as far as one piece antagonists go Crocodile truly gets absolutely scooby-dooâd at unmatched levels
He immediately falls for a phone scam and from basically little garden to rainbase he doesnât even know the strawhats are alive (and clowning towards him at incredible speed). As soon as he does, theyâre in his house tearing at his walls and bringing marines into his villain lair.
He uses a literal floor trap door over a gator pit to catch them, gets phone scammed again, full scooby-doo chase scenes after Chopper through the streets while still missing him, and suddenly his prisoners have escaped his impossible cage, and his giant bananagators are dead. and Nico Robin saw it all happen.
He then spends rest of the arc complaining about those meddling kids and their dog âstrawhat pirates and their weird petâ and at no point does he even know how many strawhats there are.
Like yeah he keeps having plans on top of plans to stop everything Vivi can do but also she keeps coming up with a new thing to do (Tom and Jerry ass dynamic).
Part of it is that heâs underestimating them and keeps grandstanding villain monologuing but also teens keep killing hundreds of his grand line bounty hunters and he straight up does not know what is happening.
Cause he IS trying to kill them heâs sending top assassins after them and ripping out luffyâs organs, the whole time heâs yelling HOW ARE YOU ALIVE?? DIE. as whack-a-mole Luffy keeps inventing new ways to hit him.
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For context for those who don't speak Chinese, yes, we exist. âčąč â in chinese is "Doufu" (meaning Tofu), sounds a lot like Dofu. So, in essence, čąč mingo sounds like Doflamingo in my 3 hour sleep deprived mind.
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1/2: Mihawk x Reader
Length: 18.5k+
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence (Eventually), Psychic Invasions of Privacy, Obsessive Tendencies, Emotional Dysfunction Played for Humor and Angst, Questionable Consent (Mental Realm), Long-Term Ghosting, Suggestive Themes, Unsolicited Sword Metaphors, Language, Mentions of Hormonal Meltdowns and Crayon Consumption
Having Mihawk as a soulmate is like being spiritually handcuffed to a haunted cryptid in a cape who thinks silence is foreplay and emotional repression is a personality trait. His presence is sharp, cold, and somehow always judging you mid-snack. Heâs been lurking in your head like a cursed wine sommelier since the bond activatedâcritiquing your sword form, your taste in literature, and once, your soup.
âIf my soulmateâs a child, Iâll wait until theyâre old enough to hunt.â
For @ari20002
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Youâre a proud little girl-girl, equipped with dreams, skills, big ideas, and exactly thirty books of varying fairytales featuring soulmates you have been studying since birth.
It all starts innocently enough. Youâre sitting in the corner of the room, reading fantasy books and chewing on crayons like theyâre gourmet snacks. No shame. Youâre living your best life, and crayons taste better than people think, okay?
And thenâbam.
Somewhere, miles away, a certain man with an unnerving mastery of Haki and a complete inability to handle social interactions hears you.
Heâs 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 youâre worthy of a proper visit, which is definitely never happening, because, who wants to be haunted by a guy who sounds like he doesnât 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 thatâs just out there⌠somewhere⌠probably not interested. Youâve never met him.
His mind? Itâs 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? Itâs always one of three things:
A single, cryptic monologue about blade technique that definitely sounds suspiciously sexual.
A scathing insult aimed at some rival youâve never met, but somehow youâre still offended by.
Two words, maybe three, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Once, you heard him hiss âBarbaric utensilsâ 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: âAm I being haunted??â
Older you, lighting a cigarette: âOh, honey. Thatâs just him. He does that.â
He doesnât 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 didnât order that. You think a lewd thought? Your pillow spontaneously combusts.
You had dreams. You thought that maybe youâd meet him one day; heâd sweep you off your feet, kiss your forehead, maybe let you ride on his sword like itâs 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 âdo not disturbâ 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. Itâs 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.
"Heâs 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. "Heâs probably a prince," you muse, excitement building. "With a tragic past. And excellent hair."
Youâre 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! Weâre going to get married on a cliff during a lightning storm. Heâll save me from a dragon, make breakfast in bed, and maybe, just maybe, weâre 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 hasnât 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.Â
He pauses mid-training, his grip tightening on his sword hilt, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if heâs 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!"
Youâve named the bond and named it something ridiculous, something cute.Â
"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 neighborâs goat is evil. Whatâs your opinion?"
He stands there, frozen. His mind reels, and for a second, it feels like his internal organs are on fire. Itâs the strangest sensation; a pull, a presence that somehow makes everything inside him go still and wild all at once.
âAbsolutely not.â
He didnât 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, wasnât interested in any of that.
He wasnât interested in being âfixed.â He wasnât 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 couldnât 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.Â
You: âHello???â
Bond: [Muffled noise of a door locking.]
You start thinking maybe it was a weird fever dream. Maybe your soulmate died. Maybe theyâre in another dimension. Maybe youâre the hallucination? Your fairy tale books havenât given instructions on this sort of thing.
Meanwhile, Mihawk is actively dodging it like itâs jury duty.
-X-Passages from Your Childhood Psychic Transcript. Silence.-X-
Age 9:
âHello?? Mister Sea Ghost? I think you left your sword feelings in my head.â
You tried again and again. Sometimes asking questions like âDo you like frogs?â or âDo soulmates get presents or just the shared trauma?â
Every time, you were met with the deep, echoing void of a man willfully choosing psychic silence.Â
But every time, youâre met with nothing. Not even a whisper. Itâs like youâre shouting into the dark and waiting for someone to throw you a rope. You canât even get a single scrap of acknowledgment.
Frustrated, you run to the library, a sanctuary of your own. Youâve always loved the smell of old pages and the promise of endless knowledge between covers. But today, itâs not for the stories. Itâs 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 youâre 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. Youâre too wrapped up in trying to figure out if soulmates are supposed to be this distant.
âDo you want romance?â you whisper to yourself, flipping through the pages. âOr just awkward silences?â
The librarian sighs, taking the books from you and giving you a pointed look. âIâm not sure thatâs what these books are for. You shouldnât be looking in the adult section yet.â
âDo you accept interns?â
âNot under 12.â
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 couldâve given you.
Elsewhere:
Shanks hears about it over sake once.
âYou blocked your soulmate?â
Mihawk, sipping dark wine: âThey were a toddler. I am not raising a mini swordsman with sticky fingers and jelly on their face.â
âSo you just disconnected?â
âI meditated. With extreme prejudice. I donât talk to children.â
Shanks: ââŚtheyâre like, small and have feelings. You couldâve just muted the telepathy.â
Mihawk: âI did. With violence.â
Age 10:
"I drew us getting married. Thatâs you. I made you a cape. You feel âcapey.â"
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 âcapeyâ 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 heâs okay. Mihawk lies and says heâs allergic to pollen.
You: âHI. I HAVE A STICK. IâM NAMING IT SWORDY.â
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. Doesnât say where. Doesnât say why. The monk who raised him just watches in silence.
