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Liberties taken and made permissable owing to the fact he has not yet been made to rue the day his hand came into contact with the hat, Shanks cannot help but keep it atop his head, adding another wiggle here and there. Of course he'd never be imitating Mihawk himself with such a poor quality attempt but he merely grins at the question if only to leave the other wondering.

"It suits me, eh? Now that almost sounds like a compliment coming from your mouth..." Another laugh follows, each one so full of vitality, a mark of one who has committed to enjoying life, making the most of its challenges and sees the beauty of the world. It rings around the beach and is returned with a chorus of rumbled chuckles from the crew who are splayed out, not interfering in the thing between the swordsman and their captain, but close enough if they are needed.

With bottle retrieved, Shanks begins to bring it to his lips, to continue that faint warmth partake in further merriment but he finds the bottle slipping, losing his grip as the hand curls around the back of his head and draws him in. There's a clink of the bottle in the background, the steady drip of amber liquid as the dregs pool on his side of the table, but he does not notice, cannot when Mihawk consumes his every moment with such a sudden move.

Breath hitches as teeth scrape at his lip, and he leans forward on instinct chasing that kiss that was gone too soon, eyes half-lidded until he jerks and stills in his seat, lips still slightly parted. To be outplayed, well that was an experience, one that warmed rosy cheeks into a deeper flush and changed that ferocious grin into something more tender. So caught is he, he almost misses the comment about his straw hat, but finds it in him to laugh breathlessly and shake his head.

"That one will return to me in time..." he answers, hand scrounging to find the neck of his bottle, face contorting a fraction when his sleeve drags through the spilt rum. Just one touch of lips and he's off kilter, his ground shifted beneath him, but he can't be seen to be so breathless lest he be left to the merciless ribbing of his crew. He sidles closer instead, popping the hat off his head and back onto Mihawk's "It might have suited me, but it is truly your signature..." His audacious streak allows him to tuck fingers beneath Mihawk's chin, tipping his head left and right, gaze focused only on the man who he shares his space. He lets his hand slip away to resettle himself but not before running his thumb against Mihawk's lips, a promise to collect at his own leisure, for a treasure stolen must be returned in full.

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@resolutepath sent: "What do you think?" Shanks is merry, cheeks cast in rosy colours as hand reaches across the table between them and plucks Mihawks hat from where it sits, placing it upon his own head. With the absence of a certain straw hat, handed away along with precious trust to one who will keep the legacy alive, he had decided to forgo headwear, though enough rum and he's bold enough to try Mihawk's own. "Suit me or not?" He postures, make an exaggerated flourish and tipping its brim in the direction of its owner, before leaning back in his seat.

"Perhaps a bit too much for me, more your style. but I see the appeal..." he wiggles his head side to side, a ridiculous effort to send the plume into motion before he laughs full of mirth, eyes bright as he reaches for his drink.

Were it anybody else reaching for his hat, they would have lost their hand by now, faster than they could blink. But as with many things Mihawk doesn't tolerate from others, Shanks has free reign to do as he pleases - whether he's aware of that privilege or not. The swordsman watches as his hat finds its new place upon the messy red hair, the contrast reminding him of a sunrise over the black shore.

It suits him surprisingly well, although paired with the familiar alcohol-induced flush on his cheeks and the ever-present lazy smile on his lips it makes him look more like a tipsy aristocrat trying to socialize rather than a renowned pirate captain enjoying the mild weather in his favorite bay. "I do hope that is not your impression of me," Mihawk comments on the little flourish, watching the presentation with a neutral expression.

"It's a bit of a clash with your usual style," he assesses in a calm tone. "But it does suit you." The white plume wiggles comically and not for the first time Mihawk is struck with a mixture of affection and disbelief in the face of Shanks' capacity for childlike wonder. Sure, he's drunk, but he knows for a fact that no amount of rum is required for him to find pleasure in such simple things. And then his laughter reaches his ears, unrestrained and genuine, and Mihawk's heart beats faster at the sound of it. This is what he travels for, what he stays for, what he thinks about when he's alone half across the seas.

Without another word he pushes off his seat, just enough so he can lean across the table and press his lips to Shanks', his hand curling around the back of his neck to hold him still. They have a corner of the little make-shift bar to themselves but he still senses Shanks' men stirring at his sudden movement, ever wary of him, no matter how often he shows up in their midst. Good.

