#Crocs for Men Original

[jk2021enterprises]

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Read Also: Best Skechers Shoes for Men Sneakers for Every Occasion

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Read Also: Skechers Running Shoes for Men Enhance Your Running Experience

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[pulsingvoid]

she is sooo misty quigley. to me

[future-island-egghead]

Man I have so many thoughts on the Seraphim and since it's been over a year since their introduction I've had a lot more of them but overall I kinda.. feel bad for them, more than anything else?

No matter how powerful or scary or cool they are, one thing always remains the most important and unforgettable aspect of them.

They're sentient. They're sapient. They're aware and alive. They're people.

Not just people. But children.

They're just children.

And they have to grapple with being the crossover of two terrible things to be.

A clone of someone else, who's life has already been lived and decided by their own terms, and forced to follow it to the letter, and having no fundamental identity independent of them. only footprints of memories that aren't even their own, purely for the purpose of making them better fighters. How can they be anything more than simple variations or derivatives of "real" people? Can they even consider themselves "real"?

A pacifista. A human weapon. No agency. No humanity. Stripped of everything from will to dreams to freedom to even self-expression and forced to follow commands and never ask questions. Like a soldier. Like less than a soldier. Like a tool.

Like a gun.

Vegapunk said that Kuma's lack of free will would force him to obey, even if they asked him to murder a child. But he originally had free will to begin with. Kuma's life as PX-0, a sentient being with no will of his own, nothing more than a passenger in his own body is a nightmare. S-Bear has known nothing but that nightmare since birth.

People said that Doflamingo was born evil, but in reality, his life was shaped by the events he lived through more than anyone in-universe wants to admit. I wonder how S-Flamingo must feel, forced to carry on Doflamingo's legacy as a monster to the core, regardless of how monstrous he himself might or might not be. i wonder if the pressure of being the clone of a demon will cause a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Hancock's worldwide status was one even she did not want. It was a curse she herself learned to turn into a weapon. S-Snake does not even get the privilege of encountering OR weaponizing the curse herself. Already forced into the limelight without warning, and the eyes won't leave. Everyone already treating her like a celebrity, without a chance to even know what it was like to be a person first.

All she can do now is follow the same government that traumatized her origin and forced her to destroy her home.

Similarly, what of S-Hawk? Moreso than any seraph, any creation of the World Government, surely all eyes are on him to succeed. to be the strongest of the Seraphim and a symbol of total global safety. The world's strongest swordsman, new and improved, right? And what if he isn't? What if he's not as strong as Mihawk? What if he never is? What if he can't do it?

And what if he does? What if he ends up even worse than his origin: a bored god sitting on an empty throne with an empty title, with no one left to challenge him?

Jinbei wanted nothing in the world more than discrimination towards Fish-Men and Merfolk to end, to the degree he'd stake his life on it without hesitation. I wonder how S-Shark, a tool of the World Government, partly born from a race nearly extinguished by them, and forced to uphold their fascist, discriminatory rule against his will feels.

If Crocodile's secret is indeed his transgender identity, then what does that mean for S-Croc? At least Crocodile got the opportunity to keep it under wraps, even if some people do know. S-Croc will never get that opportunity, ever. the whole world on him from birth. Will they even let him be.. him? or will they force him to live in a body and identity that not only isn't even his own, but isn't anybody's at all?

and if it isn't, sure! I suppose he won't have to worry about that. but what of his intelligence? his own ambitions? It's said that Crocodile's greatest attribute was his mind, but the seraphim aren't allowed to break from the orders of others or formulate strategies, so S-Croc would be forced to take orders from people less experienced or intuitive. The footprints of a forgotten dream of wealth, fame, power, and freedom still sputter in his chest. A natural-born leader, forced into the role of lowly weapon, emptily paraded as a hero. How pitiful.

And S-Gecko? Always the runt. The last one. The weakest of the bunch. The world government never cared enough to hide their disdain and contempt for Moria. I can't imagine this won't bleed into how they treat S-Gecko. No matter how hard he works, being treated as nothing more than the worst of the best. Being equated to nothing but failure because his origin was one and constantly put down as "obligatory" and only existing at all because they couldn't get a better warlord to clone instead. Sure, he's not traumatized by the loss of his crew like Moria was.

