#librarian reader

[headkiss]

non bau! reader suggestion! : librarian! reader!!! oh how i love librarian! reader...

-🪲

tysm for your request!! <3 | 0.8k words, r wears a dress and is referred to as she twice

As a library assistant, you’re used to receiving phone calls. Turning on your customer service voice, answering questions, wishing them a nice day, hang up, repeat.

It’s one of the main things you do, stationed at the desk for most of the day until there are enough returns on the cart to put away. You’ve already answered four calls this morning. Easy ones, at least, about whether or not you have a book in stock or your hours.

It’s the fifth phone call that surprises you completely.

“Hi, my name is Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” is what the voice on the other side of the phone says to you when you pick up.

“Oh! Um. How can I help you?”

“We’re working on a case here, and I’m looking for a book that might help us. Would you be able to see if you have it in stock?”

“Yeah! Yes, of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

“I’m looking for a copy of Wuthering Heights. It would have been checked out and returned recently, probably by a white male.”

Your stomach sinks a little. “Is that the, uh, guy you’re looking for?”

“He might be,” Spencer says. Then, as if he can sense your spike of fear, “Let us worry about that, you focus on the book.”

“Right,” you flex your fingers and turn to your computer, pulling up the records. “Yes, it looks like a copy was checked out on Monday and returned.. yesterday evening.”

“Would you be able to set that aside for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, then the line clicks.

You keep the phone in your hand for a moment, grasping on to the fact that someone the literal FBI is looking for might have been here just yesterday. Hell, you might have even spoken to him before.

Just as you snap yourself out of it and set the phone down, the front door is pushed open, a gentle breeze ruffling the pages of the books nearby. Through it walks a man wearing a sweater vest over a button up, a tie around his neck. His hair gets ruffled by the wind, too.

“Hi, I’m Spencer. We spoke on the-” he pauses when he looks at you, his eyes flitting across your face to your nametag and back up. His voice is quieter when he finishes “-phone.”

It’s then that you notice the credentials he has clutched in his hand. “Hi! That was faster than I expected.”

“The precinct is just around the corner,” he says.

You nod. “Let me just go grab that book for you.”

Spencer watches you go, your dress sweeping against your thighs as you slip out from behind the counter and into the aisles. He rocks back and forth on his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

When you come back, Wuthering Heights in hand and cardigan slipping off your shoulder, he almost forgets why he’s there in the first place.

“Here it is,” you say, walking up to him, the book held out in front of you.

“Thank you,” he takes it from you, fingertips brushing yours.

You scan his face, and he looks so gentle, so sweet, that you let your curiosity slip out. “Can I ask why you need a book to solve your case?”

“We think the unsu- the man we’re looking for might have left a clue behind in it.”

“Like, a highlighted passage or something?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Defacing library books and wanted by the FBI… this guy really sucks.”

Spencer laughs. A quick, surprised thing that makes you smile, too.

“I hope it helps you find him,” you say.

“Me too. Thanks again,” Spencer says, looking at your nametag again and then letting it slip from his lips. “I’ll bring it back as soon as we’re done.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you say. “It’s considered damaged and, well, I’d rather not have a book read by a killer on the shelves.”

Spencer nods, saying yet another soft ‘thank you’ before heading out the door.

He slides into the passenger seat of the SUV (he would have walked to the library but they were kind of in a rush, active killer and all), and Morgan is immediately suspicious. “What took you so long, pretty boy?”

“She had to find the book,” Spencer says, clearing his throat.

“Oh, okay. Weren’t getting your flirt on or anything, huh?”

“I wasn’t- she was nice.” Spencer can feel his cheeks warming. He hopes Derek doesn’t notice as they pull out onto the street.

He knows you said not to return the book, but Spencer thinks he’ll bring it back anyways. Eidetic memory works better on printed words and images, after all. Maybe he’ll just.. forget.

[holylulusworld]

Overdue

Summary: You’re a strict librarian.

Pairing: Mafia!Steve Rogers x Librarian!Reader

Warnings/Tags: short reader, mafia au, size kink (Steve), kidnapping?

I changed by posting schedule to match @navybrat817's Monday ask. Go, have a look a her blog and stories.

I had this one in my finished WIPs so here we go with Steve Rogers saving us from our job and boring Mondays. :)

You yawn and rub your tired eyes. It’s a slow day today. The library is almost empty, except for two teens hiding between two shelves to make out. You give them a pass for now if they don’t overdo it.

You turn your attention toward the books on your desk. Your colleague left them there after their shift for you to take care of. Just like always, they are selfish and lazy.

You huff and throw the pencil in your hands onto the desk. Your eyes are blurry, and you are ready to fall asleep. With only the two teens around, you allow yourself to close your eyes for a moment.  

Close to drifting toward your favorite fantasy you sigh dreamily. Your bed is calling for you, and you already miss your fluffy pillows. “So…tired…”

The door suddenly slams open, hitting the wall and you shriek in terror. Even the teens stopped making out to watch a tall man step inside the library.

He sticks out of this place like a sore thumb in his black slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and expensive grey overcoat. You can’t see his shoes, but you assume they’re expensive too, just like the rest of his outfit.

“Hi,” you put on your best-faked smile. If only he stayed away, you could’ve daydreamed a little longer. “What are you looking for?”

“A book,” he gruffly replies, eyes roaming the library. It seems like he’s searching for more than a book. “Where do I find the—” His tongue darts out to wet his perfect pink lips, “law books?”

“On the left side, the third shelf. Are you looking for a specific book, Sir? I can tell you where to find it if you know the title,” you offer, but he shakes his head. He’s halfway toward the shelf before you end your sentence.

You huff and turn your attention toward the stack of books left on your desk. You still have to handle the books, check them for damage, scan them, and return them to the shelves.

Engrossed in your task you don’t hear the man return to your desk. He clears his throat, drawing your attention toward him. You flit your eyes up to watch him run his hand over his thick, but well-trimmed beard. His blue eyes search yours for moment before he speaks again.

“How can I help you, Sir?” you repeat the line you said so often in your life you can’t even count it anymore.

“I’m looking for a book,” he repeats, earning a smirk from you. “A specific book.”

“Do you have a title?” You slowly get up from your swivel chair and round the desk. “Sir?”

“Hmm…” he simply watches you step next to him. Compared to him, you’re small, tiny even. “You’re short.” He states a fact you already know about. “Very short.”

You frown at his attitude. Yes. You are short. This doesn’t give him the right to call you short. “What?”

“Oh, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he takes a step closer to get a better look at you. “It’s cute, really.”

“Cute?” you are fuming and would love to shove your shoe up his ass. But you cannot risk getting caught while hurting a customer. “Do you know the title of the book, yes or no.” Your polite smile is fading, and you can barely hide that you’re pissed at the stranger.

“I know the title,” he lowers himself to whisper the title in your ear. “Do you have that one?”

“Yes,” you spin on your heels and march away, not waiting for him to catch up with you. He’s a stranger at this place, but you know it like the palm of your hand.

“You’re not very talkative,” he comments while following you.

“It’s not my job to entertain the people coming here. And it’s forbidden to be too loud at a library.”

“Ah,” he laughs. “You’re very strict, huh? I like someone following rules. I have a few too.”

“Hmmm…” you browse the shelf, finger sliding over the back of the books. “There it is.” You pull the book out of the shelf to hand it to the man. “That’s the one you are looking for.”

“You’re very helpful too,” he muses while his eyes roam your smaller figure. “How long are you working here?”

“Do you want to borrow the book? Are you already a member of our library? If not, you can fill out the application form.” You point toward the application forms on your desk. “I must warn you. Do not overdue the books, Sir.”

“Doll, do you honestly believe I came here for a book?” His features darken, and he licks those plump lips again. He dips his head to drink your trembling form in. “Do you?”

“What?” You splutter.

“You, out!” He jerks his head toward the teens. “Now!” They run out of the library, never looking back. “And you…” He turns back toward you, still that smirk on his lips, “will come with me.”

Your eyes widen in fear. “No.” You shake your head. “I won’t go anywhere with you. I don’t even know you, Sir.”

He chuckles darkly. Before you can blink you end up thrown over his shoulder. You slap him and scream. It’s no use. You wiggle and beg but he walks out of the library, with you hanging over his shoulder.

“I told you to take the day off, doll,” Steve laughs as you mutter under your breath. “Sometimes your man must take matters in his hands…”

Read more: In time

Tags in reblog.

[isabeauwolf]

Werewolf Shigaraki x Plus Size Reader

Part 1: Unexpected Protector

You don't have how you knew.

You felt as if someone was watching in the darkness.

Maybe you were being paranoid? Maybe you were watching too many scary movies or reading too many thriller romance novels. You felt another chill roll down your spine as you yanked your pink cardigan closer to your body for warmth. The heat during the daylight hours had fluctuated from a crisp and pleasant autumn breeze turned blazing and how after the sun had set; the temperature was dropping and becoming chilly.

You didn't live too far, however, knowing someone was tailing you made your heart leap within your chest. Anxiety and fear twisting hard within your gut churn, sending adrenaline cursing through your veins. As a precaution you slowly reaching into your purse and gripping the bottle of pepper spray for dear life.

Why was this happening to you?

Did you piss someone off?

Did you have a stalker?

Who would be interested in you? A librarian with glasses, extra pounds and curves in all the right places? Did they have some predator kink? Some dark, sick, twisted fantasies that involved you in their sex games or whatever hyperfixation and fetishes?

I don't want to yuck anyone's yum, but leave me the hell out of it! You thought to yourself while crossing the street after the light at the crosswalk had become green. That's it. You huff, gritting your teeth. Tomorrow, I'm telling Mrs Jones no more nightshifts for me and that's that.

Mrs Jones was a sweet old Lady. She has worked as the head librarian at your favorite library and currently workplace since you were a child. She's practically your adoptive grandmother at this point. Being a widow with no children and her cats to keep her company you felt pity for the poor woman. When she'd offered you a summer job at the U.A. Public Library after you graduated high school you took it. When different job offers sounded more better, more pay and benefits, you didn't have the heart to leave Mrs Jones all alone, and so you stayed.

The pay was decent, even if, you only had one big paycheck at the beginning of the month and had to make it last the whole month.

Please for the love of God let it just be my insane and active imagination and overworked nerves. You silently prayed to yourself, swallowing thickly and speed walked in your black pumps as you neared your apartment complex. You mentally cursed yourself for wearing heels tonight, plus a pencil skirt that hugged your wide hips and rear. Feeling your cheeks burn as your breasts bounce and extra weight juggling in time with your quick strides. Oh yes, give the perverted stalk a nice view, real classy, Y/n.

A surge of anger and your temper flared as you twirled on your heels, staring into the pitch-black darkness from underneath the streetlamp overhead and giving your best heated glare. "What do you want sicko?" You challenged, shoving your free hand on your hip.

You waited for a response. For your weird, perverted, stalking and unwanted admirer or whatever to some themselves. Whoever he, or she to step out of the darkness and into the light.

Nothing.

Not a growl or a howl.

Not a peep.

Not a laugh, or a mocking, villainous laugh, monologuing how you were theirs.

Your glare falters. "Oh God, I'm as crazy as my mother." You whisper to yourself, biting your bottom lip as old, familiar anxieties settle in. Furiously shaking your head, letting go of the pepper spray, fishing for your keys, unlocking the door and quickly shuffling inside and closing and locking the door behind you.

🐺🐺🐺

A pair of bright red crimson orbs full of hunger and repressed sexual need and desire stared at you from afar. You had made it home safe and sound. Your burst of anger and sass amused him.

Tomura Shigaraki knew you were his.

His cute little mate, sweet and enticing curves that made him want to hold you against him and kiss you all over, burry his face and scarred, chapped lips into the column of your neck as he whispered exactly what he wanted to do to you.

A week.

It had been a week since he'd found you. His fated mate and female. After catching the whiff of your scent, you had both calmed his inner beast and the thoughts plaguing his mind, as we as spark the deep seeded repressed sexual hunger and primal urges within him.

Something caught his attention.

His inner beast feral and needy, a possessive and warming growl left his throat as he caught sight of another demi human who's been staring far longer than necessary. He felt his inner beast and wolf rubbing against his skin, irritation and the phantom itches tingling his skin, causing his hands to twitch, clench, and become white knuckled. Mine. His inner wolf snarled and snapped. Mine, my female. The urge to tackle the overstepping and roaring foreign male demi human or human invading your space and his soon to be territory angered him further.

The stranger left, backing away in fright. Good. Run away with your tail between your legs, trash. Tomura growled, nodding his head, releasing an exhale through his nose to try and calm down his nerves. Weak willed pussy. He snorted, shifting his gaze back to your apartment, his face softening a tad. He didn't mean to scare you.

He heard rumors of feral, unmated males of all species were coming out of the woodwork lately.

After watching Tomura had seen that pathetic ice demon trying to steal Dabi's girl? He'd secretly grew worried.

No matter if his inner beast had already mentally claimed you as his. Tomura decided to remain in the shadows, watching from a distance, studying you and learning your habits, patterns, mannerisms, favorite food, least favorite, colors, anything to get to know you better. Making mental lists within his head what he needs to stock up on for his nest, no, your nest when the time came for him to bring you home.

Home. A word he truly hadn't had in a long time aside from his annoying roommates.

You.