Their kiss ends with a gentle scrape of teeth against a soft lower lip, a promise of a bite that never comes, and Mihawk sits back down, his head spinning enough to remind him that he, too, had a few drinks too many. "I preferred the straw hat."

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Does your muse ever want to gently throttle someone cause they're so cute?

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muse update #3721

Yeah, I know I'll be obsessed again at the very latest when OPLA s2 comes out so I'm just adding him now.

Smoker (One Piece) [ #( m: smoker. ) ]

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SENDHIL RAMAMURTHY PLAYS NEFERTARI COBRA IN S2?!?!?! 😭😭🔥🔥👌👌👌🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

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Honkai Star Rail (HSR) Sampo transparent renders! Google Drive Link for full quality

> Please do not repost > Renders are F2U, and credit is not needed when using. > If you prefer Discord, here is a link to my server!

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headcanon: mihawk - the great betrayal

Since after 3927204583 chapters we still don't know what great betrayal Mihawk suffered and I don't know if Mr. Oda will ever give us that piece of information at this point, I'll just go wild with it until the day I find out through canon. I've seen various ideas for it and some are tied to other big or at least semi-important characters, which I want to stay away from for now, just in case. (For starters because this gives me more freedom and also because some touches onto parts of the story that I haven't actually read yet.)

Instead I will go with the idea that ties it directly to the fact that, for a while, he was known as Marine Hunter and had an active grudge against the marines before becoming one of the samurai/warlords. There are multiple reasons for him becoming one of the Seven, which I will write about another time, but one is that he wanted the peace of having his bounty cancelled, something the Marine obviously only agreed to after he stopped killing them, which he did on a grand scale for personal reasons, up until that point.

The Great Betrayal I saw this idea somewhere and I really liked it, so I'll build on it: the reason he hates the marines so much is that he used to have something like a crew, even though he was never a captain of a ship. It was just two men, really, and the three of them didn't quite function like a pirate crew but rather like brothers in arms who traveled together (if the thought of the musketeers comes to mind, that's not unintentional, if we look at his overall attitude, his sword skills and his general attire). He never intended to be a pirate in that sense, he was always a swordsman first and foremost, but both the inspiration he got from Gold Roger's legacy as well as his own actions soon led him down that path and he accepted it as his way of life without reluctance. In gaining strength and building his own legacy he caused issues for the marines many times, steadily increasing his bounty and turning into a notable enemy of theirs.

At a time when he was still young and before his name became one of the big ones, one of his men, the one he would have called his best friend, betrayed him. He secretly worked with the Marines at the time and sold his two friends out after being promised a significant amount of Berry as well as immunity from punishment for his previous crimes and an immediate rise to a high rank within the Marines. He succeeded in getting the third in their group killed but underestimated Mihawk and lost to him in an ensuing fight, in which Mihawk slaughtered him and all the Marines that came to his aid.

Besides shaking Mihawk's ability to trust to the core, the incident revealed the dishonorable side of the Marines and in the years that followed Mihawk focused his anger over the betrayal towards any marine that had the misfortune of crossing paths with him. Only years later, after he became known as the best swordsman across the seas, he was able to let go of his grudge enough to finally abandon this revenge (pretty much entirely) and form a truce with the Marines in working with the World Government. He still holds no love for the Marines but he is (mostly) true to his commitment, as long as he isn't attacked first.

This betrayal is also the reason why he travels alone.

(This truce of course later breaks when the warlords are abolished and he regains the status of a wanted criminal, although few of the marines are stupid enough to go after him.)

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when you buy yourself a mihawk necklace and it's neat and beautiful but then you realize to anyone who doesn't know one piece you now just look like a massively devoted christian with a gigantic cross around your neck

like, it's not THAT big and it looks a bit fancier but.. yeah..