But at least Moria had a crew.

The Seraphim are scary, and they're powerful. They're not naturally-born organisms, and they're programmed to follow the words of the World Government, even if told to kill in cold blood.

But they're still people.

They're still alive.

They're just children.

For the love of Nika, they're only children.

[dystopyx-blog]

IDEAS FOR TWST OCS:

I have a few

they are in their very baby stages of creation, not at all fleshed out. Really these are just ideas for ideas. all character ideas are beast men. Not on purpose, just how things turned out.

CHAR 1

Name: [name pending] AKA “Dummy the Clown!”

Twisted from: Dumbo

gender: tbd, prob male

school: prob royal sword

dorm (if applicable): First idea is for a dumbo character because,,,,,,,, clowns

just an absolute baby

floppy lil fella, melts like puddin in your hands under praise/affection

Self image issues out the WAZOO. Copes by being a clown. Because as a clown, they have more control over how people perceive them. Yes they’re a goofy little failure, but this time it’s for comedy, and not because, well… they’re a failure. They’re a performative failure, playing up every single little mistake or incident, like “whoops, silly me, oh I’m such a goober!” Internally most of those mistakes are like a fuckin dagger to the heart for them. can you imagine,,, cute lil elephant beast man,,,, with big ol floppy ears,,,,,,,,

Secretly loves being called cute, because at least “cute” is positive

Prob goes to Royal Sword.

CHAR 2

Name: tbd (thinking Georgie but that might be too on the nose)

Twisted from: Georgette from Oliver and Company

gender: tbd, but thinking genderfluid

school: tbd

dorm (if applicable): if in nrc, definitely pomefiore

Only the vaguest ideas for this one, but I neeeeeeeeed a Twst oc based off of georgette. yall don’t even fuckin understand, “Perfect Isn’t Easy” is literally my all time favorite Disney song. did you know none of the songs from that movie are on Spotify?? Fuckin criminal. There are covers, Annapantsu covered “why should I worry” and someone named Sienna? I believe? Covered Perfect Isn’t Easy but you don’t UNDERSTAND, GEORGETTE WAS VOICED BY BETTE MIDLER I NEED THE ORIGINAL ON SPOTIFY I NEED ALL THE OLIVER AND COMPANY SONGS ON SPOTIFY— Y’all it’s not even a good movie and I fucking hate Charles dickens, why tf am I so attached to this movie???

oh yeah

Georgette

so I need a twst oc based off of her. I’m imagining a fabulous little genderfluid beast man. Bitch def in pomefiore. Georgette isn’t technically a villain but hear me out hear me out

I want the fab poodle and Ruggie to kiss 😳

in the movie, Georgette ends up with the scruffy little Chihuahua

I am imagining Georgie here being a fuckin 5’12 god/dess in massive heels, towering over a scruffy lil man. maybe even Epel, fuck if I know!

CHAR/s 3

Name:

Twisted from: the fuckin vultures from jungle book

gender: male

school: nrc

dorm (if applicable): savanaclaw

You don’t understand. No, you don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand

why?

because I don’t fuckin understand. but the vulture song (that’s what friends are for) was like… my favorite fuckin song. I don’t know, I don’t fuckin know. BUT

just imagine

a hippie dippy lil shitty vulture boy

mans probably stoned outta his mind

he’s a big scary vulture beast man

but he’s just a fuckin goober. also fuckin smarter than you think (like real vultures)

food for thought.

FINAL CHAR IDEAS

I want to make some Peter Pan boyos

obv I need a Captain Hook and smee but rn all my thoughts are

Name:

Twisted from: Tick Tock Croc from Peter Pan

gender: male

school: either nrc or a fan school idk

dorm (if applicable):

Y’know what

I’m just gonna make my own goddamn school. see yall in the next post.