âWhere are you going?â
âAway from this bond before it gives me a migraine and a court summons.â
Age 11:
Over the YearsâŚ
âDo 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.
âMy soulmate just proposed to me.â
Enemy: âWhatââ
Mihawk: [kills him in one stroke] âAnd Iâm still not answering.â
Age 12:
You start writing letters to your soulmate like a tragic romance heroine:
âDear Mysterious Mister Sea Ghost, I stubbed my toe today, and also no one loves me.â
He reads every mental blip you scream into the void.
And then he slams it shut.
Again.
More Silence.Â
Years of it.
You do end up interning at the library.
Age 13:
Puberty.
âSo I think Iâm dying. Or my soulmate is. Or both.â
Mihawk stands, walks to the wine cellar. Opens the bottle labeled âFor Soulmate Emergenciesâ.Â
Pours a glass. âAbsolutely not.â
âI got my period today. Is this a shared sensation, or should I send you a warning next time?â
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 youâve been reading too much and canât decide if youâre emotionally destroyed or just overly horny.
He gritted his teeth. âI donât know how this is my life now.â
Age 14:
By now, youâre fully leaning into delusion because itâs all you have.
Youâve embraced it. Leaned into the madness like a warm blanket.
You still call the bond âSoulbeam.â 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 heâs 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 canât even meet.
Itâs ridiculous. You know it is. But itâs all youâve got now. So you document your imaginary soulmate's every flaw and glory, carefully cataloging his existence as if heâs a figure in a book, a beautiful, unreachable fantasy.
âDear Prince Quiet mystery-man, I hope your cape is warm. Iâm learning embroidery for our wedding.â PS: Do you prefer pink or yellow for curtains?â
Still, nothing. Not even static. Just spiritual tumbleweeds.
You start assuming:
He died tragically.
Heâs a specter.
Or, worst of all, he knows about you and doesnât care.
Your inner monologue morphs into a full-blown one-woman show. You whisper to the wind like a theater kid whoâs way too familiar with the phrase âIâm just misunderstood,â but, worse, like a book nerd whoâs 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.
âNope. Nope. This is a divine punishment. I will not engage.â
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:
âToday I ate three peaches and cried for no reason. Is that⌠normal?â
He closes his eyes and forces his Haki to mute. At least youâve lost your penchant for detailing your dreamed romances between the two of you. Heâs tired of your mental monologues about him being the sleeping-beauty knight, the lone prince of some tragic story youâve written in your mind.
âI will not be emotionally blackmailed by fruit.â
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 isnât even in the same hemisphere? That is whatâs breaking him.
Itâs 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 heâs long since dismissed.
âI LOVE BOOKS!â 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, heâs 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 wonât 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. Youâve had enough of your soul-crushingly silent bond with him, but now youâre 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. Youâre stuck with nothing but dusty classics, historical fiction, and some guy named Sir Nietzsche.
You accidentally pick up the book, thinking itâs just some old philosopher, and within ten pages, youâre 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.
Itâs too much. Youâre 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 canât. 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 youâre too deep now. There's no escaping it.
âOkay, so maybe I donât have a soulmate. Maybe the universe gave me a soul void. A romantic absentee landlord. A soul eviction notice.â
Your frustration builds, and you hurl your arms out, gesturing dramatically to the empty air, like itâs the most insulting thing in the world. You start talking to the void, out of sheer spite.
âI bet you have terrible posture. You probably eat dry toast and act like itâs 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 donât even deserve. Youâre probably the type to judge people mid-bite of a sandwich.â
Still. Silence.
Your heart beats a little faster, not from fear but from a building, bitter sense of ridiculousness. Youâve been yelling at nothing. Nothing thatâs listening, at least. Youâre pretty sure the bondâs somewhere out there, but itâs 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. âYou know what? Fine. Youâre probably emotionally unavailable. Maybe youâre not even real. Just some idea floating around in the universe to torment me, like some cosmic joke that Iâve been too dumb to get.â
The silence presses down harder, like itâs taunting you, and youâre done.
You grow convinced your soulmate is:
Emotionally unavailableÂ
Possibly fictional
Statistically likely to be the worst man alive (You are accidentally right.)
Thereâs a painful pause before you finally mutter to the void, âIf I ever meet you, Iâll be surprised if youâre even human.â
Still, nothing.
And yet, somehow, it doesnât matter. Youâre done letting the bond have control over your headspace. Youâve spent too long trapped in the cosmic void, waiting for someone who isnât even sending postcards.
Itâs 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? Realityâs a bitch with a wicked sense of humor.
You pause, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the moment settle in. Youâve outgrown the idea of soulmates, of âdestiny.â Screw fate, screw this soul bond thatâs only ever been a reminder of how badly youâve been ignored. You canât spend another second waiting for a man who thinks âcommunicationâ is a weapon of war, one heâs long since abandoned.
âIâm done,â you mutter to the room. To the void. To whateverâs still listening, which is probably nothing.
Your dream of some grand, seafaring romanceâof some mythical, sword-wielding prince whoâd sweep you off your feetâshrivels up and dies like a flower left too long without water. Youâre no longer holding onto the idea that heâll come to your rescue, because the truth is: no oneâs coming. Not him. Not anyone.
Age 17:
Youâve grown accustomed to the silence. Itâs no longer unsettling. Youâve come to accept it, even embrace it, like that one sock you canât find the pair to, but just keep anyway. The void is just⌠there. Like an old, familiar shadow that doesnât 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. Itâs like youâre in a one-sided conversation with the universe, and itâs 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 donât talk back, but at least they donât judge you for talking to yourself.
"You probably read the dictionary for fun," you add, âand then rate it like itâs 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. Itâs 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:
âScrew destiny, Iâm taking control of my own pleasure for once.â
And his whole body locks up. Wine shatters on the stone floor. The castle trembles.
ââŚNo.â
He closes his eyes. Tries to mute the connection like he always has.
Fails.
He is pacing. And thatâs the problem. Mihawk doesnât pace. Heâs muttering to himself, cape flaring like heâs fighting the wind indoors.
âSheâwhy nowâshe 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.â
But he does. Because the bond is alive. And so are your extremely specific fantasies. And he cannot unsee them.
Back to You:
You donât realize whatâs 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.
ââŚOkay, maybe not tonight.â
Age 18:
Eventually, you come to terms with it. Youâve been haunted by a spook with an impeccable fashion sense and a crippling fear of emotional connection. It's fine. Really. Youâve learned to live with it, like that one awkward roommate who keeps leaving their shoes everywhere, but youâre too polite to ask them to leave. Youâve got books, and some friends. Mostly books, though.
One day, in the middle of a particularly rough shift at the library, you finally snap. âWhere the hell is my mysterious phantom husband when I need him!?â you shout, thoroughly annoyed. The nearby librarian gives you a look, but sheâs 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, âI donât need a damn soulmate.â
Youâd long stopped broadcasting deliberately. You werenât trying to reach him anymore. It was just... venting. Like singing in the shower or talking to your houseplantsâexcept, 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, Mihawkâs wine glass shatters mid-air, and for the first time in... well, ever, he cracks.