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@avaere cont./response to (x)

To think that not even dreams found themselves immune to the incapability of humanity, its flaws seeping deep into dreams and tainting creations as simple as elevators. He wasn't surprised though. How could he be? Wherever there'd be traces of humanity, there was bound to be sloppy work somewhere. A twat who hadn't completed a job, a missing screw, some sort of human mistake that were both loathed and appreciated by other humans. Gallagher couldn't have cared less, but from time to time it was nice to be reminded that humans, despite all this time, were still humans and that they were as flawed as the next one. Then again, Gallagher was Gallagher, and most visitors of the dreamscape would surely have jolted awake from such an odd notion. No one enjoyed the sensation of falling in their sleep, even less when at the height of elevator. For as the elevator in one of the taller family related buildings came to halt the lights had begun flickering, its motion pausing quickly, prompting a swift and unfazed arm to be directed from the bloodhound to the family head's back. He wouldn't touch Sunday, no, merely hold it out in case he was to trip – a disgruntled family member was as pleasing as a wasp in a small room, and he really didn't need to draw too much attention to himself.

"Ah," Gallagher would nod, one hand in his pocket as head fell back slightly, gazing up at the flickering light showing the floor. His arm remained behind Sunday for the moment. "Think I found the problem."

What relief, truly, to find oneself in the company of someone who worked the floors and knew their way around the buildings. Maybe the family head would count himself lucky there he stood in the presence of the bloodhound, hand eventually withdrawn and returned to similar position as the other, shoulders slumping with a long-winded sigh. Either that or, maybe...

Orange tinted eyes fell to Sunday as a smile came forth. "It stopped."

... he'd find a good reason to kill the bloodhound in person.

Whichever came first, Sunday would – dared one say thankfully – find himself within the company of someone who took the situation far calmer than most. Gallagher hadn't minded the jolt, nor had he minded the little bell that came, and the waiting jazz music? He quite seemed to enjoy it, a hum here and there repeating tones he had heard in the bar before. It'd bring his shoulders to a roll as he'd move away from the middle of the elevator to one of many walls, back meeting with its surface upon releasing another sigh, this one morphing into a yawn. Unbothered, unfazed, unwilling to lift too many fingers to bring more comfort to Sunday. There was little he could do about it anyways as this was, after all, a matter of the architects of the dreams and not a bloodhound. Surely, if he was to be let near anything of such complex components, it would turn into an everlasting dream in a far different setting. All they could do was to wait and Gallagher would do the honors of pressing the alarm button with a hand reaching from pocket to metal in an all too slow press, hopefully reaching some individual who wasn't completely fazed out on SoulGlad or some other pleasures.

"It's probably gonna be a while, Sunday," formalities slipped from him, hand reaching back into his pocket as head fell gently against the wall behind him. "Better make yourself comfortable – all that SoulGlad shi... stuff makes the workers all hazy, not at all suitable for the job they're meant to do... Hm... Hope you've eaten, one time I got stuck in an elevator for six hours."

Too unbothered, eyes closing slowly as to relieve himself of the sharper lights in the elevator, as a smile plastered itself on his lips. It was funny though, because these things always happened in movies that needed a little extra flair. "Great time for you though," he'd add under a breath, one eye opening to take a short glance at the family head.

"You get to grill your underdog and then decide whether or not you should leave his ass to fall with the elevator or not," another horrid joke that didn't sound too fitting, but one that humored Gallagher enough to bring that laughter back. If anything, it was meant as a distraction for Sunday, something else to rest his mind on than the elevator situation. Thinking about it wouldn't make it run again, and wasting time and energy to try to fix it was way above the paycheck Gallagher never saw the light of. "It's a joke, I suppose."

Not a good comedian, was he?

'Then...'

Then? That brought both eyes to an open, the bloodhound's hearing sharpening at the sound of the halovian shifting closer, seemingly taking him up on the invitation – wait, had it been an invitation – to investigate the bloodhound further. Oh, it was clear as day, that little tint of skepticism that blended into general curiosity; he had seen it before, most people found themselves torn whenever they managed to take a gander at him. Most doubted him as a guard, others simply had to look twice to ensure that they had seen someone, and then there were those like Sunday who had yet to decide whether or not this was someone they actually welcomed into their space, especially when found in a confided space such as an elevator. In here, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to go and therefore little room for betrayal, even less for Gallagher who'd – due to his 'family' – always find himself on the losing side.

He, of course, had no reason to tamper too much with the Oaks... as long as they, despite this one's beckoning presence, stayed occupied with their own business; 'how about... this scar...' there wouldn't be a touch, merely a dipping glance directing Gallagher's own towards it. One of the broader ones, taken throughout his time on Penacony, a result from a long life lived as Gallagher.