You were the one whose bright and fragile light would keep him whole, sane; give him and his inner beast purpose. A chance to become something more than a shadow wandering in the endless darkness, covered in blood, ashes, decay and dust.

A female who the moon goddess herself had tied his fate together with yours.

By Shifter law it was Tomura's right to love you, cherish you, provide for you and your future offspring. No one else. You were to become his mate for life.

Your name rolled off his tongue, tasting it between his lips.

Tomura mentally shook himself, tilt his head up and saw you drawing the curtains from your living room, sitting down on your couch, applying your nighttime lotion and creams while your glasses sat on top of your head. Your beautiful eyes glued to the televisions screen to some historical romance drama you had been watching, focus on the screen and lost in the fictional world before you.

His gaze lowered to how your nighttime shorts hugged your hips and ridden higher along your thick thighs. Tomura felt his mouth water and his breath came out in soft pants, oh, how he wanted to leave a trail of kisses, love bites and hickey's in-between your inner thighs. Or mark you in his scent, resting his head in your lap or buries his face into your pillow-y soft, perfect, round tits.

Oh, both scenarios sounded like heaven to him. Nuzzling into your warm body as he slowly kisses your plump lips, shoving his hard cock into your wet, accepting, hot, tight heat and - Shit, not now. Tomura hissed, trying to shove all of his naughty, primal and sinful thoughts into the back of his mind. Shut up, shut up, damn you! He barked at his inner beast, slowing him mental images of exactly what his wolf wanted to do to you. Palming himself and readjusting his erection within his black pants and tugging his matching hoodie down, feeling his face burst into a heated shade of red.

He heard his inner voice of his beast and wolf cackling and giving a teethy grin. Don't lie. He rasped. You want her just as bad. His inner voice sounded mocking and sharp, toothed teeth and maw smirk widened. Give her our claiming bite, mark her and breed her.

Unlike you, dickhead. I won't force her. Tomura hissed, sneaking one last look, lowering and crouching closer to your window, unzipping his zipper, pulled out his cock in hand with a three fingered grip, waited and began marking his territory to ward off other males. Once he was done, he tucked himself away, pulled out a wet wipe and wiped his hands, shoving it into the front pocket of his hoodie, then kicked up leaves to spread it and mask that anyone had been there. There are you fucking happy now? Tomura grumbles, sneaking away, rising to his full height and left.

Yes. His inner beast huffed. For now.

After all this time, Tomura had finally found you. Not at the mall, Overhaul's Club "Darven", Arcade, or even GameStop. No, oh no. It had to have been at the library while he was returning some stupid romance manga Toga insisted needed to returned. That's when he saw you. Caught your tantalizing, sweet and delicious scent.

- 1 week ago -

Tomura entered the over crowed library filled with humans and demi humans, children were playing in the children's corner, people were browsing through the rolls of books lining the shelves.

It wasn't those humans that bothered him. It was the other groups of females that got on his nerves.

Some were speaking in hushed whispers about some new spicy, raunchy, bodice ripper autobook or novel, he didn't care.

He grimaced underneath the hood of his hoodie and waves of pale blue locks. Damn, overly, horny human females were worse than a gaggle of feral bitches in heat for some brainless, long haired, muscled douchebag like some Saint, Hero or Knight in tight leather pants with a huge dick. Yuck, he hated when the woman read them aloud, giggling like high schoolers reading their mom's naughty books in secret. Get a room or check the damn thing out and leave. He sneered, waiting in line.

Tomura hated being born a werewolf, instead of a shifter. Unlike his parents and older sister Hana, Tomura's fur was a pale blue, same as his hair color. Ever since his quirk awakened and his once ebony locks changed to blue. He hated it. Loathed it and his cursed beast with a passion.

What's worse is out of his friend group or close other demi's and supernatural's he knew three had already found their mates.

It figured that stupid red feathered Hawks or the overly horny sex demon Dabi and by the moon goddess above that blacked winged, huffy germ freak crow Overhaul had even for his destined female.

He had no hard feelings about the Mary or Dabi's human female. Mary and Dabi were a part of his pack and best friends, he's tolerated Overcrow for Mary's sake. If anyone told him that a wolf shifter would become a fated pair with a crow demon, then he would have laughed it off and told them they were absolutely shitfaced drunk.

Tomura wouldn't admit that he's secretly envious and lonely.

A feminine voice caught his attention. "How many I help you?"

Tomura's crimson eyes widen, his four-finger grip on the tote bag full of heavy-assed manga nearly crumbled into dust before he caught himself. His pale cheeks, reddened. Pressing his scarred and capped lips together into a firm line, inwardly grumbling to himself as he steps forward and set the tote bag down onto the counter without breaking it. "Checking these in -" He rose his gaze and met yours, his rough voice trailed off.

You blinked, practiced perfect smile widened. "I'll take those for you." You reached out and one of your fingers brushed against the back of his clenched knuckles.

His inner instincts and beast stirred. Mate. Mine. Growling possessively against his skin.

Tomura's breath hitched as he slowly pulled his hand away and nodded, your sweet scent invaded his nostrils and filled his lungs. His slouched posture straightened, nerve endings on high alert and standing at full attention, heartbeat thundering and loud within his chest and ears. "Thanks." He muttered, sheepishly, backing away and half turned, his body wracking with shivers and heat.

Your smile dimmed and softened. "Is there anything else you need?" You tilted your head, unsubconsciously brushing waves of your hair and smell his way before readjusting your glasses, the green complementing your eyes.

Tomura furiously shook his head. "No." He repeated through grit teeth and fast walking away. It sounded harsher than he'd originally intended; he inwardly winced.

Dammit he was already screwing things up.

He needed to get away before he caused a scene and frightened you. "Shit." He cursed underneath his breath, his jaw locked and ached to give your neck his claiming bite and mark. That vampire brat knew. He mentally hissed and sneered, glaring his crimson orbs at the stacks in front of him.

He recognized your sweet smell. Why this strange sickening sweet and intoxicating scent threw him into a rut or feral frenzy whenever Toga came back from the library. He knew it wasn't Toga. Your scent had clung onto the books. So many places, books, nooks and cranies had lingering notes of you all around him. Some old. Some new and recent.

It took every once of patience and restraint not to turn around and corner you, giving into his desires and impulsive nature to mark you in his scent.

Tomura awkwardly shuffled towards the back of the library, surrounded by the rows of computers, long wooden tables and sat down beside one of the vacant chairs. Pulling out his phone, holding it with a two-handed, four fingered grip.

Pulling up Toga's number and furiously typed.

Tomura: You little blood sucking leech. You knew one of the librarians was my female, didn't you?!

Toga immediately replied.

Annoy Leech: I don't know what you mean, Tomura! 🤭 Oh? You found your fated female at last? Congratulations! 🎉🙌

Tomura's lips twitched and widened into a scowl, his impatience thinning.

Tomura: Don't give me that bullshit. You. Knew.

Annoying Leech: No, I didn't.

Tomura: Liar!

Annoying Leech: I did not! 😤 Call it a hunch or woman's intuition. Besides you were actually weird after my library trips. 😏 Don't act like you never stole my tote bag and huffed it like catnip, you naughty, naughty, wolfie~

Tomura paused, reading and re-reads the message. Oh my god, she knew! His fingers hovered over the screen. He would carefully remove the books from her bag, sneak it into his room, do his thing and return it, placing it back in Toga's reading chair and all books accounted for. He didn't make a mess on it, even sprayed it in the vampires favorite perfume.

Apparently, he hadn't been secretive enough.

Your sweet fragrance and foot steps alerted him of your presence approaching.

Tomura pocked his phone into the front of his hoodie, raising his intense crimson to meet your eyes.

He swears he feels his inner beast and wolf wagging his tail like a dumb, lovesick pup. Oh fuck, it's already started. His inner love and touched starved self was already whining and begging for your touch and affection. God, Kamisama or whoever the fuck... Please strike me with a bolt of lightning. Tomura inwardly groaned in embarrassment. If this was the embarrassing shit Touya talked about, I don't want it. He felt his lips twitch into a scowl.

You had approached him with the tote bag full of more cheesy, romance manga. Jesus fuck, how many volumes did that series even have? You offered the bag, smiling. "Are you a friend of Himiko's?" You ask politely. "She usually comes in every Tuesday, chitchats, reads and checks out." A hint of worry bleeding into your tone, smile faltering. "Is she sick?"

A wave of jealousy coiling red hot within his gut. That vamp brat wasn't your mate, he is. "She's busy." He grunts, slowly reaching forward and grabbing the strap of the tote bag with a four fingered grip and ease. "I don't know all the details." He added, lowering his gaze and watching you slowly letting go of the bag.

A hint of curiosity swirling within your depths, then flickering back to re-meet his crimsons. "Perhaps she's with Midoriya and Ochaco?" You mutter to yourself

His mouth quirks higher into a smirk. The webs of jealousy cooling and replaced with amusement. "Wouldn't be surprised."

Your eyes trailing lower, examining his frame and attire. "A League fan, huh?"

Tomura blinked, his smirk falling as his pale cheeks darkens. "Yes, what of it?" He replied grumpy and offended; narrowing his gaze. "Are you making fun of me?" Inwardly shaking his embarrassment of wearing his League of Legends hoodie and matching sweat pants and red sneakers.

"Of course not." You replied, crossing your arms over your chest, pressing your breasts together. "I used to be an avid player back in school before I graduated."

You play? That made butterflies flutter within his stomach and pleased him. His interest peaked. Was his female a noobie or pro? "Did you ever play championships or pro?"

"Nah, I played for the lore, world building and characters rather than playing professionally." You answered, waving your hand. "I'm not that great.*

Instead of dampening his spirits and good mood, he nodded his head and hummed. "It takes a lot of grinding and leveling to play in the big leagues." He agreed.

Some old hag called your name. "Y/n, flirt one your break or closing hours."

You blushed cutely, jumped and asked, turning your head. "Sorry, Mrs Jones. I'm coming." You half raised your voice and waved your hand, signalling you'd heard her. "Well, back to work." You gave him a sleeping smile. "Hope to see you again." You raise your hand and offer him a handshake. "Sir?"

"Tomura. Tomura Shigaraki." Tomura blurted without hesitation. Unlike his mouth, his free hand twitched, copying the gesture, inwardly curling his pinky and ring fingers crossed lightly shaking your hand. He shouldn't be surprised that your touch was soft and warm; sending jolts of electricity, chills and tingling sensations throughout his body.

"Y/n L/n." You asked, giving him a blinding smile. Genuine and full of warmth. "Come again and don't be shy, Shigaraki." You lowered your hand and left, waving goodbye.

The way home became a blur.

Tomura didn't remember opening Toga's door, dropping the tote full of manga and wandered towards his room in a daze and fell face first into his bed.

-present-

He'd supposed he should be grateful for Toga's persistence and pestering. If it wasn't for her, he'd never would've met you.

Night after night, Tomura would follow you home. Keeping his distance and remaining on high alert, walking down the same streets. The night walks became his new routine and silent activity he'd grown excited for.

The scent of fear that would usually give him a twisted form of entertainment and joy didn't thrill him when it came from you. He wanted to see you smile and laugh, happy.

Once again you called out to him from underneath the street lamp, trying to ruffle him up and coax him out.

It took everything within him to deny your challenge, your request, even if, his inner beast snarled, snapped and whined to heed your calling. And yet, he fought it. Stood his ground, squaring his shoulders and remained silent, still as the grave. Hearing your voice. Staring at you from underneath the moonlight calmed him. He knew it was selfish of him, but he wanted to stare at you from afar just a little bit longer.

"Soon, my mate." Tomura whispered to himself. "Soon we'll get to know each other." He waited until you were inside, lingering and then left. "You will never be alone again."

---- end of part 1 ---

Werewolf Shiggy spin off is here with our fellow Plus Size FL!

I know, it's shorter than normal and not spicy yet! But as I said before with this one, I'm taking things slow. ;) Or trying too! XD

Gimme your thoughts?

[jokeringcutio]

The Librarian and the Clown - Arthur Fleck/Joker x You

The Librarian and the Clown Fandom: Joker 2019, Arthur Fleck/Joker x (f) Reader Rating: Teen and up. Warnings: Age Gap, Older man/younger woman, Reader x Villain, Reader x Killer Clown, mention of blood, Mention of violence, Mention of bank robbery, disguise, Reader joining the villain, No explicit smut.

1.

The library was your sanctuary, a place where the outside world ceased to exist as you lost yourself in the pages of countless books. As the librarian, your curiosity and kindhearted nature made you the perfect steward for this haven of knowledge. You had an uncanny ability to recommend just the right book for any patron, and your warm smile turned even the most timid souls into avid readers.

It was on one such quiet afternoon that Arthur Fleck first walked through the heavy wooden doors of the library. The man in his forties seemed painfully shy but polite as he approached the information desk. He was lean, slender, with beautiful green eyes and shoulder-length chestnut brown hair. His simple clothes, always in earthy colors, gave him an air of unpretentiousness that you found intriguing.

"Excuse me," he murmured, his gaze hardly leaving yours, "I need some help using the computers."

"Of course," you replied, leading him to the row of machines lining one wall.