ââŚFine. Iâll say hello. But only once.â
You: âWHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?!â
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. Youâre being watched. Not in a creepy, "Iâm lurking in your bushes with binoculars" kind of way, but more like, "Iâm 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 wouldnât your emotionally unavailable Mr. Sea Ghost make a grand entrance right when youâre 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 itâs clear heâs been doing phantasm recon until you're at least old enough not to use a juice box as a shield.Â
Youâve never felt so... tracked. Youâre 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.
Youâve realized that heâs definitely one of the worst soulmates in history. Itâs not just that heâs a wight with a suspiciously good wardrobe (he vibes it) and a penchant for haunting your emotional well-being. No, itâs that heâs the type of visitant who shows up only when youâre trying to have a normal life.
But you donât hide from him. No. That would imply effort. That would imply fear. And youâre 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 whoâs unionized, demanding appropriate breaks from emotional trauma. Youâre not scared of this poltergeist.
Youâre 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, âWow, clouds look nice today.â
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 werenât depressed, you were cursed.
And now? Now youâre 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.
ââŚReally? At this hour?â
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.
Youâre pissed. Like, seething. Youâve spent years talking to an emotional spirit who barely acknowledges your existence, and now you finally summon the courage to put your foot downâŚand this is the response you get?
âAh. So Mister Sea Ghost does exist,â you mutter under your breath, as though youâve 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 donât even flinch. You fire back, without missing a beat, "And youâre colder than I remember. Still judging people mid-orgasm, or was that a me-only feature?"
Thereâs 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 donât care.
In fact, you almost relish the fact that heâs so ticked off. Itâs like a small victory for the soul.
You stand there, stewing in your own indignation, while your soulmateâsomewhere out there in his little fortress of icy emotional neglectâprobably 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.
Youâre beyond giving a damn. Youâve got dignity to salvage.
And besides, itâs not like he actually knows what to do with you, either. Itâs a one-sided dance of chaos at this point, and if he doesnât want to tango, then fine.
You donât need him.
So, with all the confidence you can muster (because hey, if your soulmate wants to be emotionally unavailable, youâll 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. Youâve 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 itâll be permanent.
And then, finally, his voice cuts through the bond, thick with irritation and, surprisingly, mild regret.Â
"I will not be disrespected like this."
âReally?â you shoot back, leaning into the chaos now. âIf you were going to keep being a judgmental wraith, you could at least have some respect for your own mental bandwidth. Iâm not your emotional punching bag, buddy.â
And just like that, you shut the door. Not literally, obviously, because you're not physically anywhere near him, but mentally? Youâve slammed that thing so hard metaphorically that you think you mightâve left a dent.
You donât need him. You donât. Youâve 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? Youâre 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 hadnât done in ages. Itâs the kind of laugh that escapes him without warning, a brief moment of human vulnerability in a world heâs carefully controlled.
He drops the book heâs 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.
ââŚridiculous,â he mutters to himself, the words somehow filled with both amusement and a strange fondness that he canât immediately dismiss.
And yet, for the first time, he doesnât mind it.
Thatâs it. Thatâs the crack in his armor.
Mihawk doesnât get swayed by grand declarations of fate, doesnât respond to insults or challenges with more than a cold stare or a heavy silence. He doesnât even react to your complete disregard for the mystery that shrouds him. But you? Youâve 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.
Youâve made him happy.
Itâs 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 thatâs 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 heâd like to admit. Heâs puzzled by it. Itâs just silence, but it doesnât 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.
âShe said her kitchen knife collection has a favorite. That one âjust feels stabby in a fatal kind of way.ââ
He remembers that. Oddly, he remembers it with a kind of fondness, even though itâs 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 youâre 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.
Heâs 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. Itâs as though youâve pulled the reins on a creature you never thought you could control, and yet, somehow, the bond feels more potent, more deliberate.
It isnât long before he notices.
From then on, itâs 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.
Youâve never met him. You donât even know his name. But somehow, you know heâs there. Heâs listening.
Itâs almost maddening at first. You canât help but wonder when heâll speak again. You stop trying to get his attention, stop throwing out your sharp remarks like theyâre breadcrumbs meant to lure him out. Instead, you focus. You do your best to act like heâs not there. Like the bond isnât there.
Youâre 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 wouldâve made anyone proud.
âMy soulmateâs obviously a revenant,â you say, tossing a stone into the nearby pond. It skips across the water, barely touching the surface. âOr a weirdo. Or a dramatic loner with too many candles and commitment issuesââ
And then?
He answers.
His voice cuts through the bond like a blade. Quiet. Dry. Absolutely him:
âI only have six candles.â
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. Heâs not responding. He never responds.
â...Youâre listening?â
His voice is flat, as though this was some mundane conversation and not the soul-shattering revelation that it is. âUnfortunately.â
The words are out before you can stop them, the astonishment in your voice so clear that even youâre surprised. âYou can hear? EVERYTHING?â
âAgainst my will.â
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. Itâs the most alive heâs felt in this bond in... forever.
For a moment, you just stand there, processing the ridiculousness of it all. Heâs 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.
âYouâve matured,â Mihawkâs voice comes again, almost like a quiet, distant comment. âYouâre tolerable now.â
âTolerable?â 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. âNow you speak?!â
âYes.â
âOh ho ho ho. Youâre real. And youâre a bastard.â 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. âYou named your blanket âSir Fluffington.â I was protecting myself.â
You blink, shocked by the audacity. âYou ignored me for twelve years!â
Thereâs a silence before Mihawk responds, calm and collected as always. âYou once cried over a seagull you thought was your cousin. Forgive me for hesitating.â
The mention of the seagull hits you like a punch to the stomach, and you canât help but laugh. âGHOSTED!â you accuse, the bitterness still fresh.
âDelayed engagement?â You canât help the incredulous laugh that escapes you. âYou spiritually blocked me for over a decade.â
ââŚIt was necessary.â
You feel the weight of his words in the silence that follows. The bond is no longer just a distant connection; itâs a conversation. A connection. Something more real than you ever imagined. And somehow, you realize, you donât want to let the moment go. You need vengeance.
You cross your arms, feeling more alive than you have in years. âYou donât get to come back after ghosting me through my entire emotional adolescence.â
Mihawkâs tone is casual, almost amused. âAnd yet, here I am. You donât hide very well.â
âI wasnât hiding. I wasnât even aware I had an audience!â
He leans in, his presence pushing through the bond with the force of a tidal wave. âEven worse.â
âWell, asshole. Iâm disinterested now.â You say it like you believe it.
Mihawk tilts his head, that familiar cold glint in his eyes. Youâre not sure how you know it, but you do.
âLiar.â
And just like that, the emotional distance, the years of silence, collapsed into a game. A game you didnât expect. A game you didnât want, but now you will play.
Because Mihawk? Heâs petty.