' what happened? '

Yeah, what had happened there?

One of the larger ones on his arm, located on top in such a religiously manner that was it was almost ironic. Some of the other hounds had joked about it, commented on it – yet finding themselves uncertain as to why they were laughing in the beginning, as said, they had to look twice to double check who was around them these days. Quite certain that someone had been there but... not quite sure if they could find it in them to prove it; " ... wanna take a guess?" the answer to that should've been no, but there was only silent and a look. Gallagher, sadly, knew that one too.

"I'll let you guess instead," he'd redirect with a laugh as head fell back down against the wall behind him, canted so he could keep an eye on the family head. "Two truths and a lie, but I'm not gonna tell you which it is. One, I got into some fights before coming to Penacony, roughing myself up a little extra over stupid decisions that landed me some new features. Two, I stole the look off some other guy and this is just makeup added for the dramatical affect so that people will find me mysterious and intriguing; what's a gambler's golden dream without that charming thug, you know. Three, I'm actually an alien species that made this man body out of magical powers and ... botched it a little in the process..."

Surely, it was evident which answer was right.

"... guess right and I'll let you ask another question, Mr. Oak, but guess wrong," and there was that grin of his. Warm, friendly and a little unprofessional at times; "and you're gonna have to answer one of mine."

The elevator comes to a sudden halt, causing Sunday to momentarily lose his balance, his feet shuffling over the smooth floor before they find their grip again. Whatever thought he had somersaults right out of his head, his eyes widening at the unexpected disruption. He senses Gallagher's movement in the corner of his eye and is gripped by a sudden but brief emotion at the casual display of care. Most people would have secured themselves, most people wouldn't have wasted a thought on him - or anyone, for that matter - certainly not their first. The sentiment fades before Sunday can hold on to it, but it withdraws only to the farthest edges of his mind, a faint shadow of it lingering still when he regains his composure.

Gallagher's hand never reaches him, but he can imagine the feeling of it warm against his lower back well enough that it sends a shiver up his spine. The idea of a touch he both rejects and craves - from this man or any other - it's not the primitive base desire (at least not most of the time) for physical gratification, but a yearning for the simplicity of its occurrence: for the normality of Gallagher reaching out and touching him without thinking twice about it, for his own ability to receive it without temporarily erasing every active thought in his head, without feeling both threatened and seen in a way that makes him want to close his eyes until it's over. He wishes Gallagher would touch him, to steady him or simply because he wants to; perhaps he wishes one more than the other - or perhaps not, because one is rooted in the plain desire for it whereas the other means he cares enough to do it, and who's to say which is better?

The malfunction of the elevator doesn't worry Sunday in the traditional sense, the truth of the Dream so ingrained in his consciousness that he doesn't fear what one might fear outside of it - death, harm, they're just theory in here. "Have you now," he responds, calmer than he feels by far, while the irony that the elevator leaves him cold but Gallagher does not isn't lost on him. "Enlighten me." He isn't unkind in the way he speaks but curt and professional, as always. Maybe therein lies his true strength - to be what he needs to be rather than who he is (or was).

It stopped.

Sunday lets out a sigh that can definitely be heard from where Gallagher is standing, his eyes closing briefly, if only to hide their urge to roll back into his head. Just how unserious can a man be in such a short amount of time? For all the questionable charisma he exudes there seems to be an equivalent force residing in him that prods at Sunday's patience like that's the job he's getting paid for. In some twisted way it might be part of the charm, if only because it pulls Sunday out of his preferred stasis and makes him think on his feet in a way he hasn't in a while, to withstand the obvious bait laid out for him as to not lose his temper. Because oh, how he hates losing his temper. It makes him feel weak and out of control and neither of those things he can afford to be.

The security officer seems all to willing to give himself up to the pending boredom of being stuck in here indefinitely, something that in itself alarms and appalls Sunday. While the calm of a seasoned officer is an appreciated trait, the eager acceptance of something unacceptable certainly is not. Who succumbs to their fate so leisurely when there are at minimum a handful of solutions that could be attempted first? Is there not a spark of resistance in this man when it isn't specifically targeted at someone of authority? Sunday is still puffing himself up mentally, debating a reprimand of Gallagher's lack of urgency when the bloodhound speaks first, shaping his lips around his name so casually as if he's said it a hundred times before. (Which perhaps he has, considering it's a day of the week.)