You helped him buy a ticket, noticing all the while how his strong hands fidgeted. He seemed nervous, ill at ease, but whenever he caught your sight he smiled as if to reassure you that he was doing fine. And you couldn’t help but notice how strong his hands looked, even though they seemed elegant. Nails well kept. Not a scruff on the man’s chin. He was looking after himself, yet he seemed so frail and insecure.

There was something special about him. It wasn’t just his looks that caught your eye and made you feel flustered. Or his voice that sent deep tingles down your core. He awoke an ache inside of you that you thought you were incapable of possessing.

And when your gazes met you could swear you saw your desire mirrored in his.

It was quiet, and you had plenty of time to help Arthur complete all the steps. From logging into the computer to opening the files he needed to work on. You explained everything with patience and took the computer mouse whenever he allowed you to so you could show him all the steps that followed.

He smiled up at you, warmly, green eyes sparkling. “Thank you, milady,” he said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow as if to silently ask you for your name. You gave it willingly, even though you normally were more hesitant to have visitors know your full name. He took it with another thank you and then set to work.

You headed back to the counter to get the list of reservations. Spending time helping Arthur had put you behind schedule, but you knew you were an efficient worker so you’d make up for it. As you stood behind the counter, pencil in your hand to strike out the books that you’d already collected from the shelves, you couldn’t help but notice how his eyes kept drifting back to you.

He was watching you. And that knowledge alone made you smile for days to come.

Over time, Arthur's visits to the library became more frequent, and your connection with him grew stronger. You began to look forward to the days when he would appear at the door, a hesitant smile crossing his face as he caught sight of you. His soft-spoken questions about literature transformed into conversations about life, dreams, and desires. Each shared moment felt like a secret treasure, precious and rare.

"Have you read this one?" he asked one day, holding up a tattered copy of 'Wuthering Heights.'

"I have," you answered, feeling a sudden warmth in your cheeks. "It's a dark romance, filled with passion and tragedy."

"Sounds like my kind of story," he said, a hint of a grin playing on his lips.

As Arthur's eyes lingered on yours, you couldn't help but feel drawn to him, like two magnets pulling together. There was something about his quiet, mysterious demeanor that captivated you. And though your rational mind warned you of the potential danger of getting too close to this enigmatic stranger, your heart ached for a deeper connection.

"Thank you for the recommendation," he said softly, turning to leave. "I'll see you soon."

"Take care, Arthur," you whispered, watching him walk away, your heart fluttering in your chest.

As the days went by, you found yourself anticipating Arthur's visits more and more. The library, once a refuge of quiet orderliness, now felt charged with an electric undercurrent whenever he was near. Your conversations took on new depths, exploring personal philosophies and hidden dreams. The more you learned about him, the more you craved his company.

"Have you ever thought about leaving this city?" Arthur asked one afternoon, his green eyes searching yours for an answer.

In front of him, a large window stretched the entire width of the room, showing the rain falling outside in Gotham City. You stood with your back to the view, leaning against the desk that Arthur was seated at. In front of you stood the old wooden pulley you used to collect books that had a reservation put on them.

"Sometimes," you admitted, your fingers tracing the worn spines of the books in front of you. "But I'm not sure where I'd go."

"Anywhere but here, right?" he said, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Maybe," you whispered, feeling a sudden longing to follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever that might be.

Each conversation with Arthur left you breathless, like a swimmer breaking the surface after a deep dive. Your feelings for him grew stronger, blossoming from curiosity into something deeper, more dangerous. But before you could fully understand the nature of your emotions, the unthinkable happened: Arthur stopped coming to the library.

Days turned into weeks, and still, there was no sign of him. Out on the streets the situation turned foul. Politics turned bad, people were angry and went into the streets to protest. And on top of it all, a new criminal emerged. A man dressed as a clown, fighting for justice in the rotten hell-hole that was Gotham. The Joker.

You tried to lose yourself in the familiar routine of your work, but the quiet corners of the library only served as a reminder of Arthur’s absence. You longed to talk to him again, ask him about his opinion of the news. What did he think of what was going on in Gotham? Did the situation scare him? Was that why he never stopped by anymore?

But it was more than that. Not only did you miss your conversations, to share everything there was in your heart and on your mind with a man you considered a good friend, but you also longed to hear his voice again, see his smile, drown in his eyes. You’d fallen in love with him and being without him for long felt like suffocating. How could he bear to be without you for so long? Had he not felt the same?

Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of turning pages seemed to mock your unspoken longing.

"Arthur... where are you?" you murmured to yourself as you shelved books, each title a haunting echo of your memories together.

Your heart ached for his presence, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his gaze. It was as if a part of you had been locked away, and only he held the key. But as the days stretched on without a word or a glimpse, a growing sense of unease crept into your thoughts. What if something had happened to him? What if he had left the city without telling you?

"Please come back," you whispered into the silence, a desperate plea that went unanswered.

Your once-peaceful sanctuary was transformed into a prison of doubt and longing, each day spent waiting for Arthur's return. And as the shadows lengthened and the library's walls closed in around you, you couldn't help but wonder: would he ever come back, or were you destined to be haunted by the ghost of unspoken love?

2.

A cacophony of sirens pierced the air, drawing you away from your tasks. It was an ordinary day like all others, weeks after you had last seen him. Your Arthur. You looked up from the book in your hands, startled by the sudden disruption. The once tranquil library was now filled with tension as patrons exchanged worried glances and whispers.

"Something's happening outside," a man murmured to his neighbor, staring out the window at the chaos unfolding beyond the glass.

You edged closer, curiosity driving you to peer past the shelves for a better view. Police cars swarmed the streets, their flashing lights painting the scene in red and blue. A bank robbery had occurred just down the block, and an unnerving sense of danger hung heavy in the air.

"Everyone, please remain calm and stay inside until further notice!" you called out, trying to maintain order amid the growing unease.

"Help me," a voice gasped, breathless and urgent.

Your heart leaped into your throat as a man dressed as a clown stumbled through the library doors, gun in his left hand, a wild desperation in his eyes. The Joker – a name that sent shivers down your spine. You fought back the urge to flee, focusing instead on the fragile humanity beneath the paint-smeared grin.

"Please," he repeated, his gaze locking onto yours. You noticed how he held a gun in his left hand but held it slightly lowered, pointing away from you. He wasn’t aiming. "I need your help."

You watched with fearful eyes as he lowered his right arm. A heavy-looking bag with blood spatters covering the fabric caught your eye. Was that where he kept the money? Had he maimed someone to get it? Had he hurt someone?

"Wh-what do you want?" you stammered, taking an involuntary step back. His presence felt like a violation of your sanctuary, but there was something about him – something achingly familiar that made it impossible to turn away.

"Hide me," he whispered, urgency lacing every word. "They're coming."

His plea tugged at your heartstrings, despite the fear that threatened to swallow you whole. And as the sirens grew louder and the footsteps of armed officers echoed through the halls, you knew there was no turning back.

"Follow me," you said softly, leading him towards the hidden corners of the library. The weight of your decision hung heavy on your shoulders, but there was no room for doubt – you could always tell the police he had threatened you with a gun. That you weren’t doing this voluntarily. That it wasn’t something about his voice that made you feel like helping him was the right thing to do.

"Thank you," he breathed as you ushered him into the shadows, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of gratitude and something else – something that made your pulse race and your breath catch in your chest.

"Stay here," you whispered, fighting the urge to linger. "I'll handle the police."

As you turned to leave, he reached out to grasp your hand, stopping you in your tracks. For a moment, time stood still as you locked eyes with the Joker, the danger outside forgotten in the electric charge that passed between you.

You gently extricated your hand from his grasp. A shiver ran down your spine as you stared into the Joker's frantic eyes, feeling as if time had frozen. A strange familiarity gnawed at the edges of your mind, and it hit you like a tidal wave – those green eyes, the chestnut hair peeking out from beneath his colorful wig... You knew this man.

"Arthur?" you whispered, your voice barely audible even to yourself. The disbelief that clouded your thoughts was mirrored on his face, but as recognition dawned in his eyes, you knew the truth. This man, this criminal who brought chaos and destruction with him, was the same gentle soul who had captured your heart within the quiet confines of the library.

"Y-yes," he stammered, his vulnerability shining through despite the garish makeup smeared across his face. "Please, I… I need your help."

Your heart ached, torn between loyalty to the law and compassion for the man before you, a man whose pain you had come to understand. You hesitated, your mind racing with the possible consequences of your actions. But love was a force stronger than logic, and you couldn't abandon him now.

"Alright," you agreed, swallowing hard. "Staying here will be your death sentence. They are bound to find you. The backdoor is too obvious; they'll be watching it." Your eyes darted around the room, locking onto a small cabinet nestled among the bookshelves. "There's a better way."

You led him to the cabinet, your pulse pounding in your ears as you prayed for a miracle. Opening the cabinet revealed two rows of keys. You quickly took one out with a blue label, spinning around to face Gotham’s famous Killer Clown. He didn’t look threatening to you now as he stood there, waiting with a glow of hope in his eyes. Meek and patient in the midst of chaos. He trusted you, you realized with a shock. He trusted you, and you could betray that trust by handing him over to the police, be a hero. You held all the power in this moment, and you could decide how things would end.

Biting your lip, you quickly walked past him, your shoulders brushing for just the slightest of moments. But it was enough. You felt the spark deep within your core at the touch and heard his sharp intake of breath. You had not imagined it. Whatever was between the two of you, it was real.

“Come on,” you said, not looking at him, afraid that seeing him would distract you from what you were about to do. You heard his footsteps as he followed after you, through the hallway and up the stairs.

The route you took led through a quiet part of the library. Most visitors stood near the windows, gazing at the cops outside. Some of the policemen who had entered the library were still downstairs, you could hear their voices as they talked and shouted. They were on the hunt, and it was only a matter of time before they would find their target.

You came to a halt in front of the bookshelves that stored thrillers and suspense novels. How fitting, you thought ironically before you raised the key and inserted it into the keyhole that was hardly visible in the space between two shelves. A door opened, revealing a lit hallway behind it.

"Take this route," you instructed, trying to keep your voice steady. But your hand was trembling. You hoped Arthur wouldn’t see. "It'll lead you through the museum that is adjacent to the library. It’s an emergency exit, hardly ever used. I don’t think they’ll even think of it. Most colleagues don’t even know this exists. You can exit on the other side of the building. It's safer."

With eyes averted, you waited till you heard Arthur’s footsteps. You half expected him to run through the door, taking the opportunity to escape without a second thought. But instead of hearing his footsteps rush by, you heard them come to a halt in front of you and saw the blood-specked clown shoes emerge within your vision.

Hot fingers gently raised your chin until your eyes met his. "Thank you," Arthur whispered, his piercing eyes locking onto yours. There was an undeniable connection between you, one that had been growing ever since his first visit to the library. And now, in the midst of danger and uncertainty, it was stronger than ever. His gaze was intense, filled with a mix of fear and desire, and you couldn't help but feel drawn to him, even as sirens wailed in the distance.

"Be safe," you murmured, your voice barely audible above the commotion outside. Your heart pounded in your chest as you regarded Arthur's painted face before you, the colors smeared but his eyes still holding that familiar longing.

Something changed within his gaze then. Like a switch being flicked. His gaze hardened, his jaw locked. Determination taking over.

"Come with me," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His thumb gently stroked past your chin, lovingly. There was no demand, no ultimatum—just an offering extended to you, the choice yours to make. But you could tell from the glimmer in his eyes how much he prayed for a certain answer.

Was this real, you wondered? Was this truly happening? For a moment, you hesitated. The world outside seemed to collapse in on itself, and within this hidden corner of the library, you and Arthur stood at the precipice of something unknown. Yet, despite the danger and the uncertainty, your decision came swiftly, the words tumbling from your lips with barely a thought. "Yes."

His eyes widened in surprise, and he reached for your hand, his grip warm and strong. He pulled you along.  

"Are you sure?" he asked one last time, pausing in the doorway to look at you. His body was now pressed close to yours and you could feel the warmth of his chest against your own, feel his heartbeat in the chaos, and the gun he had hidden behind his waistband just so he could hold you.

“If you come with me, the life you knew will be gone. I’ll keep you safe, treat you well, be so, so good to you,” he murmured, his lips slowly inching closer to your ear. “But you’ll still be with me. A convict. A criminal on the run. Think you could do that? Want to give up your stable and safe home to be with a man like me?”

Answering him took no time at all. “I’m sure,” the words escaped you almost breathlessly, just in time to feel his lips curl into a smile next to your ear. A little peck of his lips against your cheeks and a deep growl from his chest with a promise: “Can’t wait to show you how good I’ll be to you, sweetheart.” And then he spun you around and, with his hand pushing gently at the small of your back, guided you out of the library and into the adjacent museum.

As the door closed behind you, sealing away the world you had once known, the reality of your choice settled around you like a cloak. The future may have been uncertain, but in that moment, all that mattered was the man beside you and the journey that lay ahead. You’d chosen him. And that decision would decide the rest of your life.

Your footsteps echoed through the narrow passage, the only sound amidst the silence that enveloped you both. Paintings emerged in the distinctly different hallway in front of you. No longer the library you worked at.

Arthur grasped a set of coats from one of the displays, a lucky exhibition for the two of you to have sauntered into as the piece of art fell apart to provide the two of you with disguises. He ushered you into the restroom to dress, taking a quick moment to wash his face and hide the wig in one of his pockets. The bag with stolen money was given to you and you held it under your coat as if you were with child.