He doesnât force his way in. No, itâs far more insidious than that. He slips through the cracks of your defenses with such ease that you almost donât feel it.
He doesnât 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 youâre left with a choice: figure out how to shut it out, or play along.
Age 21:Â
Youâre grown. Battle-tested, emotionally disillusioned, and done with waiting for the âmysterious soulmateâ who ghosted you harder than your absentee dad and that one traveling salesman who swore heâd come back with mangoes.
Your childhood fantasies? Dead.
Your teenage hopes? Buried.
Your bond? No longer silent as a crypt.
You donât even know what he looks like. For all you know, your soulmate is a myth. A programming error in the universeâs romantic algorithm. A punishment for being emotionally available too early in life.
And heâs now invaded.
Your Thought Hutâ˘: 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, itâs 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 wasnât. 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: âUgh, I am elegance. I am grace. I amâfalling on my face.â
Him, bone-dry: âDo you duel like that, or only descend stairs?â
You, contemplating your emotional wreckage: âMaybe I am the problem. Maybe Iâve been emotionally closed off because Iâm afraid of being knownââ
Him: âOr maybe youâre simply exhausting.â
You, when dinner burns: âIf my soulmate were real, heâd know Iâm suffering. And bring snacks.â
Him: âIf youâd used the correct ratio of oil, this wouldnât be happening.â
You, after a moment of poetic solitude staring at the waves: âThe sea understands me. At least someone does.â
Him: âThe sea is trying to drown you. Not understand you.â
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 âDo Not Disturbâ sign made of barbed wire and spite. But it doesnât work.
He still gets in. Not every day. Not constantly. But enough to be annoying. Enough to make sure you know: heâs 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 itâs not dramatic. Itâs quiet. You mutter to yourself, half-laughing to keep it together:
âYouâre probably thrilled. One less idiot to keep track of.â
For once, his voice doesnât come in sharp. Itâs... quiet.
âNo.â
Just that. One word. A single syllable. But somehow, it lingers. It doesnât hit you like the usual biting sarcasm. It doesnât mock you. Itâs just... there.
You freeze, blinking at the mirror. But he doesnât speak again. And yet, that one syllable hangs in the air like a weight.
Later, youâre brushing your hair, glaring into a cracked mirror, your thoughts running a little darker.
âIf I die, he'd better feel guilty.â
âI wonât.â
A pause.
âBut Iâd be irritated.â
You smile, despite yourself. That... almost sounded like interest.
âWow. That almost sounded like concern.â
âDonât push it.â
You donât know his name. You donât know where he is. You donât 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.
Heâs suddenly your uninvited, deeply opinionated mental roommate. The kind that critiques your life choices while contributing absolutely nothing. Heâs 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, thereâs something about him that lingers. Like a shadow that you canât quite shake off, no matter how hard you try.
Age 22:Â
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: âThis is my mental space. My head. My domain.â
He: [already lounging on the couch with a glass of wine] âYou live like this?â
It Usually Goes Like This:
 You: âPlease leave.â
Him: âNo.â
You: âWhy?â
Him: âIâm comfortable.â
You: âYouâre a soul parasite with a superiority complex.â
Him: âYou talk to your cutlery like itâs sentient.â
You: âThat doesnât mean youâre allowed in here.â
Him: âIf youâre going to insult me, at least be original.â
And it just gets worseâŚ
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: âIf you sabotage this date, I swearââ
Him: âHeâs using too much cologne. And his footwork is sloppy.â
You: âYou canât see his footworkââ
Him: âI know.â
You: âGET. OUT.â
Him: âMake me.â
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, heâll have to knock harder than that.
For a few hours? It works.
Itâs quiet. Too quiet. Thereâs no voice in your head making sarcastic comments or evaluating your life choices with brutal efficiency. No dry commentary on your every move. Itâs like heâs gone.
You start to relax.
But thenâŚ
âYou missed a thread in your stitching.â
You freeze.
Heâs 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 hadnât even realized you were stitching until he had to point it out. It wasnât even a big deal, just a minor imperfection, something you'd fix later. But the fact that he noticed it? That it didnât slip past him? It makes you grind your teeth.
You donât even know how he does it. One moment, itâs all cold and silent, and the next, heâs right there, commenting on your needlework like heâs 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 donât.
You just grit your teeth and mutter under your breath. âAuntie Sea Ghost strikes again.â
âAlso, your soup lacks depth.â
You snap.
âGET OUT OF MY HEAD, VELVET NOSFERATU.â
âA stronger insult this time. I almost felt something.â
And he never leaves because: Heâs bored, Heâs petty, He is mildly invested in your emotional development, though heâll never admit it. And deep down, some part of him thinks: âIf I leave, who will keep you sharp?â
You try begging. You try threatening.
Nothing works.
So eventually?
You just start narrating everything to annoy him.
âOh, Iâm putting socks on now. Oneâs got a hole. I know that offends your noble sensibilities. Youâre 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?â
Until finallyâŚ
You hear him sigh. Long. Sharp. Dramatic.
âYou are intolerable.â
You grin.
âAnd yet. Youâre still here.â
ââŚPetty,â he mutters.
âExactly. LEAVE.â
Age 23:Â
Youâre 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:
âYouâve been chewing that bread like it personally offended you.â
You snap. "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? For yearsâYEARSâyou said nothing. Not a whisper. Not a name. Just silence and judgment! And now? Now youâre here every damn day with commentary like youâre hosting some twisted cooking show inside my skull!â
A pause, just so you can wheeze a breath mid-rant.
âDid you get bored? Did you miss the sound of my mental breakdowns? Did you fall in love with the decor? Because I didnât invite you in. Youâre not even helpful! Youâre justâjustââ
âYour better half?â
Silence.
Then, like the punchline to his own joke: ââŚDracule Mihawk.â
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 youâre being âtolerableâ?
 ââŚSorry, what?â
âThatâs my name.â
You stare into the mental void.Â
âDracule?â
Pause. He knows whatâs coming.
âYou 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?â
He sighs deeply, like heâs carrying the weight of every sarcastic remark youâve ever made. Long-suffering. âYes. I figured this is how youâd react.â
âNo wonder you didnât say it sooner. If my name were a whole vampire aesthetic, Iâd hide it too.â
âAre you done?â
âNO.â
He doesnât leave. Of course not. He listens to the whole roast like a man sitting in a recliner he didnât buy, in a house he doesnât pay for, with snacks he didnât make. You pace. You rant. You bring up the time he judged your taste in flowers but couldnât even spare a syllable of acknowledgment when you were sobbing alone in the rain at sixteen.
âYouââ
âDo you even realize how unfair this bond has been?â
Him: âYes.â
You: ââŚAnd?â
Him, maddeningly calm: âI was waiting until you were worth speaking to.â
You go feral. A full-on growl escapes your throat. âExcuse me?â
But you quiet down after a moment. Heâs still there, unfazed.
Now you know his name. Now you know heâs not leaving. But now? You get to judge him right back.