[stingingfish420]

farts on you loudly

okay fine

South Park fandom history moments

-That one sp_owo creek art

-"sup jew"

-"Style was originally supposed to be canon, matt and trey said it in an interview once"

-False S25 E1 leaks

-That one Wendy and Kyle edit

-The "My three dickhead friends Stan, Kyle and Cartman" Edit

-People venting over dumb south park audios (eg. "I HAVE ANXIETY" and "YOU PIECE OF SHIT, THIS WAS ALL YOUR FAULT")

-Scene Kyle

-SP becoming popular with basic teenagers and kids only making "Timmeh" jokes

-March 2023

-April Stewart finding out Bunny shippers exist

-"Christmas Kids" Edits

-School Clothes ban

-That one boy killing himself and talking about kenny in his suicide note

-That one angsty OC who people said tried to copy tweek (forgor her name 💔)

-The first style fanfic being over 20 years old

-HellPark

-Creek mischaracterisation swapping itself around

-Moldy Cartman Plush

-That one guy who discusses south park episodes with the Tolkien shirt being cancelled but coming back

-Creek body pillow

-Sp OCs in general

-"Sincerely Your Super Best Friend Kyle" fanfic

-South Park x Heathers

-Trans Marj

-South Park condoms

-Norahs Shrine

-Marshals Shrine

-People freaking out over Kenny being based off a real kid

-Soapcat68

-"Mister Bombastic" CP videos

-Kyman being normalised for a couple months

-South Park analog horror (it was bad)

-Numerous published books being south park fanfics with different names

-2021 fandom

-Gyaru Cartman

-Juggalo Kenny

-South Park croc charms

-Mysterion Pintrest fan accounts

-MAD shipping discourse around August 2023

-'Leslie #1 fan!!!' girl being called out as being racist who made r@pe jokes

-'WorldOfStan' Twitter account

(Some of these arent fandom based and are just history moments)

-"Hi, my names tweek and I was just wondering how many times you guys have killed my friend kenny 🥺"

-First ever mysterion fanart on the internet (??)

-Block 13 becoming popular

-Stan khs in almost every AU that is about him

-Stan and Kyle designs being based around BASEketball in almost every teen AU

-Kenny selfcest (mainly mysterion)

-Cartweek becoming a thing

-.brimmy

-Mona Marshalls amazing voice acting

-25th Anniversary concert

-The bacon was real

-angsty 2021-early 2022 edits

-danganronpa leslie

-kyle ass jokes

-inflatable kenny and cartman costumes

-unamed goth girl

-Kyman Bathroom

-So many artists being exposed as pedos

-The creators of south park getting terrorist threats

-'#cancelsouthpark'

-Trey posing with one of those over-accessorised cosplayers and being really happy

-Opera

-Tweek winning the 'most loved' character of 2020 dispite cartman getting the most votes

-Brown haired leslie 'theory'

-people editing the adult men to be kinky catboys and stuff

-catboy craig edits

-'Dr. Thimothys pet'

-"👍(Kenny my love)"

-Mysterion sandwich cp

-'i dont wna cry'

-The bacon was real

-'c'mere mah kahl 🗣️'

-Different coloured kenny pfps

-That one woman being overly obsessed with kyle then being revealed to be a pedo(?)

[moongothic]

Seen at least one (1) person complain about Crocodile losing his "unique faceshape" (now having the same facial structure that 90% of OP men have) after episode 1086 came out and like

To be fair, yes, the shape of his head HAS changed since his first appearance in The Year 2000. The thing is, Toei's latest Crocodile Offering is frankly more in-line with how Oda drew Crocodile during Impel Down and Marineford than ever before. Like yeah he looks different, but this change isn't new

But that comment really did make me think about how FUNNY it is just how different Croc really looks from his first appearance, like. The evolution in how Oda draws the bastard is so facinating to me

These are from chapters 155, 160 and 205 respectively.

No massive changes happening here in the middle of the arc, but you can kinda tell that Oda was definitely still figuring out how this asshole was supposed to look as he got further into the Alabasta (which is perfectly normal), which just makes That First Appearance look even funnier with time because. Who the fuck is that lmaooo

But then we get to see him briefly during Miss Goldenweek's cover story, this being from the cover of chapter 413! All things considdered, bastard hasn't changed that much, still looks pretty much the same as in Alabasta. His head is maybe a little less elongated than before but still, chin is quite pointy still

And now we're in Impel Down at chapter 540. Again, dude looks about the same as he did before...