Walking out seemed ridiculously easy. Policemen surrounded the premises but were entirely focused on the museum. They expected one Joker to come through. They didn’t expect to see a seemingly upset couple exit the museum next to the library. Arthur walked up straight towards one of the policemen to show his distress, mustering all his acting skills in an attempt to get you away from the scene as quickly as possible.

“Whatever is going on?” he asked the cop. “My wife and I were enjoying the fine art when suddenly, alarms went blaring.”

At the sneer as to why you hadn’t left the museum earlier, Arthur replied wittingly that his pregnant wife had to use the loo, and that because of the stress, it seemed that the baby wanted to come early. Shocked and visibly uncertain what to do, the now pale policeman blabbered something hardly audible about you being allowed to pass, wishing you luck when Arthur claimed he was going to take you directly to the hospital for a check-up.

They forgot to take your names.

You walked away from the crime scene just like that. Easily.

Once the policemen’s scrutinizing eyes were no longer upon the two of you, you started running. Arthur led you to a getaway car and helped you in. Finally seated, the two of you turned to each other with a smile. This was the start of something new. And you loved it. ~ FIN ~

AN: Liked my writing? Follow me, send in requests, back up my writing projects or support me on Ko-FI. ~~ Masterlist - Request Box - Support me on Ko-Fi ~~

[torubeth]

18+ 18+ 18+

librarian!kento who took up this job one day after seeing a flyer stashed on his windshield while returning from work.

librarian!kento who’s always been a huge bookworm and thought this would be a way to relieve stress from the day’s activities.

librarian!kento who even after he swore he wouldn’t work after 6, started enjoying his time at the library.

librarian!kento who almost fell off his chair when you rushed in one day, frantic about a book which you forgot to return on time.

librarian!kento who calmed you down and said he’ll pay for the charges even though you insisted he didn’t.

librarian!kento who was ecstatic when you offered to take him out for dinner in exchange for him paying for your book.

librarian!kento who after that was looking forward to meeting you every single day.

librarian!kento who recommended you his favourite books and mentally captured every smile, every gesture you threw his way.

librarian!kento who couldn’t stop thinking about you, especially at night.

librarian!kento who started clocking out of work an hour earlier than usual just so he could see you.

librarian!kento who one day was curious to know what you were reading and so he picked up a book you left on the counter top for returning.

librarian!kento who visibly choked after reading the first few chapters.

librarian!kento who didn’t know you could be so damn filthy.

librarian!kento who after going home that night, jerked off to the thought of you.

librarian!kento who was rather guilty the next day he saw you because it reminded him of all the sinful things he wanted to do to you.

librarian!kento who saw you struggling one day for a book which was out of your reach.

librarian!kento who popped a boner at the sight and cursed himself because it was such a credulous act.

librarian!kento ever the gentleman, stood behind you and reached for the book when he unintentionally grazed his hard on against you.

librarian!kento who was embarrassed and started apologising profusely.

librarian!kento who was taken aback when you pulled him in for a kiss, your hand going straight to the tent in his pants.

librarian!kento who wished he’d done more than just kiss you.

librarian!kento who worked up the courage to ask you out on a date the next day.

librarian!kento who by the fourth date had you on your knees under the desk, chocking on his cock while he annotated a book for you <333

jus a lil sumn xtra:

‘would you maybe wanna recreate those scenes from your book with me?’ he asks you casually.

‘is that even a question?’ you retort back.

safe to say, the both of you didn’t not turn up at the library for a good few days.

[pirincho]

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Dracule Mihawk (1/2)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

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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. He’s been lurking in your head like a cursed wine sommelier since the bond activated—critiquing your sword form, your taste in literature, and once, your soup. “If my soulmate’s a child, I’ll wait until they’re old enough to hunt.”

Part Two

For @ari20002

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

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

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

And then—bam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: “Am I being haunted??”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

Age 8:

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

Your book goes flying into a bush.

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile:

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

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

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

A voice. Soft, bright, and completely innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

And just like that, it was gone.

You?

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

Back to you:

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

You: “Hello???”

Bond: [Muffled noise of a door locking.]

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

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

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

Age 9:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you accept interns?”

“Not under 12.”

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

Elsewhere:

Shanks hears about it over sake once.

“You blocked your soulmate?”

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

“So you just disconnected?”

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

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

Mihawk: “I did. With violence.”

Age 10:

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

Silence.

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

More silence.

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

Elsewhere:

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

Age 11:

Over the Years…

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

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

“My soulmate just proposed to me.”

Enemy: “What—”

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

Age 12:

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

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

He reads every mental blip you scream into the void.

And then he slams it shut.

Again.

More Silence. 

Years of it.

You do end up interning at the library.

Age 13:

Puberty.

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

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

Pours a glass. “Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

Age 14:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You start assuming:

He died tragically.

He’s a specter.

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

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

Elsewhere:

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

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

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

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

Age 15:

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

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

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

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

“I will not be emotionally blackmailed by fruit.”

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

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

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

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

Unholy. Unmanageable. Unwanted.

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

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

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

Back to you:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still. Silence.

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

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

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

You grow convinced your soulmate is:

Emotionally unavailable 

Possibly fictional

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

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

Still, nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Age 17:

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

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

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

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

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

Elsewhere:

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

Until he feels it.

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

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

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

“…No.”

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

Fails.

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

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

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

Back to You:

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

Judged?

Psychically menaced?

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

“…Okay, maybe not tonight.”

Age 18:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?!”

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

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

You screech.

SENGOKU, GARP, AND KONG.

He exists. He actually exists.

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

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

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

Quietly. Judging. Possibly now interested.

Possibly against his will.

Ah, romance.

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 19:

Okay, so your soulmate does exist.

Asshole.

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

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

You simply... decline to reach out.

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

Ignored you for over a decade.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Really? At this hour?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need him.

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

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

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

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

"I will not be disrespected like this."

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

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

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

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

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

You hear it.

A single exhale.

So faint you think you imagined it.

But it was a laugh.

Elsewhere:

And then, it happens.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made him happy.

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

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

His guard lowers in stages.

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

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

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

He catches himself waiting.

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

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

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

Age 20:

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

It isn’t long before he notices.

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

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

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

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

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

And then?

He answers.

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

“I only have six candles.”

You freeze.

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

“...You’re listening?”

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

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

“Against my will.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…It was necessary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar.”

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

Because Mihawk? He’s petty.

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

He doesn’t just break in.

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

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

Age 21: 

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

Your childhood fantasies? Dead.

Your teenage hopes? Buried.

Your bond? No longer silent as a crypt.

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

And he’s now invaded.

Your Thought Hut™: Formerly Private, Now Haunted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“If I die, he'd better feel guilty.”

“I won’t.”

A pause.

“But I’d be irritated.”

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

“Wow. That almost sounded like concern.”

“Don’t push it.”

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

But you do know this:

He listens.

And that, somehow, is worse than nothing.

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

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

Age 22: 

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

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

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

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

It Usually Goes Like This:

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

And it just gets worse…

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

He interrupts.

Every. Single. Time.

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

At one point, you try freezing him out.

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

For a few hours? It works.

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

You start to relax.

But then…

“You missed a thread in your stitching.”

You freeze.

He’s back.

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

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

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

But, of course, you don’t.

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

“Also, your soup lacks depth.”

You snap.

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD, VELVET NOSFERATU.”

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

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

You try begging. You try threatening.

Nothing works.

So eventually?

You just start narrating everything to annoy him.

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

Until finally…

You hear him sigh. Long. Sharp. Dramatic.

“You are intolerable.”

You grin.

“And yet. You’re still here.”

“…Petty,” he mutters.

“Exactly. LEAVE.”

Age 23: 

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

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

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

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

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

“Your better half?”

Silence.

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

You blink.

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

 “…Sorry, what?”

“That’s my name.”

You stare into the mental void. 

“Dracule?”

Pause. He knows what’s coming.

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

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

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

“Are you done?”

“NO.”

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

“You—”

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

Him: “Yes.”

You: “…And?”

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

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

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

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

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

-X-Unexpected Sights-X-

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

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

Then, you find it.

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

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

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

DRACULE MIHAWK

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

You blink, disbelief flooding your senses. 

You read on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So. You’ve seen it.”

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

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

You blink.

No fucking way.

“No. Shut up. Not you.”

“It is me.”

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

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

“It is literally my name.”

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

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

“I’d say absolute.”

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

“You.”

Him, unbothered, internally sipping wine:

“…Yes?”

“You told me your name was Dracule Mihawk.”

“It is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I am aware.”

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

“Six-six.”

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

“I don’t care if you believe me.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

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

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

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

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

His words twist through your mind like cold air.

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

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

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

“Your soulmate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you calling me a liar?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were a child.”

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

“That assumption wasn’t entirely off.”

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

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You keep talking.”

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

“You’re unreasonably hostile.”

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

“Alleged.”

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

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

“You’re defensive when cornered. Noted.”

You huff.

“If you’re him, prove it.”

“How?”

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

“You just described every Tuesday of my life.”

“Again: not helping your case.”

And then, for the first time, you froze.

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t push. Not right away.

But he lingers.

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

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

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

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

And you’re not sure which betrayal is worse.

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

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

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

So you don’t believe him.

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

No.

Absolutely not.

-X-Strange Happens-X-

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

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

Snide. Silent. Infuriating at times.

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

You stare at the old wanted poster again. 

Dracule Mihawk.

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

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

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

But now...

"Tell me your name."

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

You sigh.

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

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

You rub your temple. "This is insane."

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

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

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

But you can’t make him leave.

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

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

“I’m asking now.”

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

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

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

“You know mine.”

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

“Ha, nice try, fake swordsman.”

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

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

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

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

Cue: a wineglass shattering somewhere.

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

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

You’re just… withholding.

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

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

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

So he retaliates.

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

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

And he’s just there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…It’s—”

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

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

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

“…Wait. NO. NOPE—”

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

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

“You gave it freely.”

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

“You were already standing next to it.”

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

Humiliated. Exposed. Angry.

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

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

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

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

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

And worse? He sounds so damn calm about it.

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

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

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

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

“You’re not even cool!”

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

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

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

The audacity. The nerve.

That. That right there is the final straw.

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

You’re in the eye of a storm.

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

Age 24:

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

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

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

Silence.

You relax.

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

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

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

At least, that’s what you thought.

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

You freeze. No. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat.

Everything stops.

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

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

“I—what—you never—”

“No.”

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

He doesn’t let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not question again whether I want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pay close attention.”

You can feel it. Every inch of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanted proof.”

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

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

You swallow, your pulse quickening. 

“This was restraint.”

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

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

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

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

“I showed you what true want looks like.”

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

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

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

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

Elsewhere:

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

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

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

It’s maddening.

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

But you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Five. Minutes.”

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

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

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

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

He could.

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

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

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

But instead?

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

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

You are, in his words:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But no cats in boots.”

-X-Branching Out?-X-

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

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

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

Sex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You made your move.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tried again. And again. Same result.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And laughing.

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

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

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

It got worse from there.

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

A cracked rib.

A pulled muscle.

A debilitating charley horse at the worst possible moment.

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

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

And he—of course he—was utterly unmoved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, finally, he speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[blushsturns]

★pre-party texts with bad boy!matt x librarian!reader ★

☆ masterlist

taglist:

@sturnshood @strangelife122 @jessie-essie @rina3476 @chrissturnioloslvt @sturnslutz @sturns-mermaid @matthewsturnsgf @christmastreecake @rinahasspots @222wall876 @chris-hallelujah @izzylovesmatt @strniloslvts @oopsiedaisydeer @sophand4n4 @xclusivedesires @mattsplaything @katiebug3851 @poppingmypussy4chris @mattsbunnyxx @pair-of-pantaloons @chrissweetheart @slutformatt17 @sturnl0ve @pasteldreams @h3arts4harry @marrykisskilled @wh0remikasas @sturnzslut @camzeecorner @alesturniolos @emely9274 @2muchofaslvt @y3sterdaysproblem @sturnslux3 @bowsandsturniolos @moustacherryismyhusband @rafesapprentice @ivysturnss @headzgonewest @strawberryghost3 @il0vey0um0st @violetstxrniolo777 @bigbeefybitch @raesturns @courta13 @sofieeeeex @tylerthecreatorsglazr @kittyyyyykats

a/n:

the next part involving the party is coming soon! hit up my inbox if you wanna chat about these two or just anything in general. :)

-nessa ღ

[holylulusworld]

In time

Summary: He wants you to take another day off.

Pairing: Mafia!Steve Rogers x Librarian!Reader

Warnings: short reader, mafia au, size kink (Steve), fluff, implied/hinted future smut (oral fem rec)

Catch up here: Overdue

“Young lady, you won’t leave this room,” his stern voice booms through the room. You bet everyone in the house can hear him. “I’m warning you. Not a step closer to the door or I’ll have to punish you.”

You huff. “We have talked about this,” you stand your ground. “You cannot stop me from leaving. I must go to work.”

“No, you won’t!” He steps closer, his shadow looming over your smaller frame. He looks down at you, a smirk on his kissable lips. “It’s Friday, and you’ll take the day off.”

“They will fire me if I take another day off,” you sigh and shake your head. “You must accept that I’m an independent woman making her own money.”

He sighs too and cups your face. Steve dips his head to press a kiss to your temple.