The bond is no longer a cold void. Itâs 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-
Youâre working a quiet librarian job in a minor coastal town. The hum of the ocean outside is the only real noise, the occasional gullâs 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. Whatâs 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. Itâs 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.Â
You read on:
Age: ???No known crew. No known allegiances.Exceptionally dangerous. Considered a duelist of unnatural precision.âPresumed armed at all times.â
The final line leaves a strange weight in your chest. Wanted Dead or Alive.
Heâs 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 handâhisâremoving a glove slowly, fingers long and calloused from years of wielding a sword heavier than most menâs dignity.
The dust motes in the air hang still, like theyâre holding their breath. You canât shake the feeling that youâve just uncovered something much bigger than this coastal town, bigger than your quiet life as a librarian sorting forgotten pieces of history. Itâs 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. â...Iâm sorry. WHAT.â
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. Youâre already vibrating with indignation when the bond stirs, like heâs been waiting for just this moment.
âSo. Youâve seen it.â
The voice is calm, almost too calm, like heâs expecting this reaction. Like heâs in complete control of the situation, as always.
But you canât focus on his tone right now. The reality of it is too much: heâs 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.
âNo. Shut up. Not you.â
âIt is me.â
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.
âYou? The Most Wanted Man in the World is also my inner voice with the soul of a decorative gargoyle? No.â
âIt is literally my name.â
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.
âAnd Iâm naming my next houseplant âWhitebeard.â Doesnât make it true. What are the odds?â
âIâd say absolute.â
You narrow your eyes at nothing, already painfully aware of whoâs responsible for this intrusion.
âYou.â
Him, unbothered, internally sipping wine:
ââŚYes?â
âYou told me your name was Dracule Mihawk.â
âIt is.â
You stop breathing for a moment. The words hang in the air like the last few notes of a song you canât 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 whatâs 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. Youâve been pulling at threads for days, and now that the knot is finally unraveling, itâs worse than you imagined.
This is not a game. This isnât some misunderstanding. The man on that posterâthe Mihawkâis talking to you in your head.
You feel like youâre losing your grip on something, but you're not sure if itâs the world around you or the reality youâve clung to.
âYouâre lying.â You hiss, your voice low enough to be a secret. âYou canât 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. Thatâs a real person. You are an asshole ghost with opinions and too much free time.â
âI am aware.â
You blink, a sharp laugh slipping out before you can stop it. âHeâs six feet tall and kills people with butter knives.â
âSix-six.â
âOh, good, youâre delusional and insecure.â
âI donât care if you believe me.â
âWell, that makes two of us.â
The bond crackles with that all-too-familiar, infuriating silence, like heâs 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, itâs 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 youâre 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. "Youâre just a menace and a liar! Mihawkâs a real person. A warlord. A swordsman. What are you?"
âYour soulmate.â
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 itâs something that shouldâve made sense, something that shouldâve been welcome. But it wasnât. Not now.
âNo,â you mutter, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. "My soulmate died tragically or was raised by seagulls. You are not him."
Thereâs an almost imperceptible pause, a flicker of something familiar in the bond. A warmth. A strange ache you canât place.
âI never claimed to be what you imagined.â His voice is quiet, like heâs finally peeling back layers, reluctant but steady. âBut I am what you got.â
âYouâre a pathological liar with a passive-aggressive tone.â
âYou once named your pillow the sultan of snooze.ââ
âAND YET, I have not lied about who I am.â
You can feel him on the other side of the bond, his presence steady and calm like a stone in a raging river. He doesnât argue, doesnât explain. He just lets you stew in your confusion, letting your anger simmer until itâs 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. "Youâd do well to stop underestimating me."
You huff, pacing in small circles, your mind racing in every direction.
"Stop underestimating you? Youâre 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 heâs not even remotely fazed by it. That quiet confidence, that unnerving calm, it bleeds into the bond like an uncomfortable chill.
"A title Iâve long since outgrown. But yes," Mihawkâs 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 donât believe you.â
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 youâve gotten in deeper than you shouldâve.
"I think youâve misunderstood the situation," he says, and it sounds like an eerie kind of promise.
Thereâs something unsettling in his tone now, something that makes your skin crawl even as his words donât hold the same bite they used to. Itâs almost like heâs playing a game, waiting for you to catch on to some piece of a puzzle heâs only showing you in fragments. The more you listen, the more you feel a disturbing, silent pull in the bond.
Itâs not just the words anymore. Itâs the weight of them.
âMisunderstood?â you repeat, more to yourself than to him, feeling the heavy silence pressing in from all sides. âWhat, exactly, am I supposed to understand here?â
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 heâs always there, always waiting, like an uninvited guest whoâs 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 couldnât shake the feeling that Mihawk knew something you didnât. That realization hit you harder than it should have, and you felt it settle deep, like a stone dropped into a still pond.
âThis seems like something you should have mentioned before inviting yourself into my head. You know, if youâre actually a WORLD FAMOUS PIRATE.â
A long, quiet pause followed, and you felt the bond stir, his presence cool and unshaken.
â⌠I didnât hide it. You just never asked the right questions.â
Your breath caught in your throat, disbelief mixing with frustration. âYouâre a grown man! Iâve had this bond since I was eight. You couldâve told me anytime.â
âYou were a child.â
âYouâre avoiding the part where you are a demon with poor social skills.â
âThat assumption wasnât entirely off.â
The familiar cold presence eased in, settling around your thoughts like an unavoidable chill, a hand resting casually on your mental desk.
âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet. You keep talking.â
âYouâre 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.â
âYouâre unreasonably hostile.â
âYouâre allegedly a war criminal in a cape!â
âAlleged.â
âI hate that you sound so calm about this.â
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.Â
âYouâre defensive when cornered. Noted.â
You huff.
âIf youâre him, prove it.â
âHow?â
âI donât know. Show up. Step out of the shadows with your spooky golden eyes and your vampire vibes and stab something accurately.â
âYou just described every Tuesday of my life.â
âAgain: not helping your case.â
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.
âI wanted you to speak to me, not my reputation.â
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 wasnât 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 youâd gotten more than you bargained for.
He tries to say more, but youâve already pulled away: emotionally, mentally, entirely. You shove the bond back like a heavy door, forcing your thoughts quiet. Thereâs no room for him here, not now. Not when youâre finally starting to make sense of things on your own.
He doesnât 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 doesnât have a sarcastic reply. He doesnât 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 donât come with the bite youâre used to, the sting of his indifference. Thereâs something, something different in his tone. Something almost human. But you shake your head, the pressure building again. Not now. You canât deal with him like this. Not when youâre so close to finally having control of your own thoughts again.
You donât answer. Because youâre not ready to believe him. Because if heâs telling the truth, that means your soulmate is real. And he chose to abandon you until it was convenient. And heâs a real-life nightmare who unironically wears greatcoats and has a giant sword he uses to teach manners with.
And youâre not sure which betrayal is worse.