"You seem content to accept that as an irrevocable fact, not a deficit that requires amendment. Have you misunderstood your assignment, Mr. Gallagher? --we will not be stuck here for six hours," Sunday retorts with an air of determination only a head of a family could have. It's bad enough to hear that they'd let anyone sit in here for such a length of time, but if they intent to slack off while he is here, there will be consequences of epic proportions. The mention of the SouldGlad is vexing, Sunday's brow furrowing as he makes a mental note to request a stricter control system for workers in such essential functions, but sees no gain in debating the matter with the man before him. He further abstains from admitting that he hasn't eaten in a while and that the mere thought of being stuck a single hour here is making his stomach clench painfully. Postponing his meals does not factor in lengthy hold-ups.

There's something to be said about jokes inherently lacking if they need to be presented as such, but Sunday keeps that to himself as well, recognizing it as yet another bait for him to bite and reveal himself as unnecessarily critical. Instead he wills a smile to his lips that almost feels convincing as he regards Gallagher, who leans against the wall, smiling without a care in the world. Shouldn't the security officer have more skin in the game than he does in this scenario? Once again Sunday's eyes linger on various points of the other's attire and appearance, resting on his exposed arms for a while.

This scar.. what happened?

A guessing game? What absurdity has he been struck with - is there no seriousness in this person? But no second sigh escapes Sunday, only a look that most closely expresses confusion paired with some notable indignation. He should put a swift end to this, truly, but with the elevator still stuck and no help responding there's little else for him to do.

Two truths and a lie. Three stories and all three of them strange. The first one is so generic and believable that Sunday immediately deems it the lie, until he hears the other two and revises his decision. An alien species that made this body out of magical powers.. it sounds outlandish enough to draw suspicion, which likely means it's just a clever way of describing what they're all doing in the Dreamscape. In a manner of speaking, this description also fits him. Contrary to his earlier reservations, Sunday now reaches for Gallagher's arm but stops short at the last moment, gloved palm hovering over the - surely warm - skin. "This isn't make-up," he says matter-of-factly, "It's too precise for someone who struggles coming to work in proper attire." His hand withdraws, a triumphant look on Sunday's features now that he considers himself the victor of this little game he never intends to play.

"Since I believe my choice to be true, here's my question: if you were to fail my assessment, what would your choice of work be?" For whatever it is, you might be better suited for it.

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I have a draft with which I've reached a point of.. it's been an effort already (as in, I already wrote quite a bit for it) but in order for it to not still SUCK it still needs a lot more effort but I also just want to finish it already cause it's causing a backlog because I don't want to touch anything else before I finish it but I don't have enough brain cells to finish it (well) and >.<

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I love him so much

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The moment Aventurine gets distracted by the scenery before them is hard to miss, his eyes trailing over the waves below and his words drawn out just a little bit more than usual. Veritas finds a certain satisfaction in that - not in the ability to distract the gambler per se, but to know that it's this place that does it. He remembers the first time he stood on this balcony and watched the waves crash against the shore, smelled the briny sea, the sun warm on his face, and decided that this was the place he could see himself find the peace and quiet he was looking for. The thought that his guest might appreciate it to a similar extent is pleasing.

"Mine, or some more propagated ones? There are plenty of books on the latter - a few papers on the former." Ratio raises his eyebrows as he regards Aventurine, his response kept deliberately general. He wouldn't mind sharing his thoughts, or better yet his questions, but right now the prospect of showing Aventurine around is more interesting, of savoring his first impression to what could be his home.. for a while.

What is that emotion swimming in the Avgin's eyes? Awe? Sadness? Something in between? "What do you see when you look at the waves?" Veritas asks, his own eyes still fixed on those beautiful haunting irises that reflect the sun on the horizon and the sparkling sea beneath it.

when  veritas  counters,  aventurine  stifles the need  to  complain.  there  is  wisdom  in the sage doctor's advice,  there's no denying that, but  that doesn't tempt the avgin to press any less.  you see, aventurine  already  knows  a lot  about  his  public persona.  from every  thesis topic  he's ever written, to the name of every student  he's given  a failing grade. it's rather crazy, actually, the things one can find in a database when they're feeling a little mischievous after one or two heavy drinks.

even when   veritas   opens   up,   it   still doesn't give   him   any of the information craves. debate. nature. ' anything  else  is  less  of  a  hobby  and  simply  aspects  of  life  i  tolerate  to  a  higher  or  lesser  degree ... ' he says, and for some reason? it leaves aventurine feeling like he's standing with even less than what he started.