“I know, and I love you for being a stubborn and cute librarian, doll. It’s just that I have a surprise for you, and I cannot wait until you come home from work.”

“Steve.” You’re close to giving in once again. “I can’t, you know that. My boss will fire me, I swear. Last time you made me close the library earlier, she threw a tantrum.”

“That old hag better shut her mouth,” Steve hisses. He doesn’t like the way your boss talks to you sometimes. “Let me talk to her. I bet I can convince her to let you take as many days off as you want to.”

“Steve, threatening to cut her tongue out is not the way to convince her,” you sass, knowing about Steve’s antipathy towards your boss. “Let me go to work, and I promise to be home on time.”

“Hmmm…” Steve thinks about your offer. He steps back, and you believe he’ll let you go. You are about to walk toward the walk-in wardrobe when he grabs you by the waist and easily lifts you. He throws you, once again, over his shoulder to carry you inside the bedroom.

“Steve, Stevie,” you giggle and laugh. “Steve, that’s not funny. You must let me down. Please, I can’t miss another day at work.”

“No can do, doll,” he chuckles darkly. “I have plans for today. Plans involving you and your cute ass. I cannot let you walk out of this house today.”

“Stevie!” You slap his ass. “I’m dead serious! Let me down. I mean it. Steve!”

“It’s so cute when you believe you are in charge.” He unceremoniously drops you onto the bed, laughing when you bounce off the mattress. “How about we play a game? If you win, I’ll let you go to work. If I win, you will stay at home.”

You kneel on the bed, watching Steve circle you like prey. “No cheating?”

“No cheating, doll.” He assures you. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Go ahead.” You can’t wait to hear what Steve came up with this time. “What kind of game are we going to play?”

He smirks, like the devil himself. Steve darts his tongue out to wet his lips.

“I thought of hiding my face between those legs. And if you cum before I tell you so, you’ll lose. If you’re good, and wait, you'll win.”

You smirk as you stare at his thick beard. Because, either way, you’ll win. “Deal, Mr. Rogers.”

Tags in reblog.

[dramaticqueerio]

When I was little, we got a huge custom library to hold all our books, and we had to measure the books for the right sizes to fit in the shelves.

Parents tried to stick to categories, like the Pratchett’s, Neil Gaiman’s, Political, Czech and Comics, but we also ended up with categories like small books and big books.

From that I learned multiple things.

The Neil Gaiman books were much more fun to sort through when I could see them all, and I started to read them with almost the same enthusiasm as the Discworld series

The Big Books were usually scary and boring, and hard to hide under the bedsheets when it was past my bedtime and parents came to check what the light peeking from under the door was.

The small books were fun. They were all old, and thin, and some even fit in the pocket of my shirt. I could never finish them, but I felt smart reading them, and people didn’t notice when I read them, so they couldn’t tell me that I was too small for them.

(my parents never did say that. My mum still remembered when she had to borrow books for her younger sister of seven years, because the librarian wouldn’t let her read them as she was “too little”)

The last thing I learned was that gravity still works even for little kids, and it hurts a lot when you fall from the chair you’re standing on with a stack of books on you.

The thing I’m learning now is that I’ll never read all the books we have, because there will always be more, and I’m mostly okay with that.

[zackprincebooks]

Sir That's my Emotional Support Baseline

After a study between the Salamanders and Ultramarines shows that a baseline companion is helpful for Space Marine mental health, Chapter Master Dante begins implementing the practice among the Blood Angels--starting with Chief Librarian Mephiston. (Mephiston x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; Reader is AFAB but not addressed with any pronouns. I did have to lock this work on Ao3 due to the recent round of AI scraping; sorry!

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

(Tagging my fellow Mephiston enjoyers @solspina and @angronsjewelbeetle)

There are few things in the Imperium of Man more beautiful to you than the Librarius of the Arx Angelicum. With shelves carved out of volcanic rock rather than constructed of wood, new shelves can be added as needed to accommodate the growing collection of relics, scrolls, and data crystals. Fragrant incense smoke rose to the cavernous ceiling in pale wisps, mingling with the candle smoke that cast shadows along the walls. Occasionally, one could hear the chanting of Blood Angels in the Holy Sepulchre above.

Every inch of the Librarius is covered in Blood Angel history; even the floor is a massive mosaic of the Emperor of Mankind’s arrival on Baal to tell Sanguinius of His fate. Those working in the Librarius reverently avoid stepping on the tiled faces of Sanguinius and the Emperor as they go about their tasks.

But that is not the only place where the golden vision of the Great Angel oversees your work. A statue of Sanguinius greets you, holding the chapter’s founding copy of the Codex Astartes on a stasis plinth in his outstretched hands. You bow before it upon entering the Librarius, as you do every day.

The candlelight of the Librarius blurs into a sea of orange and gold, and the clicking and chattering tunes in and out of your ears. You sway back and forth as a presence settles over your body. Anchoring yourself on a nearby shelf, you open your mind to accept the message beamed into it.

“Come. I have work for you.”

It disappears and you right yourself, blinking until you can see each individual candle. Another serf approaches to inquire after your wellbeing, but you brush them off with a brief reassurance and venture deeper into the Librarius.

You don’t want to keep him waiting.

The air deep in the Librarius becomes chilled, and the candles cast longer shadows on the wall. Your nose stings with the scent of incense but you resist the urge to itch it. You are the only serf down here, surrounded by lexicani and epistolaries, and it behooves you to be on your best behavior if you wish to keep these privileges.

The shelves around you display alien technology and trophies from wars waged long before your great-great-grandfather was born. You linger, only briefly, on a sword encrusted with as much gold as it is blood.

But a greater treasure lies further within.

He awaits you in a yawning vault full of ancient scrolls and books, their delicate nature requiring delicate storage away from grubby paws of lesser archivists. Mephiston stands with his back to you as he leans over a wide platform with several papers pinned for restoration and research. He doesn’t address you immediately; preferring to finish applying a protective coating to a few pages with a brush clenched between his nimble gloved fingers. The only indication that Mephiston is aware of your presence was an imperceptible twitch of his left shoulder.

He cuts an imposing silhouette, and his white hair sets him apart from his Blood Angel brethren, but the candlelight throws shadows across his proud nose and strong jaw that makes your hands clammy and your knees weak. 

When Mephiston finally turns around to address you, your composure is perfect: hands at your sides, head bowed reverently, eyes averted respectfully. “My Lord. You have work for me?”

A deep, shuddering sigh comes from within Mephiston’s lungs. A peek at his face reveals that one hand has pinched the bridge of his nose and his jaw is set.

“Raise your head. I wished to put aside this conversation for a later date, but Lord Commander Dante has pushed my hand.” You slowly raise your head, though when you accidentally meet his piercing gaze, you immediately redirect it to his shoulder, wrapped in red fabric. Space Marines are always more intimidating when they’re outside their armor, and you realize they really are that big.

“I am at your service, Lord. What would you have me do?”

Another sigh, this one deep enough and powerful enough that it raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Mephiston’s eyes roll upwards to the ceiling as if to seek counsel from the benevolent face of Sanguinius patterned above.

“Our brothers in the Ultramarines and the Salamanders have recently published a joint study discussing the benefits of attaching baseline companions to Space Marines. Are you aware of it?’

“Only in passing, Lord. The Ultramarines make liberal usage of charts and graphs, so I find there are very few words worth reading.”

He snorts in jest. “Very true. But their study suggests that keeping baseline companions increases the health of Space Marines. Various legions have begun adopting the practice on varying levels, and Lord Commander Dante has suggested a “trial run” within some of our ranks.”

Mephiston’s brow creases. “I wished to take more time with my decision, but Lord Dante informed me that if I do not choose, he will choose for me.”

You are barely able to smother a squeal, as Mephiston moves so you are forced to make eye contact with him. There is a light blue glow in his gaze that makes your eyes water, but you refuse to blink. “If you are not the current companion of a Blood Angel, then I ask that you become mine.”

Goodness, with how serious Mephiston was asking, you’d think he was proposing to you! Your mind reels with the mental image of Mephiston solemnly getting down on one knee, under the gaze of his genefather, to ask you for your hand in marriage. To his credit, Mephiston waits patiently as your mind does somersaults, cartwheels, and backflips.

“It would be a great honor to become your companion, my Lord,” you finally wheeze. Is it your imagination, or does something in Mephiston’s shoulders relax by inches? You bend the knee to him, and it feels as though you ought to be the one with a ring and a vow. “Please instruct me in this new, sacred duty.”

Mephiston nods, the crease in his brow smoothing. “Good. Very good, indeed.” Your stomach flutters and your fingers clench on your knee. “I will have your belongings moved from the serf dormitory into my quarters. In the meantime, visit the Sanguis Corpusculum for a physical. I would also recommend you read the study about baseline companions to better acquaint yourself with your new obligations.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Mephiston’s hand rests on your head, briefly holding you in place. His entire hand is enough to encompass your head, if he wanted. “Go in the name of the Great Angel.”

“Yes, Lord. Thank you for your blessing.” ---------------------------

Brother Caphriel is the Apothecary who tends to you, drawing your blood for a routine blood lab. While his hair is almost as white as Mephiston’s, under direct light, you see the streaks of platinum blond in his tight braids.

“I wondered when Lord Dante would begin the practice of companions,” Caphriel practically chirps as he wraps the tourniquet around your upper arm. “Though I was shocked he began with the Chief Librarian himself. The study recommended the practice start with younger Space Marines.”

“Then you have read the study?” The smell of the disinfectant stings more than when Caphriel applies it to your skin.

“Yes, and I personally know the two Salamanders cited in it. Make a fist, please.”

You look away as Caphriel draws your blood into a vial. “Do you believe the study has merit?”

“I do, and I am glad that Lord Dante believes it does, as well. Though my commitment is to the physical wellbeing of my brethren and our serfs, I fully believe that mental health is one of the first steps towards physical health.” Caphriel fills two vials and bandages your arm. “Coming back to the Arx Angelicum to a warm bed, a hot meal, and a friendly face will do a world of good to the weary mind of a Space Marine.”

His eyes close, briefly. “I cannot wait for Lord Dante to make it a chapter-wide practice.”

You are quiet as Caphriel administers the rest of your physical; checking your heartbeat and looking inside your mouth. Mephiston may not see as much combat as an average Space Marine, but surrounded by alien relics and ancient technologies, tempted by the warp, his mind is constantly at war. Wouldn’t it be nice to hold Mephiston in your arms as he let down his guard, knowing that he was finally safe with you?

You can imagine his long, deep, bone-shuddering sigh—this time, one of relief.

Caphriel releases you with a full bill of health and a copy of the companion study “for educational purposes.” You tuck it under your arm, behind another tome, to hide it as you move through the halls. Outside of Brother Caphriel, no one else knows about your transfer to Mephiston’s service—and you’d rather that no one would know, at least for now.

A quiet corner is your escape, and you wedge yourself into it with a soft grunt. Propping the ring-bound study onto your knees, you fold the cover over to read the title page:

Health and Safety of Space Marines:

A Study of Baseline Companions

By Sgt. Valorem Gadriel and Brother Meduras Chairon of the Ultramarines,

And Captain Tal’Gin Gandor and Sgt. Ursan B’Dann of the Salamanders

It is endearing to see that each of the Space Marines dedicate the study to their respective baseline companions in the foreword, thanking them profusely for their time, patience, and perspectives. Brother Chairon specifically thanks his companion, stating that this study was “for them.”

You take your time reading it over the next half hour, occasionally skimming when you reach pages mostly comprised of charts and graphs. But their results are interesting: of the Space Marines they interviewed, roughly forty percent of them considered their baseline serfs to be a personal companion. They expressed a mental and emotional attachment to their serfs, and it was a pleasure to return to them after a long mission.

“It is a relief to feel my companion laying on my chest at night,” confesses a Salamander of the 8th company, “to know that they are safe and the work I do helps keep them safe.”

“One of my small pleasures is eating a meal with my companion when I return to them. We even have a special room where we sit, as the window offers a beautiful vista of the mountains of Macragge,” Sgt Gadriel admits.

The study is peppered with more anecdotes that make your heart squeeze, but the data is what makes you want to swoon. Space Marines with baseline companions were found to be at least 65% more stable than those without, which is on par with Space Marines who answered that they preferred their fellow battle brothers as companions.

Partnered Space Marines were less likely to feel the pull of Chaos in battle (55%), less likely to be reckless in battle (73%), and had a higher return rate than unpartnered Space Marines (60%). Captain Demetrian Titus reported that Brother Chairon and Sgt Gadriel appeared more focused and calmer in battle after speaking with their companions.

85% of previously unpartnered Space Marines who picked up baseline companions over time noticed an improvement in their mental health, and even in their physical health: it drove them to train more, take care of themselves in battle, and see the Apothecary more frequently for checkups.

Space Marines also gleaned enjoyment from taking care of their companions; bringing them food when hungry and medicine when ill. Watching them heal and grow was rewarding to know that they were part of that process, and it only encouraged the Space Marine to grow with their companion.

“My companion celebrated my promotion with me, and my baseline family,” Sgt B’Dann gushed, “or, more accurately, I celebrated my promotion with my baseline family. Including my companion with them is second nature to me. I could not have done it without them.”