Youâve just spent years with this maddeningly silent, contemptuous presence in the back of your thoughts. A man who didnât speak, didnât share, didnât 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 heâs 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 canât decide whether to scream or cry or just shut it all down.
So you donât believe him.
You wouldnât. You shouldnât. 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 heâs âDracule Mihawkâ, one of the most dangerous men alive?
No.
Absolutely not.
-X-Strange Happens-X-
You didnât know what Haki was. Hell, you didnât even know how to fight. You were just a normal personâscrappy, clever, sharp with your words, maybeâbut 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 godâs sake. Your biggest battles were with overdue books and keeping the quiet.Â
And yet here you were, tangled in a bond you couldnât 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.Â
Dracule Mihawk.
The name still feels like an impossible thing to say aloud, something that doesnât belong to you. But now, in the silence of your own thoughts, itâs there: solid, heavy, undeniable. His name had slipped into your mind like an unwanted guest.
You still werenât ready to face it. Mihawk? Your soulmate?
It didnât 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 whoâd 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 canât give him that satisfaction. Not yet. Not when youâre still trying to wrap your mind around whatâs real and whatâs not.
You sigh.
Itâs a long, drawn-out thing that seems to echo in the silence between you, a quiet rebellion against the inevitable. "You donât get to decide that," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.
He doesnât answer immediately, and for a second, you almost think youâve won. But then you feel itâthe weight of his presence, unwavering, unyielding. His patience isnât endless, but itâs damn close. And you know... heâs not going anywhere.
You rub your temple. "This is insane."
Weeks, maybe months, youâve spent ignoring his request, turning the idea of sharing your name into the one thing you can control in this unrelenting chaos. You wonât give him that part of you. Not after everything.
You feel his eyes, cold and calculating, through the bond, even though heâs miles away. His presence hovers in your mind, lingering, steady. Heâs waiting. Pressing. The tension is almost unbearable. Heâs asking. But youâre not ready to give. Not yet. Not when you still donât trust him. Not when you donât even know who he really is beyond the cold, unyielding voice in your mind.
So you say no with the same tone youâd use to tell a child, âNO CUPCAKE!â
But you canât make him leave.
âYou had years to ask nicely,â 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 hisâcalm, unbothered, like heâs had all the time in the worldâhe responds.
âIâm asking now.â
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. Heâs more than a voice now. Heâs a constant. A weight. A presence that refuses to let go, even when you desperately wish he would.
âYou donât get to pop back in like a psychic roommate and demand access to my name, weirdo.â
âYou know mine.â
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. Itâs almost too composed, like heâs been expecting this moment.
âHa, nice try, fake swordsman.â
You scoff. Itâs not a real challenge, you know itâs 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 donât.
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 heâs still listening.
âOh no. Someone handsome offered me rum and a massage. What ever shall I do?â
Cue: a wineglass shattering somewhere.
You canât help the little smirk that creeps up your face. Thereâs a certain satisfaction in knowing youâve triggered something, even if itâs just in his mind.
You know heâs listening. You know heâs there, waiting, his presence hovering in the bond like a shadow that wonât leave. He knows youâre not hiding. Youâre not running.
Youâre just⌠withholding.
Itâs 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 whoâs used to being the final page in someoneâs 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, thatâs the one thing that gets under his skin.
So he retaliates.
Youâre trying to sleep. Or focus. Or just have a single thought that isnât under surveillance by the man youâre still not convinced is Mihawk.
Youâve locked the bond down tight. Youâve iced him out. Youâve mentally insulated your soul like a paranoid homeowner with psychic blackout curtains. Youâve made sure he canât slip in unnoticed. Youâve kept him at bay, just at bay. Itâs taken effort.
And Heâs just there.
No knock. No dramatic flaring. No warning. Just sudden, soul-chilling presence, like a sword being unsheathed inside your mind.
Itâs not the usual invasion. Itâs worse. Itâs 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 itâs too late. Heâs already inside.
Itâs nothing like the times before. You feel his weight in the air around you. Like heâs right there, just beyond the edge of your awareness, like his eyes are watching from the shadows. Youâve fought this, tried to control it, but now itâs him, and itâs real, and thereâs nothing you can do but sit in the sudden, oppressive silence of his presence.
You feel it, but you donât 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, youâre⌠relaxed? Your chest is looser. The tension youâve 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 itâs fine. Maybe youâve been holding on to something that doesnât need to be held. Maybe youâre just tired of guarding everything, tired of pretending this doesnât matter.
Maybe, just maybe, he deserves one piece of truth.
You hesitate for a moment, but itâs enough. Enough to finally lower your mental shields, to let the walls crumble. You throw up psychic defensesâvisualized walls, closed doors, salt lines, sheer willpowerâand yet, he walks through them like theyâre made of fog.
It doesnât stop him. Heâs in your head. Heâs always been in your head.
You sigh, letting your back rest against the cool wall, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. Thereâs no fight left in you, not right now. The mental exhaustion, the constant pressure of the bond, itâs all too much. You finally give in, allowing a surrender, just a small one, barely a whisper of what youâve been holding in.
ââŚItâsââ
You almost donât want to admit it, but the words come anyway. Soft, reluctant, but enough to let it slip through.Â
âOkay? There. That doesnât make you right.â
And then you freeze, the cold grip of realization hitting you like a tidal wave.
ââŚWait. NO. NOPEââ
His voice cuts through the bond, calm, infuriatingly controlled: âThank you.â
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.
âYou gave it freely.â
Your blood boils. âYou did something to me. You opened a door without my permission.â
âYou were already standing next to it.â
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.
Itâs 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 âsharingâ was a one-way street.
That one piece of yourself: your name, the last shred of your identity that you hadnât willingly thrown into the abyss, was now in his hands. *And you didnât even get to make a bargain!
You stare at the bond, your mental fist clenched around nothing. You try to imagine the worst. Maybe heâs wearing your name like a necklace now. Maybe heâs polishing it with his sword. Maybe heâs 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 werenât looking, he walked away with your real name as though it were just a trophy.
And worse? He sounds so damn calm about it.
Thereâs no anger in his voice. No smugness. Just that unnerving, infuriating detachment, as though what he did was nothing. He doesnât feel guilty. He doesnât feel bad. Heâs just, there, like this was just another Tuesday for him. And somehow, thatâs what makes it worse.
The calmness of it, the way heâs 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 canât 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 heâs settled back in for a comfortable conversation.
âYouâre not even cool!â
"Iâm the worldâs greatest swordsman. Did you think I wouldnât have finesse?"
âYOU MENTALLY VAULTED INTO MY SAFE ROOM AND STOLE MY NAMETAG WHILE I WAS EATING NOODLES.â
The bond crackles with his quiet, mocking tone, and it makes you clench your fists.âYou imagined me shirtless twice this week. The line is blurry.â
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 heâs unbothered. Completely unmoved. That cold, impenetrable presence of his remains steady, unshaken.
Youâre in the eye of a storm.