" right ... "

of course, before aventurine can muster up another 'thought provoking' question, he watches veritas pass through those glass doors ━━ liberating them both of the stifling library air and into the bright light and cleansing breath of the day.

" contemplating the cosmos' mysteries, huh ... ? " the avgin says preoccupiedly, almost entranced with the symphony of waves crashing below them. it's like he's never seen the ocean before given the way he immediately finds purchase along the edge. " i'd like to hear the result of some of those, doctor, " he chuckles, the salt laced breath of the wind casually teasing through his honey blonde hair.

but that's only a half truth, isn't it?

in a youth long buried, aventurine did see an ocean. what he neglects to share, however, is that not all oceans are made of water ... some, are made of blood.

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me: I feel a bit agitated and my stomach isn't too happy but idk why

my breakfast: coffee and coke (coca cola!!)

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If at any point I call or spell an OP character different from how you're used to, please bear with me - I read the series is German and the names don't always match the EN or JP versions x_x

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@resolutepath sent: "Thought you'd have hightailed it by now to the seas..." The red-haired captain comes to stand next to Mihawk, grin lopsided as his hand remains curled around one of the reserve bottles so generously dug from the supplies at the message the man had brought. He leans on the rocks next to him, head tipping to the side as he studies the other's face, finding meaning in the lines of his expression that he does not share. "You might give a man the wrong idea."

He had not anticipated that Mihawk would show up simply to hand him an update on dear Luffy's bold steps into the world of piracy, though he appreciates the efforts taken. Seeing that kid take his first big leap into his dream stokes that flame that sits in his own chest, seeing the next generation taking to the seas and striving for freedom. "Are you disappointed I wouldn't duel you with a hangover..? We could try something else... cards perhaps? A battle of minds as opposed to blades... unless you'd prefer something more... physical..." He pauses, letting the implication linger and then laughs heartily. "Archery perhaps... I'm sure we could rustle up a crossbow or two in lieu of actual bows."

Mihawk keeps his eyes on the horizon as he senses the other's approach, watching the sun set on the East Blue. The little island has fallen relatively quiet, with only a few of Shanks' men left awake to jeer and drunkenly slur their cheers for the boy as they lie around in the sand or sit by the fires. It's a merry band, as is expected under a Captain like Red Hair, their chipper demeanor a stark contrast to the threat they pose to anyone stupid enough to challenge them (much like their Captain himself).

"I am in no hurry to depart and have nowhere urgent to be," the swordsman offers as explanation. It is the truth, at least by his understanding of urgency, and accompanied by the fact that sailing at night is not his favorite way of traveling either. What's one night spent off the grid, in the grand scheme of things, regardless of the notable absence of the comforts expected to be found in the vicinity of a Captain as established as Shanks. He still seems to shirk the expectations that come with a reputation such as his and Mihawk finds that there is, as ever, no small amount of charm in that. Perhaps there's something to be said about the spirit of a true pirate not requiring pomp and worship, but tonight even he has had one or two rums too many to dive into those kind of thoughts.

Then, a flicker of something that could have been a smile in better lighting, crosses Mihawk's face. "Don't make me responsible for your ideas."

There it is again, the dangling offer of a duel and not for the first time a grave sense of disappointment strikes Mihawk's heart. To this day, their duels remain a string of shining memories in a past now cluttered with uninspired challenges and soulless opponents. As many things now lost to time and the sea, they were a symbol of a different era, one that has already begun to crumble around the rising legacy of a new generation.

"A card game you say? At least I can be certain you'll have no ace up your sleeve." Finally Mihawk turns to Shanks, sharp eyes scanning him in the scant light. Shanks' degree of intoxication is evident in his shamelessness, but Mihawk takes no offense to it. It's been a while since their paths have crossed, and even longer still since he took him to bed, but the thought of it hasn't lost its appeal. Perhaps there is no harm in reviving some old habits.

"Very well. A game of cards it is. Let's save the physical for when you're capable of walking a straight line again."