There was one data point in the study that made your eyes water and your face burn. 50% of partnered Space Marines said their baseline companion took care of their sexual health as well as their mental and emotional health. Having sex with their baselines was not only pleasurable, but it was also relaxing. Being intimate and vulnerable with someone they trusted allowed them to feel more confident outside of the bedroom, and the rush of reward chemicals let them see intimacy as something worthwhile.

“Sometimes it can be difficult, given our size,” Brother Chairon said, “but it is only another benefit. We learn to be patient with our companions, and sometimes the workup is its own reward.”

You lick your lips, briefly tipping your head back to think about a “workup” between you and Mephiston. Would the blue tinge of his eyes soften as he looked at you in his bed? Would he prefer to watch you open yourself up for him, or would he rather do it himself? Does he kiss you with fervor, his tongue plundering your mouth while his cock plunders your cunt? Or would he kiss you softly, whispering sweet nothings between pecks about how good you feel wrapped around his cock?

With a groan, you bury your face into the baseline study packet. Your mind suddenly cannot banish the image of Mephiston’s cock between his powerful thighs, twitching and leaking precum. Surely he must be large; Brother Chairon’s anecdote suggests that Space Marines are well-endowed enough to require a long foreplay with their baseline lovers in order to take them.

If Mephiston is big enough, you might not be able to take him the first time. Your thighs squeeze together with the phantom feeling of Mephiston sliding his cock between your legs, teasing your pussy lips with his cockhead. Would he have a knot? Something like one in four Space Marines did—

You stand up on wobbly legs, feeling all the blood rush from your pussy to your head. None of this has been decided. Mephiston only asked you to be his companion; he’s made no other overtures. And the numbers in the study indicated that not all Space Marines enjoyed sexual relationships with their baseline companions.

But the thought does not leave your mind through the rest of your duties around the Arx Angelicum. Your friends occasionally stop you with creased brows and pursed lips to ask after your soundness, and you are doing well…

…perhaps a little too well. You cannot meet Lord Mephiston’s eyes in the refectorium when you take your supper. --------------------------

By nightfall, the Arx Angelicum is beginning to slow down. Baal Prime and Baal Secundus hang in the air like two eyes, watching over humanity on its surface.

You feel as though there are eyes on the back of your neck as you stand outside of Mephiston’s quarters, a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. The light on the passkey is green, indicating that the door is unlocked.

Which means Mephiston is inside.

It’s a good thing his quarters are separated, as any Space Marine or serf would be suspicious at how much time you spend outside, waffling. Do you knock? Do you announce your presence? Leaning closer to the door, you can hear movement inside. Is he unawares? The thought of catching Mephiston changing turns your knees into jelly. His broad back and strong shoulders, dotted with ports, flexing as he undresses—

“I am not unawares. You may enter.”

His voice passes over your mind like a caress. You hadn’t even noticed Mephiston had been monitoring your thoughts until your body rattles with the rumble of his voice. You try to smother your previous thoughts, ashamed of what Mephiston will find if he tries to dig deeper.

“I don’t mind.”

As the door to his chambers slides open, you can’t help but wonder if he sounds…amused?

The stained-glass window of Sanguinius triumphing over a Chaos demon shines a red-gold light into the room, and the curtains are parted to give it the full effect. When the light falls on the bed, you struggle not to see the tableau as romantic.

Especially not when Mephiston enters your field of view, wearing nothing more than a loose robe, his hair wet from the baths and smelling of fragrant herbs. You immediately take a knee, partially out of respect and partially to avert your gaze from his muscular body, still dripping with water.

“Please,” and despite pausing to clear his throat, Mephiston isn’t able to get rid of the gravel that rattles your bones, “do not kneel before me in such a private setting.” He reaches a hand down, lifting you as easily as he would a cluster of grapes.

“Yes, my Lord,” you whimper, not wanting Mephiston to remove his hand from around your waist. Throne, he can wrap his hand index finger to thumb around you.

Does Mephiston feel your heartbeat picking up speed? Does he feel your lungs scrabbling for air? Your ribs creaking beneath his thumb?

He holds you for longer than he perhaps should, cocking his head to one side. His thumb strokes against your side, gently pressing into your ribcage.

“Lord…?” You whisper. It seems to snap Mephiston out of his trance, and he finally lets you go; though his hand lingers on your hip before slipping away.

“Your belongings have been moved,” he rasps, “check that everything is in order and put them away to your liking before tending to me.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips and your eyes narrow on the streak of wetness it leaves behind on his thin lips. Turning away, Mephiston settles himself at a desk to look over some scrolls, but the shifting fabric of his robe indicates his shoulders are shivering.

It’s a frightening sight to see. A Space Marine, the Chief Librarian, brought to his knees by his baseline companion? Do you really have that kind of power over him? As the thought marinates in your mind, you hurry over to where your belongings have been stacked neatly and unobtrusively in one corner.

Taking the study packet out, you place it with your belongings. “I received a copy of the baseline companion study from Brother Caphriel, Lord.”

“Oh?” The shuffling of scrolls ceases. “Did you find it enlightening?” Your ears strain, but Mephiston’s voice is annoyingly level.

“Yes, indeed. If I may be self-centered, my Lord, I did not consider my position in the Arx Angelicum to be so necessary.” Your shoulders prickle with the sound of Mephiston’s snort.

“Not self-centered, but self-deprecating. There are only so many Space Marines in the Imperium; we cannot concern ourselves with the daily obligations of a fortress-monastery. The study merely shows that emotional support is another obligation.”

You fail to stifle the gasp in your throat. “It is not an obligation, Lord. We…I am happy to be your companion.”

“Are you?”

You turn back to Mephiston sitting at his desk. The scrolls are pushed to one side and he is turned in his chair to face you. The candles dotting the desk give a dim, golden light to Mephiston’s hair and his sudden resemblance to his genefather is striking.

But his fine lips are permanently pulled downwards, and the shadows under his eyes are not the fault of the candlelight. You feel the gentle caress on your mind again and you simply allow Mephiston to see himself the way you see him.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and silently, Mephiston raises one arm, beckoning you to his side. You need no other bidding; scrambling to your feet without even shutting the drawer and hurrying across the room. Mephiston’s hand finds a place around your waist, thumb underneath your ribs, and pulls you into him so his nose nestles into your collarbone.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, untangling the knots left over from his bath. When you kiss the top of his head, you hear a deep rumble emanating somewhere from underneath Mephiston’s sternum. It vibrates your entire body and your toes curl in your shoes.

He’s warm, and whatever salt scrub he used in the bath makes his skin soft. You can’t help but wonder if Mephiston took a bath in preparation for you staying in his bed.

Hot breath cascades over your neck from Mephiston’s chuckling. “Don’t tell Lord Dante that he was correct, or I will never hear the end of it.”

“Would you have chosen a companion even without his prodding?” You inquire. Beneath Mephiston’s purring, you hear him hum in affirmation.

“I merely wished for more time with my choice.”

“Are you happy with your choice?” You try to keep the hopefulness out of your voice, but you still crack on “happy.”

Mephiston slowly lifts his head so his nose brushes against your neck. He holds there for a moment, breathing deeply of your scent. His tongue strokes your jugular vein, groaning softly when your heartbeat jumps. The rumbling in his chest has only increased in volume.

His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you into his lap. Your hands grip the lapels of his robe, pulling on it hard enough to loosen it, revealing the hard muscles and softly-glowing ports underneath.

You feel…something nudging at the underside of your thigh.

Mephiston pulls away from your neck, but he does not pull back from you. His nose continues sliding up your neck and jaw until his cheek brushes yours.

“Yes.”

You brace yourself for Mephiston’s kiss, but it is unneeded. His lips nip on yours, letting his tongue slip between them to make his kisses soft and slick. Your hands slide under his robe, occasionally brushing against his ports until your palms press against his nipples. Mephiston’s moan interrupts his purring, but it vibrates your body all the same.

His fangs poke your lower lip as he pulls away, but no blood is drawn. Mephiston’s hands slide from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer up on his lap so his erection sits firmly between your asscheeks.

“I cannot describe to you the elation I felt when I touched your mind and found it full of thoughts of me,” he whispers. You try to tuck your head to avoid his gaze, but Mephiston grabs your chin with your forefinger and thumb. “When you knelt before me, I had to fight the urge to push you on the ground and ravage you.”

A squeak leaves your throat, and his lips curve upwards, revealing his fangs. It would feel threatening if not for your hands on Mephiston’s chest, feeling his thudding heartbeat. Testing a theory, you grind back on his cock and relish in his shuddering moan. The blue lights in his ports flicker and his eyes flutter closed.

“Why didn’t you?” Your voice is barely a whisper above Mephiston’s purring. His eyes open.

“I am…aware of my size,” and to add emphasis, he grasps your ass tightly and grinds tightly on you, allowing you to feel the length and girth of his clothed cock. Though you cannot see it, you estimate Mephiston’s cock to be nearly the size of your forearm. “I do not want to break you on your first night in my quarters.”

Mephiston scoops you up with ease, holding you against his chest as he carries you over to his bed. You scramble to wrap your arms around his neck, your ear pressed against his chest so his rumbling voice shakes your body. “I, too, have read the study—thoroughly. I paid close attention to how my fellow Space Marines cared for their baseline companions.”

He lays you down so your upper half is on the bed while your lower half is wrapped around his waist. Mephiston’s bulge slides between your thighs, curving upwards towards your bellybutton. The fabric of his robe darkens near the tip of his cock.

“Look at how deep I will be inside you,” he growls.

Held in place by Mephiston’s hands, you watch breathlessly as he thrusts his cock between your thighs. Your hips shudder against his, starting to grind in time with his thrusting. The fabric around his cock slips away until Mephiston’s cock is bare to your wide eyes.

“Dear Throne,” you whisper. Your earlier estimation of his length was correct, though Mephiston is thicker than you expected him to be. Pulsating veins spiral up the shaft, reaching towards the bright red head, glistening with precum. 

Your eyes only get wider as they travel down Mephiston’s cock to his knot. While he’s not fully swollen, his knot is almost as red as the head of his cock. It throbs in time to his heartbeat, and Mephiston shifts so his knot presses against your clothed pussy.

“Do you like it?” For all his lust, Mephiston almost sounds shy. He cannot meet your eyes when you look up at him, instead directing his gaze to where your hands grasp at the bedsheets.

“Every inch of you is exquisite,” you whimper. Releasing the sheets from your iron grip, you reach up for Mephiston and he leans down to you, hand cupping the back of your head to pull his face towards his.

Your lips crush together in a symphony of muffled moaning. Mephiston’s cock slips out from between your thighs and presses against your stomach, wetting your uniform with precum. Where it seeps through your attire, it feels hot against your skin. Mephiston continues grinding on your stomach, huffing into your mouth. His eyelashes brush your cheeks, leaving tingling in their wake.

Mephiston pulls away. “I need to see you naked,” he pants, his fangs extended from his kiss-swollen lips. “Give me your hands.” Obediently, you place your hands over your head and Mephiston holds you by your wrists before closing his eyes and focusing until a pale blue light emanates from beneath his closed eyelids.

Something slides under your uniform, pressing against your chest and rubbing your belly. It’s firm and warm, and large. Your breath hitches as it skitters over your ribcage, seeking the ties of your robes. Mephiston’s face doesn’t give any indication of what he’s doing, though when the invisible hand pulls the tie of your robes, he lets out a soft moan.

It’s almost a shame that his eyes are closed when your robes fall open. The invisible hand parts them so your naked body is sprawled on Mephiston’s bed, held into place by his hands on your wrists and his thighs bracketing your hips. He squeezes his thighs against your hips when you try to grind on him again.

“Lord,” you whine, but Mephiston does not respond—at least, not verbally. The fingers of the invisible hand pinches one of your nipples hard, making you squeal.

“Hush,” he grumbles. The glow under his eyelids briefly shines brighter and a second invisible hand presses on your body, cupping your hip. While the first hand moves to your other nipple, the second hand slides down to the apex of your thighs where you’re dripping from his attention.

One invisible finger splits your pussy lips, rubbing your quivering slit. “You’re so wet,” Mephiston whispers in a shuddering voice, almost incredulously. “Is this all for me?”

“Only for you,” you whisper rapturously, and Mephiston moans softly. His cock is a brand where it rests on your thigh, drooling precum that mixes with your juices on the bed in a glistening puddle. An invisible index and ring finger spread your pussy lips before a middle finger slides inside.

These invisible hands are the size of Mephiston’s physical hands; you can even feel his heartbeat through the middle finger pumping in and out of your pussy. It beats in time with his cock, with his knot; and it skips a beat when your pussy lips flutter and gush.

The palm of the hand tilts upwards and you cry out as it rubs your swollen clit. Instead of losing his concentration, Mephiston almost puts too much force into his psychic hands and you whine when his finger roughly jabs your soft walls. But he reigns it in, and the pad of his finger soothingly rubs the spot where he jabbed.

“I can’t last…much…” you whimper, your clit throbbing. Looking down at your pussy, it’s a little jarring to watch your pussy quiver and spread for an invisible finger fucking you to orgasm.

Instead of speaking, a warm caress settles in your mind. “Good. I will not wait for you much longer.” Even when speaking in your mind, Mephiston’s voice is rough with lust and he sounds out of breath. “Cum for me.”