Your thoughts are a whirlwind of rage, confusion, humiliation and heâs still there, calm, collected, like heâs simply watching the chaos unfold for his own amusement.
Age 24:
Youâre in the bath. Alone. Vulnerable. And mentally roasting him like he's the worst TV villain you've ever watched, because, letâs 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.
âHeâs not even a real person,â you mutter to yourself, scrubbing shampoo into your hair. âJust a soul-rotted mannequin with tragic hair and a superiority complex. He probably doesnât even have a heart. Or a libido.â
Silence.
You relax.
You pause, an eyebrow arching as you entertain the thought. âI bet heâs like, in a relationship with his sword. Doesnât even like women. Heâd have done something by now. Right?â
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, itâs just you and your thoughts. No Mihawk. No weird psychic bond. Just some much-needed solitude.
At least, thatâs what you thought.
Suddenly, the air shifts. That cold, familiar weight settles into your mind again like a shadow.
You freeze. No. Not now.
âI do enjoy your little theories,â comes his voice, as smooth and unbothered as always. âBut youâre wrong.â
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. "Iâ what?"
You scramble to grab a towel like thatâs going to somehow protect you from the psychic stalker in your head.
Thereâs no logical reason for it, but you feel it, his presence is there, as calm and insufferable as ever.
âIâm not in a relationship with my sword,â he says, as though this is just a casual conversation. âAnd Iâve always been... quite interested in women, specifically annoying librarians.â
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 heâs not just in your head anymore, like heâs in your bath, too. Your private space, your peace of mind, all invaded by the actual Dracule Mihawk, whoâs 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 canât quite place. The water suddenly feels too warm, too suffocating.
âOh, really? Really?â you snap, your voice rising despite your efforts to keep it contained. âWhat part of me saying youâre a weird, cold mannequin with issues is wrong?â
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, as if heâs measuring his response. Finally, his voice comes back through the bond, smooth as ever.
âYou assume because I do not pant like a dog or whisper like a fool that I am not watching. Not wanting.â
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.
âYou mistake silence for disinterest,â he adds, his tone slightly amused, as if this whole conversation is just one big joke to him. âYou mistake control for lack.â
You nearly choke on your own breath. Your mind goes blank, trying to process what the hell he's implying. What the hell heâs doing.
And then, in the calmest voice possible, he drops it.
âI have imagined the sound youâd make when you gasp my name. I have thought about it more than once.â
Your heart skips a beat.
Everything stops.
Youâre clutching the edge of the tub like itâs 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? Itâs screaming in protest, but you canât seem to make your mouth catch up with the chaos in your mind.
âIâwhatâyou neverââ
âNo.â
The single word cuts through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, and you can almost feel the edge of it pressing into your skin. âYou only think Iâm disinterested because you want a man who fawns.â
He doesnât let up.
âI donât fawn.â You try to sound composed, but the words feel small, weak against his presence. âI claim.â
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, heâs twisting the knife again, effortlessly.
âAnd for the recordâI am not a statue. Nor one of your fairytale heroes. I wonât be treating you like a princess.â
You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smile. âOh, no worries. I wouldnât want you to strain yourself.â
His gaze sharpens, a flicker of amusement hidden behind that impenetrable mask. âYou think Iâm here for your amusement?â
âDoesnât seem like thereâs much else to do with all this chemistry between us,â you quip, leaning casually against a nearby table, knowing full well youâve just poked the lion.
âYour idealized fantasy man doesn't imagine the shape of your spine when you stretch.â
Your pulse quickens, skin prickling with the weight of his words, like theyâre seeping into you from the inside. Your breath catches, a sharp intake of air, and for a moment, your body is paralyzed, like youâve been struck by something far too real.
âYour little dream prince doesn't dream of how your throat would sound when you beg.â
You feel your chest tighten, the heat in your face blooming, a rush of emotions flooding through you that you canât even begin to categorize.
âThe creatures you read in your books donât hunt like I do.â
Your mind spins, spinning out of control, caught in the rhythm of his voice.
âI have waited. With patience. Perhaps too long.â
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 doesnât 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.
âDo not question again whether I want you.â
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.
âQuestion only how long Iâll wait before proving it.â
The room around you shifts, the edges of your vision blurring. Itâs not a dream. Itâs not a thought. Itâs himâright here, now, with you.
Suddenly, youâre not alone. Youâre no longer in the safety of your room, the familiar scent of your surroundings replaced by something heavier, darker. Youâre seeing through someone elseâs eyes. His eyes.
Youâre pressed against a cold stone wall. The air smells like aged wine and salt, the tang of something ancient that lingers in the corners. Thereâs 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 heâs savoring the moment. Like heâs marking you, branding you.
And then his voice, not just in your mind, but at your ear, low and ragged, like heâs already there with you.
âPay close attention.â
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 heâs waiting, enjoying the anticipation.
You donât understand it. You donât know how to react.
âIf I touched you,â he says, his voice rougher now, âyouâd forget every version of your name except the one I gave you.â
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.
âDo you want to know what I see when you sleep?â His voice cuts through the air, sharp and dark, like a whisper that feels far too intimate. âDo you want to know what I think about when your voice goes quiet?â
Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between desire and horror. You try to pull away, to escape, but thereâs 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 heâs 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 youâve just sprinted through a thunderstorm. Your heart is racing, and itâs all you can do to hold onto your thoughts.
âMihawk,â you whisper, your voice hoarse and breathless. âWhat the hellââ
âYou wanted proof.â
His voice slides into your mind, calm as ever, cutting through the chaos.
âYou think I feel nothing? I could show you a hundred things that would make you burn.â
You swallow, your pulse quickening.Â
âThis was restraint.â
You throw a soap bottle across the room in frustration, your hands trembling as you try to regain control. You canât process what just happened. You canât even think straight.
âYou violated my mind,â you snap, your voice shaking with anger and confusion.
âYou said I didnât want you.â His voice is still smooth, as if heâs not even slightly bothered by your outburst.
You cover yourself with a towel, red-faced, furious, and something elseâsomething dangerousâlingering in the pit of your stomach. Something you donât want to acknowledge.
âI showed you what true want looks like.â
You clench your fists, your chest heaving with a mix of emotions you canât untangle. You want to fight him. To argue. To shut him down once and for all. But a part of you knows you canât.
Thereâs a long pause, an agonizing silence that makes your heart thud louder in your chest. And then, finally, his voice. Low. Calm.
âNext time,â He murmurs, voice low but firm, âIâm making you beg. And Iâll be the one with a book, lecturing you.â
The bond goes silent, leaving you trembling in cold air, your heart pounding, and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts you canât quite control.
Elsewhere:
Inside Mihawkâs head is the ongoing epic of eternal suffering.
He doesnât need love. He doesnât need softness. Heâs 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 doesnât have to hear the constant flood of your thoughts. Five minutes where he isnât 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.
Itâs 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. Heâs spent years honing himself to perfection, shaping his mind into something sharp, precise, like the edge of his sword. Heâs never needed anything more than that.
But you?
