dull knife. A dull knife.

And then, bam. It clicks. The bond slams into place like a sword fitting into its sheath.

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. 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 frogs?” 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, 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 have actually existed compared to your ghostly soulate.

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 my 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, 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 was 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 House with a Lock your soulmate Has Broken Into Like an Unwanted Relative to Steal Your Alcohol and Judge Your Choices.

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 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 at 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 shift 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 a hand—his—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 kicks the chair, the scraping sound echoing 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 kicks the chair, the scraping sound echoing 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," 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 it 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 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 he 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. What ever 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 soulsmate 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 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 heavy 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 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—lingering 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, 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 frogs 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 frogs 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 frogs 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. Frogs 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, 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 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 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, 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 into 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 Buggy 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.