The invisible hand slams into your cunt so the middle finger is plunged deep inside, the palm groping your clit. Pulsing, tensing, arching, your mouth opens in a silent scream and white spots dance across your vision. The sound of your wet gushing is overridden by Mephiston’s moaning in your own mind. To his credit, he does not dispel his invisible hands immediately after you cum, and continues fingering you through your orgasm.

“Good pet,” he whispers, finally opening his eyes to gaze upon your wet and disheveled form. The invisible hands disappear from your body as Mephiston’s physical hands let go of your wrists and travel your heaving body to wrap around your hips and hoist you into his lap. “Now, it is my turn.”

Your mind blinks into consciousness as the bulbous head of Mephiston’s cock nudges your pussy. He grinds on you again, letting your juices wet his shaft and knot and sending little shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body.

“Would you give me your knot, Lord?” You whimper, digging your fingers into the meat of his shoulders. Mephiston’s mouth hangs open, fangs exposed. 

Taking the advantage, you press onwards. “Would you knot me? Fill me with your seed and plug me up? I don’t want a drop to leak out.” Rolling your hips, you let the head catch on your slit and push down—

—Until it pops inside.

You and Mephiston moan in tandem; with his eyes open, you are treated to the sight of Mephiston’s eyes briefly overwhelmed with the blue glow of his psyker powers. The head of his cock carves a path for the rest of his shaft until you feel it prodding the head of your womb. Your stomach feels heavy where his cock stretches you open, and looking down, the sight of your belly bulging is almost…obscene.

And then Mephiston moves.

The bulge slowly withdraws before pushing back up, the indent of his cockhead appearing just under the skin of your belly. His knot doesn’t fit in you yet, but Mephiston makes good use of grinding it against your pussy lips and short-circuiting your brain. Your body spasms in his lap, fingers dragging down his shoulders until they grip his biceps.

“All this talk about wanting my knot,” Mephiston huffs, shoving his knot against your clit and savoring your scream of ecstasy, “and yet it won’t fit in your tight little pussy?”

With one hand, he wraps it around your waist so his thumb presses against the bulge his cock makes in your stomach. “My cock won’t even fit in you, and you want my knot?” Despite the grin on Mephiston’s face, he gulps for air and each time he lowers you onto his knot, you feel his stomach shuddering.

His other hand grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “I asked you a question, pet. You want my knot?”

“Yes!” Tears leak from the corners of your eyes. “Please, I need your knot, Lord!”

The bulge in your belly distends further as your body relents to the superior strength of a Space Marine, and you gush all over Mephiston’s knot as it finally shoves inside you. With his entire cock fitted inside of you, your womb is likewise forced open by Mephiston’s cockhead and it sits there snugly, like he belongs inside of you.

He lets go of your face, stroking your cheek as he does. “I didn’t think you could,” Mephiston huffs, nuzzling your neck. “I haven’t fit in a baseline before.”

“Does it feel good?” Your stomach clenches around his cock and you both shiver.

“I never want to take you off my cock.” As though to demonstrate, Mephiston lays back on his bed, bending his knees to support you on his thighs. With your head resting on his chest, you hear Mephiston purring again. If not for his cock and knot lodged in your pussy, you might be tempted to fall asleep here.

“Do not fall asleep on me,” Mephiston warns in a breathless chuckle, his breath stirring your hair. He grinds into you, letting his full balls rub on your asscheeks. “You begged to be seeded, and I need to be drained.”

You push yourself up on your elbows, anchoring yourself on Mephiston’s chest. “Then let us fulfill each other, Lord.”

The glow in his eyes flashes again and Mephiston grasps your ass to spread the cheeks. “Oh, you are the only one going to be filled, pet.” You have but a second to brace yourself before he thrusts upwards, popping his knot in and out of your pussy with a lewd, wet noise.

There’s just enough squeeze when Mephiston shoves it back in to make you squeal, bouncing on his knot. Your womb has opened for him and when Mephiston pulls you back down on his knot, nearly half of his cock is pushed inside of your womb. His hands pull your thighs apart so he can watch you bounce on his knot.

“What a blessed sight,” Mephiston groans, running on hand over the bulge he makes in your stomach. “Would you like to see yourself through my eyes?”

You barely manage a wibbly, whimpery “yes!” before Mephiston’s eyes are overcome with their blue glow. He holds you still on his cock, knot throbbing just inside your pussy lips. He needs to take a few deep breaths to focus, and instead of the usual touch on your mind, you feel as though someone has taken your head in two hands.

The sight of Mephiston beneath you, white hair fanned around his head like a halo, begins to blur. You try blinking multiple times to clear the image, desperate to watch his face shift with ecstasy and pleasure, but the next time you blink—

You’re looking at yourself, astride Mephiston’s lap with your stomach bulged from his cock. From this angle, you have a perfect view of your pussy stuffed with his knot, the lips forced apart and swollen from being plugged over and over again. It’s also the perfect view to watch Mephiston’s cock throbbing in your womb, as your stomach twitches slightly each time he throbs.

In a truly commendable display of his psyker powers, Mephiston maintains the mental link with you as he lifts you from his cock, just enough that the bulge in your stomach disappears. “Please, Lord, please, please, please,” you beg, watching through Mephiston’s eyes as you uselessly gyrate on his cock. “I’m so close, I just need it!”

“Are you sure, pet? If you’re close, then you should be able to finish without me.”  Mephiston’s fingers dig into the soft meat of your thighs, holding you just at the tip of his cock. His powers are beginning to slip and you briefly return to your own mind to watch sweat beading on his forehead, glowing slightly from his eyes.  

“No, I need it! I need your cock!” Your fingers scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in their wake that quickly fade. As if your bright red face wasn’t pathetic enough, tears start rolling down your cheeks. “Please let me cum on your knot!”

Maybe it’s your tears, your begging, or his own need for release, but Mephiston smiles with all his fangs. “I want to hear my name when you cum,” he rumbles, at last slamming you on his knot and returning you to your own mind.

You have at least the presence of mind to answer his request, “Mephiston!” before your thoughts are scrambled by your second orgasm, cumming and convulsing on his knot. A wetness pools under your thighs, and the viscosity indicates that it’s not just your juices.

“I will give you what you want,” Mephiston growls, beginning to pound you up and down his cock like a plastic sleeve for his own pleasure. “I will give you every single drop!” His knot is lodged in your pussy, too swollen to be removed as his cock prepares your womb for his seed. You can do little more than let your mouth hang open and your eyes roll back.

“I will—” Mephiston’s voice cuts off on a throaty grunt as his swollen knot forces him to stop thrusting, holding his cock deep into your womb. His cock throbs twice before his balls heave and begin unloading his cum inside of you. The first splash of Mephiston’s cum hits your womb, filling you with warmth.

With his knot keeping everything plugged, the second and third blasts are quickly filling your womb. “How much…?” You whisper, putting one hand on your belly to feel it swelling.

“Did I not say?” Mephiston pants, “I haven’t fit in a baseline before. I am eager to see how you are filled with my seed.” He grins again, watching your belly bloating with his cock and cum.

“I feel heavy,” you moan. Your womb is stuffed, and it sloshes with cum when you try to move—not that you can go anywhere, with Mephiston keeping your thighs in a viselike grip. Your belly continues to distend with the emptying of Mephiston’s balls, and you lower yourself on Mephiston’s chest to rest again.

His knot softens enough to pull out, and he does—slowly, moving you so your back is resting against his chest. Once Mephiston’s cock withdraws from you, fully, he tilts your head towards his face.

“Are you still with me?” You make a “mmmphhh” sound in response. Mephiston chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Perhaps we should next test the emotional support of a Space Marine towards their baseline."

[thezombieprostitute]

Your small town has been invaded by a biker club. They want a peaceful takeover but they can twist your arm if needed.

Holy shnikes, I spent so much time working on this! I almost had to make it a two part story! I've barely been able to work on anything else because I needed to get this story written up instead. I honestly think I've never written anything like this before.

Word Count: ~3.6k

Warnings: Choking, Dub/non consent, Implied violence, Knife play (mild). Please let me know if I missed any!

Next Part

Sheriff Lee Bodecker and Mayor John Walker caved to the bikers pretty quickly. Part of you could understand why; only a handful of officers in the entire county compared to a full biker gang? They'd never stand a chance. Better to be allowed to live without having to worry about ending up in the hospital. The Mayor didn't care so long as he got to keep his job, which now meant making the bikers happy.

Which meant paying the bikers with money from the city budget. Your library's budget in particular.

When you'd tried to argue about it, Mayor Walker hit back with "well we can't take any more from the school! Besides, no one needs the library anymore. They've all got their home computers and Internet. You'll be fine with the new budget."

In the end you'd had to let go all but one very part-time employee, relying on two or three volunteers instead. You were already working long hours but now they felt endless. With the budget cut, you had to reduce the purchases of new books in favor of maintaining the Internet connection several of older patrons relied on. Almost half of your day was spent working on applying for grants for additional funding for after-school programs and free-lunch programs for during the summer breaks.

Looking over everything, you were certain you'd have to dip into your own meager savings if you were going to meet the needs of your community. Mayor Walker really didn't seem to understand what the people of his city actually needed, but he didn't seem to care so long as he was in charge.

During an after-school reading time with the Kindergartners you're surprised by the entrance of one of the bikers. You think he's the second-in-command, but you're not sure. He's definitely not the blond in charge; "Cap" you think they call their leader. Still, you have kids to take care of, and this newcomer is a grown man. He can take care of himself.

When the story is done it's time for a nap for the kids. This is very likely the longest they've ever been away from home, away from family, and the sleep helps keep them from getting overstimulated. It was another thing Mayor Walker just didn't understand. All of these kids had parents that worked full time and couldn't afford a babysitter. There were no daycare options, either. Decades ago the kids could be left with a grandparent or a cousin, but they're all working as well or moved out of town. That left the library as a haven for the kids who didn't have access to the limited after-school activities as an option.

If there's anything good about working in such a tiny library it's that you can keep an eye on the kids and the biker while going about your other duties. Thankfully you'd gotten some WD-40 for the book carts so they wouldn't squeak and wake anyone up while you re-shelve books.

You also get a better look at the biker. He's sitting in one of the chairs reading The Hobbit. You hate to admit it but he does look handsome. Longish dark hair, steely blue eyes. For some reason he's still wearing his gloves. If only his arrival hadn't heralded such troubles for you. Well, at least he wasn't causing trouble.

Shelving the books gets you a bit of stretching and some impromptu squat exercises. You spend so much of your time at a desk that this is the closest thing you get to a workout. Given how your body continually snaps, crackles and pops, you could probably use more.

Your exercise is cut short by Ruth's entry and you have to fight the urge to let out a groan. Ruth is one of the older ladies in town who refused to get a computer for her home. Unfortunately that means each time she visits, you have to walk her through even the most basic elements of using a computer so she can send an email to her granddaughter. The entire time she complains to you about how much she hates computers and how much she wishes her daughter would've raised her own daughter correctly and been happy to just accept a phone call, and on, and on, and on.

"Hello Ruth," you quietly say, customer service smile on. "Let me go ahead and log you in to one of our computers?"

"I'm not an invalid!" she loudly complains. You try to quiet her, pointing to the sleeping children but she isn't having it. "All you youngsters thinking an old lady can't do anything for herself! How dare you imply I can't log on to a computer? I'll do it my own self."

You take a breath to steady yourself before looking over at the little ones. They seem largely undisturbed but, knowing Ruth, they'll be awake sooner rather than later. Sighing you go ahead and get their after nap snacks ready. Just another hour or so until their parents start coming by to pick them up. It doesn't take long before Ruth is yelling at the computer, complaining to you that "it's clearly broken" and "why can't we just write letters" along with her forever complaint of "wouldn't have to do this if she'd just pick up the damn phone!"

The kids start waking up and you quickly have to balance keeping them from being upset by the angry lady while also knowing any attempts to placate the angry lady will be met with more anger. Thankfully the snacks are a good distraction for most.

"Would you like some help on a different computer, Ruth?" you ask through gritted teeth, knowing the answer.

"Oh stop treating me like one of those brats," she snaps back. "What kind of library is this where computers are more important than books? Shouldn't even have these monstrosities here!"

"Excuse me, Ruth, is it? I'm Bucky." You'd been so distracted going between Ruth and the kids you didn't notice the biker had put down his book and walked over.

"Oh don't get me started on you and yours!" Ruth retorts. "Town was so much better before you hooligans came along! Now I can't even call the police to help me out when then those teenagers are loitering in my yard!"

"Well Ruth, let me give you my number so the next time you can call me instead of the police," he offers. You're surprised at how calm he's sounding despite being yelled at.

Ruth huffs, "you no-good-beatniks! How dare you insult me! You should get out of our town and leave us good folk alone!"

The biker, Bucky, smiles, "seems to me 'good folk' don't go harassing people who are just trying to do their job." You have to bite back a laugh at that comment. It's no good riling her up even more.

Ruth storms out, letting you focus on the kids who are looking unsure if they should be upset or not. You give the biker a quick "thank you" before giving the little ones all of your attention. He nods and goes back to his reading.

Soon enough the parents start coming in and picking up their kids. Several of them stick around long enough to check out a book or movie and you have to balance taking care of the remaining children with getting the families out on their way. It's always such an ado that makes you really wish you could hire some extra help. A few parents complain about the snacks you gave their kids and you remind them, yet again, that they are free to donate snacks they consider appropriate. All the while you keep your customer service smile up, despite how much you're internally screaming and crying.