Youâve 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. Youâre 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, itâs impossible to ignore you.
One moment, heâs lost in his own thoughts; strategies, training, the plans heâs 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 didnât just think about kissing someone with a mustache.
And yet, he canât 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 thereâs 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, thereâs a strange allure in it. A part of himâone he refuses to acknowledge, even to himselfâfinds 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.
âFive. Minutes.â
Heâs had enough. His patience has worn thin, but the temptation to break his composure is almost too strong to ignore. He could.
âI could kiss you so precisely youâd 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.â
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?
Youâre currently imagining what heâd look like in a cowboy hat. Youâre thinking about frogs in little boots. You are thinking of other pirates.Â
And that, of all things, is what twists in his gut.
You are, in his words:
âA walking contradictionâan unsolvable riddle wrapped in soft hands and frivolous thoughts.â
Heâs helplessly intrigued. And he hates that he wants to solve you anyway.
âStop thinking about grilled cheese. Stop wondering if seagulls pair-bond. Stop thinking about Benn Beckman. Heâs not me.â
The words slice through your thoughts, sharp and pointed, like ice chiseling its way through the storm of your mind. His voice isnât angry, itâs just there, unwavering and direct, commanding the space in your head like it owns it.
âJust... breathe. Sit still. Be worthy. And I will show you things no man could dream of offering.â
The calm in his voice almost makes it worse. Thereâs 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.
ââŚYouâre thinking about frogs in little boots again.â
The frustration pulses through him like a crackling storm. âYouâre lucky Iâm even bonded to you.â
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 donât want to think about frogs in little boots. But here you are, trapped in his attention, unable to escape, unable to stop.
âI couldâve had a sweet carpenter husband. A dog. A porch swing.â
You chuckle, but itâs not the lighthearted laugh it should be. Itâs twisted, tangled in the weight of everything thatâs been left unsaid between you. A bitter laugh. One that feels like a release, but also like the airâs been taken from your lungs.
And then, without hesitation, his voice slides into your thoughts again, low and deliberate, as if heâs been waiting for you to admit it.
âYou donât deserve a porch swing. You deserve to be pinned to the wall and read like scripture.â
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. Youâre not sure if itâs from anger or something else. Maybe both.
âWhat?â 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 heâs peeled back a layer you didnât even know was there.
âYou see? Five minutes. Thatâs all I need.â
Your mind spins. The words make your head reel, but the confidence in his voice makes it worse, makes it feel real. Too real.
âBut no. Frogs in boots.â
-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 wasnât about romance. It was about peace. Quiet. An hour where your brain didnât feel like it was being sharpened by a murder monk with control issues. The idea of real, uninterrupted silence. Without Mihawkâs 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 youâd 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 wasnât bent on dominating your mind.
Great smile. Even better eyes, soft and warm. Everything you didnât realize youâd been craving until now.
You could already feel the weight lifting, just by thinking about a night without Mihawkâs 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. Youâd 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:
âNo.â
It wasnât a suggestion. It wasnât 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 beforeâby some unseen forceâit was snuffed out, leaving you in the dark.
Your heart raced, the tension in the air growing thick, suffocating you from all sides. Mihawkâs 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:
âHis hand placement is sloppy. He smells like regret. Are you actually going to let that jawline near you? Thatâs the chin of a tax fraud. Pathetic. I could undo you with a look and a leather glove.â
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.Â
âThat hand moves one inch lower and I will dismember him.â
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.
âAre⌠are you hearing voices? Like soulmate stuff?â he asked, his voice trembling, his face pale. You could feel the heat in your cheeks as Mihawk's influence weighed heavily on you.Â
âYes,â you hissed, barely able to hold back your frustration. âAnd heâs an asshole.â
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.
âAlso,â Mihawk continued, without an ounce of remorse, âI know where this man lives. His mother gardens. I will salt the soil.â
You shrieked into a pillow, the sound muffled, but not enough to hide the complete mortification coursing through you. Mihawkâs 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. "Iâuh, 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 âPlan B: Possessiveness.â
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, âIâm being held hostage by a man in my head who thinks monogamy is enforced through psychic terrorism.â
Your friend nodded, passed you the sake, and said, âAt least yours isnât a cook.â
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.
âI didnât kill him,â Mihawkâs voice whispered into your mind, impossibly calm. âYou should be grateful. The urge was considerable.â
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 couldnât escape the invisible force that hung over you every day. You hated it. Hated him. The constant, omnipresent weight of his influence.
âStop injuring people, you petty knife rack!â you shouted mentally, desperate, the anger clawing its way out of your chest.
And heâof course heâwas utterly unmoved.
âIf they valued their lives, theyâd keep their eyes to themselves.â
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.
âI have never interfered with your choices. I only correct the foolish who imagine they had one.â
The words made your blood boil, but it wasnât 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 couldnât escape it.
Now, most people wonât even stand within ten feet of you without checking the sky first. Your reputation has taken on a life of its own. Youâre known as âthe cursed one,â and, most depressingly, âMiss Librarian please donât smile at me, I have a family.â
Itâs absurd. And yet, thereâs something in your chest that twists when you think about it.
Youâre not even sure if you should laugh or scream.
Youâre 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 canât help but mutter, âYouâre not even my type.â
And, almost immediately, you feel his presence in the bond again. Heâs there, waiting, his cold, unfazed calm bleeding into your thoughts like ice.
âI likeâemotionally present people. With basic communication skills. Who arenât legally classified as bladed weapons.â
Your words are sharp. A declaration. But it doesnât seem to faze him.
âSo not the worldâs greatest swordsman?â he asks, his tone completely unbothered. You can practically feel the smirk, the satisfaction radiating from him, knowing heâs pushed you further than youâd ever admit.
You grit your teeth, and your mind spins with the frustration, but somehow, thereâs a strange sort of pull. Something dark and undeniable that keeps you tethered to him.
The frustration simmers in your chest. âSeriously. If you were actually Mihawk, why the hell would you waste your time teasing some random nobody through a soulbond youâve ignored for years?â
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? Thatâs 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.
âIf you would just⌠sit still for five minutes.â
As if thatâs your fatal flaw. As if youâre 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 âpatience tastes likeâ. 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 âmineâ 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.
âFive minutes,â he says again, his words curling around your thoughts like silk, slow, deliberate, intentional. âI wouldnât even need five. But Iâd take them.â
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, Iâm not having nightmares," you mutter, your voice thick with exhaustion. "Iâm having well-lit, fully choreographed mental war crimes from a man who says things like, âHold still, darling. Iâm aligning the moment.â"
You try to focus on anything else. Youâve 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.
âSit still,â he murmurs, his voice laced with satisfaction, as though heâs already won. âOr donât. It makes no difference. Iâll have you either way.â
Itâs suffocating. You havenât known peace in years. Youâve become a woman possessed, consumed by a bond you never asked for, that youâve tried to break at every turn. But Mihawk? Heâs always there, watching. Waiting. With every passing moment, his grip only tightens.
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