#resolutepath

I have no idea what you're talking about, everything about Shanks and Mihawk is 100% cool and never embarrassing. And even if Mihawk did something embarrassing, he'd claim not to be embarrassed, because it's only mortifying if you let it be. That said, I bet it's something that came out when one or both of them were drunk.

We've established that Mihawk reads romance novels so maybe something that was prominent in his latest read got stuck and slipped out between a few glasses of red wine.. something like-- kitten. Wildcat. I am physically cringing writing this and imagining Mihawk calling Shanks his feisty wildcat. This can never see the light of day (= reach the ears of anyone else).

@resolutepath sent: i  see  how  you  look  at  me. ( young crepus to varka )

He spoke and his voice was just as wonderful as the rest of him. Not too deep but warm and smooth, like creamy caramel, the way he formed his words refined but not condescending, and Varka thought he sensed a hint of amusement in it. He'd count that as a good reaction. His response was a toothy smile that lit up his eyes, the delight over Crepus' attention not feigned in the slightest. "I was hoping you'd notice eventually." If he had to bet, he'd say that the last two times they'd met, Crepus had already seen the way he looked at him, but had deliberately chosen not to give him the time of day. He could be wrong, could be overestimating his own ability to leave an impression, but it was more fun to think of it like a game they were both playing. If Crepus was playing hard to get to stoke Varka's interest, it certainly was working like a charm.

He was dressed nicely again today, hair tied up in the usual fashion that exposed that beautiful neck Varka had daydreams of burying his face into. Next to him, he had to cut a poor figure: hair damp with sweat from training, his shirt torn at the sleeve and his boots caked with dried mud. Maybe Master Feroux was onto something with his decree that a knight's uniform should always be pristine because you never knew when you'd have to represent the Order. Or just your own hygiene standards. At least Varka knew that he looked good in a white shirt.

Leaning on his practice claymore, Varka moved forward a little, the smile still firm on his face. "I intend to keep looking." Behind Crepus a slightly concerned looking man was leafing through a pile of papers, occasionally throwing glances at the young master. Sensing the end of their not-so-chance encounter approaching, Varka turned his attention back to Crepus. "I'd be delighted if you kept noticing." Please don't turn me down, he thought. Aside from fearing some actual heartbreak – silly as it may be, he had never experienced an infatuation as strong as this one – his friends and fellow knights would never let him live down suffering a rebuff from the guy he'd been talking about for weeks now.

Jiyan has always been an observant man, especially when it came to the researcher that effortlessly occupied his thoughts. So, while he couldn't read minds, he could sense the sudden shift in Mortefi. One moment, their gaze made his ears burn, nervousness he wasn't familiar with blooming in his stomach and chest. The next, they were pulling away, wouldn't even glance his way or at least offer a quip to tease or make him feel more at ease. To think he had been so nervous and worried about their opinion when they were more entertained by the reports on their desk. He had been... foolish. "Is it that strange?" He supposed it was. He was a war general. Needless to say, these things didn't suit him, this entire situation wasn't like him.

"Right, thank you for the advice. And... forgive me. These past few weeks, I've been taking your time for granted, haven't I? I'll be more mindful from now on." Jiyan's voice was quieter than usual by the time Mortefi left the laboratory, as if he was saying those last sentences more to himself than to the researcher. But their words and indifference repeated in his head like a broken record. Mortefi never called him General. Even if it was just a word, it had meant the world to Jiyan, the fact that he could be just himself with them, that his title had no impact in how they saw and treated him. But now... had he overstepped? Was this their way of saying that they wished to keep some distance from him and take a more professional approach? "..."

The door closed and, alone, Jiyan thought of all the times he called just to talk, the pastries and gifts he brought. He didn't return to the city often but, when he did, he always ended up dropping by the Academy and... He had troubled them, hadn't he? How embarrassing. Those thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind the moment the door opened again, a faint smile already in place when he greeted his two friends. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

The dinner with Conall Cernach barely registered in his head, all teasing remarks meant to get under his skin or make him turn bright red completely flying over the young general's head. His mind was somewhere else, still trying to find a more logical solution as for why Mortefi was mad at him. Perhaps he was overthinking things and their coldness was the natural result of talking to the representative of the Mictíre House? They said the Ghost Hounds trust could be put in jeopardy the more he talked to the aristocratic class of the New Federation. Maybe they had been talking for themselves? And yet, he still kept going to them for advice...

He thought of looking for Mortefi, but they said they were busy and if they wished to be alone, then he didn't want to intrude and make himself more of a nuisance. So he decided on waiting outside their apartment. Time passed and Jiyan wondered if he made the right call. If Mortefi was busy, then perhaps they returned to the Academy? He was about to send a message to Xiangli Yao when he finally saw the familiar figure of the man who had been occupying his thoughts. Quickly, he stood up and cleaned the dust off his pants. "Mortefi, I believe there are things we need to discuss. I would prefer to hear it directly from you before making assumptions that won't benefit either." After all, even though he dreaded what they could say and a part of him wished to avoid the topic altogether, it wouldn't be right to jump to conclusions.

At least, that was what he thought until he paid closer attention to the researcher's current state. Golden eyes widened in shock as he rushed to them. "What happened to you? Mortefi, are you hurt?"

Send in ‘Abandoned Mask’ to meet a muse I’ve had in the past that I no longer roleplay.

He watches the other man pace back and forth in increasingly rapid strides, hands gesturing, mouth moving as words tumble free in a constant stream of noise. And it is just noise to him, for the most part. Oh, he catches a word here and there, ears primed for key phrases amidst the thick padding of unnecessary vocabulary that accompanies them, but everything else washes over him like the tide. It's not the first lecture he's had from Jack. It's far from the last.

Fingers curl about the neck of a bottle as he reclines further back in the creaky wooden chair, boots propped up on the table in front of him. He lifts the bottle, takes a generous swig, eyes not once leaving his quartermaster as he gets more and more animated. And, when Jack finally notices that he's not fully listening, a smile curves one corner of his mouth as the man twirls on the spot and slams both hands onto the table either side of his feet.

"Are you even listening to a word I say?" He drinks again from the bottle, draining the last of its contents. Then, with the kind of slow, exaggerated movements he knows will drive Jack mad, he drops his feet from the table, places the empty bottle down, and stands. His hands come to rest either side of Jack's, as if to frame the other man in, and he leans forward until they are eye-to-eye.

"Fu-,"

A deep drag of his cigar was Crocodile's initial response. The man looked up from his spot under the awning made of palm leaves, watching the moon drop dappled patterns over his skin. He frowned, the look faint on his features, but eventually he turned to look back to his companion.

That really was what this was, wasn't it? Crocodile would come into port, they would do their duties, Luffy would be overjoyed to see them, and occasionally Beckman's hand would loop into Crocodile's own under the pale moon and they would retreat away.

Neither acting like it was anything more than it was, or if it was anything less than what it could be. Simple companionship for lonely men.

"Did you get what you wanted this time?" Crocodile rumbled as he sat upwards finally and leaned in closer to his companion. "Perhaps you might be greedy, for tomorrow we will be let go."

"YOU SET THE FIRE." He was going to kill Perona. He was going to throttle her with her own damn pigtails, and then tell Mihawk she died in the fire. Tragic! But not his problem.