Things finally calm down and you're able to sit and take a breather. You desperately want to quit but this community needs a library, even if the Mayor doesn't think so. And goodness knows they'd never be able to hire anyone else to work these conditions. You look over to where the biker is sitting, still reading. If his gang hadn't shown up, you'd be in a much better position. Maybe even able to take a vacation.

Checking the time you decide to keep your professionalism and head over to the man. "Sir, excuse me?" He looks up at you, bright blue eyes momentarily startled. "Sir, we're going to be closing in about a half hour."

"Oh, yeah, sure thing," he nods as he closes the book. "Also, please call me Bucky."

"Sure thing, Bucky," you nod, too tired to argue.

"Gotta say, you do a lot of work for a librarian."

"What do you mean by that?" You don't hold back the bite in your tone and cross your arms.

He chuckles, "I didn't mean to offend. Just, I thought librarians were just supposed to check out the books, y'know? Maybe answer questions? Didn't expect you to also be a daycare, IT person and all that."

"And that's just the work that you saw," you snap at him.

"Don't you have anyone helping you out?"

"I did, before your gang came along!" You're unable to hold back any longer. "Because of you the Mayor cut my budget! I had to fire pretty much all my staff! I can't get the half the books the people of this community want! I have to beg the state government for funds to make sure kids have food when they don't school meals! Do you know how much cleaning I have to do because there's no room in the budget for professionals?! Do you have any idea how many of the things around here I have to pay for out of my own pocket?! You bikers demanded protection money and it came out of my budget!"

Bucky's gloved hand grabs neck, stopping you from talking. You try to fight but his arm is stronger than expected. Surprisingly he doesn't look angry so much as amused. "You know, I never thought I could go for the librarian type but this fire of yours does something to me." Your nostrils flare and he chuckles. "I've been yelled at twice today, Doll. A man can only take so much."

"I'm sorry," you grumble as best you can.

His hand loosens, "what was that, Doll?"

"I'm sorry," you repeat. "While you are the reason my budget was cut, you're not the one who made the decision. I'm sorry I took my anger and frustration out on you."

"That's more like it," he snickers. He pulls you uncomfortably close to himself. "And I'm more than happy to reward that better behavior." You look at him, confusion written all over your face, as the leather of his glove caresses your cheek. "Like I said, I never thought a librarian would rouse my interest, but you're something else." You roll your eyes and try to pull away, but he isn't having it. His grip tightens around your throat again, even as his smile widens, baring his teeth. "I can be very good to you, Doll, so long as you're good for me."

His implication is clear and you really don't have any options.

"I need to close the library," you grumble.

Bucky removes his hand from around your throat, "good idea. Don't want to get caught now, do we?"

Your body is shaking as you go about the routine for closing the library. Your brain is working overtime to try to figure out some kind of way out of this. Running isn't an option. Even if you made it to your car, where could you go? Calling for help definitely wouldn't do anything. You seriously doubt he would hesitate to make an example of you if you ran.

With the last of the doors locked and the blinds closed you return the biker and almost whimper, "my office?"

"Oh Doll," he cups your chin. "You don't need to be scared of me. I'll be good to you."

"Do...do you...do you have a condom?"

He chuckles, "don't worry, we're not going that far tonight. But I love that you're ready for it."

Without warning he grabs you and pulls you in for a suffocating, forceful kiss. His tongue quickly pushing its way past your lips. Mentally reminding yourself to do what he wants, you open your mouth to give him access and he moans. One of his hands moves down to your breast and you have to will yourself to not flinch away from the touch.

"Take off the cardigan. And the top," he orders.

You back up just a bit so you can oblige. "The bra as well?"

"Nah, that'll be for me to remove." His voice sounds rougher than before and his eyes are definitely darker. He seems amused by the fact that you maintain eye contact while removing your clothes. "You're so pretty when you're defiant," he teases. "But I'm sure I'll have you pleading for more in no time."

Willing your eyes not to roll you instead snipe back, "don't make promises you can't keep. Wouldn't be the first disappointment I've had."

He has the nerve to laugh at that. "I'll make a believer out of you, Doll."

Walking to your office, he sits in your chair, gesturing for you to get on his lap. "Make me think you want this," he commands.

Taking a deep breath, eyes never leaving his, you move to straddle him. He's surprised when you grab the back of his head and turn his face up before shoving your tongue down his throat. He moans in appreciation and his arms wrap around you as he returns your fervor. You bite his lower lip and start grinding against his crotch.

He removes his right glove before undoing your bra faster than you expected. You pull apart from him just long enough to remove the bra and he takes the opportunity to latch himself to your breast. His ungloved hand moves to fondle your other breast while his surprisingly strong left arm holds you up. His ministrations have you gasping as your body instinctively continues to grind against him. His slow, languid movements are in direct contrast to the speed your hips have set and the difference is affecting you.

Suddenly you're on your back on the desk. Bucky had managed to move his left hand to prevent your head from banging on the desk. Your eyes widened from more than just surprise at the realization of how fast and strong he was.

"Sorry, Doll, you were getting me too worked up already," he smirks at you. He moves his hands so they're on each side of your head, hovering over you. "It really is the quiet ones, huh?" You can't help roll your eyes and he chuckles. "Let's see how loud you can get."

He quickly unbuttons your pants and pulls them off of you before getting out a knife. Your breath hitches and he chuckles as he takes the blade to your panties, cutting them off of you. He puts the panties to his nose, "you smell so good. How long's it been, Doll? Months? Can't imagine you get a lotta action in this town."

"It's been a while," you confess, heat burning your cheeks at how turned on you are. You can't bring yourself to look at him.

He stuffs your panties into his pocket and taps your thighs with the knife so you spread them open. "You look so pretty like this," he snickers, clearly amused by your discomfort.

He slams the knife into the desk by your head, making you yelp in surprise. Using his left arm to hover over you, he whispers into your ear, "such a pretty scream," as his fingers start playing with your pussy. He groans at how wet you are, "fuck, Doll, I should'a known you'd be into the rough play."

You squeal as he mercilessly jams two of his fingers into you, all the way to the knuckle. As you involuntarily arch your back he alternates licking, sucking and nibbling your nipples. He adds a third finger and mercilessly drives his hand in and out of your soaked pussy. He pushes himself up and uses his now free arm to start choking you. You try to push his arm away, but it's impossibly strong. You're shocked to feel your orgasm building as your gasping for air.

He must sense it too because he grins and starts ordering you to "give me what I want, Doll. Cum around my fingers. I can feel how close you are." He gives your nipple a sharp bite that pushes you over the edge and cum with a hoarse scream, his fingers never slowing down, his grip never letting up.

It's only after you've stopped cumming that he eases up. "That was fucking gorgeous," he taunts before pulling his fingers out of you and licking them. He closes his eyes and moans at your flavor, making you burn with embarrassment. You start to get up but his left hand keeps you pressed to the desk. "I'm not done, Doll."

"I'm sorry," you murmur. "I shouldn't have assumed."

"God you're a good, smart girl. Keep those legs spread for me." You do as he says while trying to look anywhere but him. He pulls the knife out of your desk and flips it so that the hilt is pointed towards you. "Look at me, Doll. I want you to watch." You struggle to look and he rubs the hilt of the knife against your oversensitive clit, making you jump. "I said, look. At. Me. Doll." You're quick to follow his orders this time.

He puts the knife away before undoing his belt and pants. As much as you could feel when you were grinding against him, as much as you could see the his bulge, you weren't expecting his cock to be so big. Your eyes widen and he chuckles, "like I said, we're not going that far tonight. Now be good and don't move unless I tell you."

Grabbing your legs he pulls you so your ass is a little off the desk and runs his cock over your pussy, gathering up your slick and rubbing over your clit, making you whimper. He starts groaning in pleasure, "god you're so wet from just one orgasm. Can't wait to see how soaked you get after a full night with me." He positions your thighs so that you're squeezing his cock between them and he gives a few thrusts, spreading your own juices all your thighs.

"Gonna mark you up with my cum," he growls as he picks up his pace, squeezing your thighs even tighter. His hands are hurting you but his cock keeps rubbing against your clit and it's feeling so damn good you don't register his words. You moan and whine as you barrel towards your next orgasm. "That's it, Doll. You make the prettiest faces. Can't wait to see you covered in my cum. Gonna look so damn pretty with my seed all over you."

He squeezes your thighs impossibly tight and you cum so hard from the pain and pleasure combination you don't notice him ejaculating all over your stomach and chest.

When he finally catches his breath he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone to take a photo. You try to protest but he gives you a warning look. You drop your face, trying to not cry from how dirty you feel. He puts the phone away and lifts your chin, "don't worry, Doll. That photo is just for me." He kisses the top of your head and you try not to wince. "And because you were so good to me, made me feel so good, I'll be good to you. Now get your clothes back on and I'll escort you home."

"Can I clean up?"

"Not until you get home," he growls. "You don't get rid of my marks until I give you permission."

"Yes, Bucky," you sniffle.

"Aw, don't be like that, Doll," he gently chides. "I take care of what's mine."

The next morning you wake up from a nightmare riddled sleep, feeling more tired than ever. After your morning routine you step outside to head to the library but stop short when you see Bucky on his motorcycle, waiting for you. Wordlessly he hands you a helmet and you don't even try to question or talk him out of whatever he has planned, you just put the helmet on and get on the bike behind him, holding him incredibly tight so you don't fall off.

He stops in front of City Hall and helps you off the bike before walking you in. He doesn't stop until he's led you to the Mayor's office. Your shocked to see Cap, the leader of the biker gang, sitting next to Mayor Walker, whose nose has recently been broken. You gasp and try to turn away but Bucky grabs you and keeps you facing the Mayor.

Cap pats Walker's shoulder, "now what did I tell you?"

Walker shudders a little before looking at you and shakily saying, "I'm so sorry for cutting your budget so much. I will amend that today, making sure to take the money out of my own salary."

Your shaking, unable to respond. Bucky whispers into your ear, "what do you say, Doll?"

"Th-thank you, Mayor Walker," you stutter. "I...I really appreciate that you've ch-changed your mind."

"That's my girl," Bucky whispers before guiding you out of the office.

Next Part

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

[lambcultist]

꒰ ♱ ꒱ librarian!caitlyn being a pervert, touching you in the library... ┆ library assistant fem!reader, groping, perv!cait, boss x employee dynamic ♡ mdni, 18+

perhaps, working in some kind of specialised library with cait, such as a law library, where it doesn't get busy and you are the only two librarians there. feeling like hunted prey every shift and not being able to place exactly where the feeling is coming from, having no idea it's caitlyn !! you're oblivious to all her (admittedly, vague) attempts at flirting, therefore, she has 'no choice' but to go for the more obvious and erratic methods of gaining your attention. caitlyn will feel okay for the rest of the day as long as she stole your focus for a few moments.

days in this quiet labyrinth of uninteresting reading material are monotonous. you process new items, you speak to the occasional frazzled lawyer looking to borrow a book, and you slot files and textbooks into their home on the shelves. and sometimes shelving, whilst it is the easiest task, can be taxing on your body. whether it be bending down to any of the lower shelves and unknowingly being gawked at by an awestruck cait, or even requiring her help with any of the taller shelves.

caitlyn does her best to help you when she can, do not get her wrong, but the mere act of you having to hop up and down to try and reach something high up is adorable. she lets you struggle for a few moments before pretending to finally notice, darting over and taking the book out of your hands as gently as possible—and trying not to mull over the fact that her fingers brushed up against yours. she doesn't let you move, free hand resting on your hip as she easily completes your task for you. her six foot stature is a blessing.

but, caitlyn cannot fucking help herself. every day she has become greedier, and this time she accidentally slides her hand up your torso, cupping your breast. she has never taken a proper feel of your body before, not like this, it's so perfect that she must stifle a quiet whimper. and you are acting so lovely and sweet about it, clearly in shock and not even saying anything. you could never assume caitlyn is doing this all on purpose, you wouldn't dare think of her as being such a creep. she's your superior, a very respectful and laidback boss at that. even though she secretly longs to pin you up against the shelves and lift your long, beautiful skirt up.

🏷️ @abbysdollie @cowgirlvi @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @literallyhousemd @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @angelxvs @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @tennisthatcher

[navybrat817]

Anyway, lovelies, you know who wouldn't put up with this censorship bullshit? Librarian!Bucky.

“Bucky, it’s okay.”

“No, it fucking isn’t. It undermines your freedom of expression. It’s a tool for control, and we both know it.” He stops you before you can cut in, fire in his eyes behind his glasses. “By censoring you and others like you it’s an excuse for them to find more and more stuff they can deem as harmful or inappropriate because of their biased narratives. They’re also making it more and more difficult for users who have already stated that they’re fine with the content by making them jump through hoops just to get a glimpse of your stuff. So, no, it’s so fucking far from okay.” 

You smile before you can stop yourself because it’s hot as hell seeing him work himself up on your behalf, and you let him wrap you up in a tight hug.

“I won’t let them censor my girl,” he whispers. 

You know he won’t.

Come to think of it, Steve Rogers wouldn’t appreciate this either.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Started: 12/12/2023

Ended: 08/04/2024

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

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