But it really doesn't take long for Oda to start reshaping this bastard's entire head at this point

Chapters 544, 546, 578, and cover of chapter 584

The chin is easily the most obvious part, but you can tell Oda kind of defaulted to giving him that same ol' evenly square-ish head most his conventionally attractive characters have during these story arcs (instead of the elongated shape he originally had).

And then we have the latest appearances, from 1082 and 1100

I do feel like comparing these to what's come before would be a little unfair considdering his health and eyesight and how those affect the artwork itself, but. They're there, for comparison's sake

But the point is still there. Crocodile's face shape has changed since his first appearance, but it's not like Toei was behind that, the change was (mostly) gradual and from Oda himself. And it mostly happened in 2008, so it's not new by any means either

So really, all Toei did was just update his character model because ⬆️ is more accurate than ⬇️ for One Piece right now

Regardless. The sheer difference between the two is hysterical to me

[t4tails]

jokers asylum thoughts: wellllll i think easily the best one was penguin's, followed by riddler, scarecrow, and clayface as the other stand outs (though scarecrow's has an unfortunate art style clashing with the tone); joker, two-face, croc, and hatter's were all mixed bags but mostly alright, and poison ivy & harley's get the short end of the stick :( both of theirs are really uncreative and boring. like oh... an ivy story about her getting back at powerful men? wow. a harley story where shes obsessed with the joker? how original. both are skippable.

[multifandomplushie]

Here's my second The Batman (2004) OC, Pack Rat. Technically, she's based on the character from Batman: The Animated Series, but it's soooo loosely (only villain name and the "your trash is my treasure" shtick) that I may as well consider her a fully original character.

Real Name: Piper Langstrom

Aliases: Pack Rat, Trash Queen

Nicknames: Street Rat (by Rojas), Fluffy (by Joker and Harley), Neighbor (by Croc)

Relatives: Kirk Langstrom (older brother)

Occupation: Criminal

History:

Throughout her life, Piper was in her older brother's shadow. Her parents spent more time and most of their low income on Kirk, leaving the girl with leftovers, hand-me-downs and no prospects for anything higher than basic education. The practicality and economy of this lifestyle made her grow up up with a keen eye for overlooked value and see potential where others see waste.

Piper found herself in the role of a janitor and worked in GCPD for quite a long time before Kirk's first arrest. Chief Rojas made the decision to fire Piper both for her relation to Man-Bat, which could affect his department's already fragile reputation, and her weird habits, like rummaging through trash for still useful items and eating the leftover food in the cafeteria.

She had trouble finding or keeping a job due to Kirk's recurring activity as Man-Bat until his ultimate rehabilitation seven years later when she was landed a job in Gotham University.

After the students David, Amber and Justin had stolen Dr. Langstrom's Man-Bat Serum's recipe from his lab, they decided to use the first sample of the altered serum on Piper since she was the easiest to test the formula on without bringing attention to themselves: the three students left an unfinished drink containing the serum with the DNA of a lab rat in the university cafeteria and Piper drank it. The young trio watched from afar as the janitor went through a temporary mutation into a white rat and used their observations to update the formula and turned themselves into a fox, a vulture and a shark.

Piper told no one about her trasformation neither on the night it first happened, nor during the activity of the Terrible Trio, since she was worried about losing her job over a controversy again. But she couldn't lay low for long... Soon after the arrest of the Terrible Trio, Gotham University was visited by the scientist who worked on different animal whistles and, when the rat one was used, its frequency triggered Piper's rat senses and reactivated dormant traces of the serum in her system, causing transformation into a rat the same way this scientist's bat whistle that was stolen by Penguin caused Kirk's tranformation into Man-Bat. Piper stole the whistle and ran away. Despite the intial panic, she found this change to be a good way to escape her routine, her life's constant dependence on her brother's reputation and society's judgement of her lifestyle.

She gave herself the name Pack Rat and entered a carefree life where she could take any trash she wanted and even started taking things people no longer needed by stealing them before they can be thrown out. But her desire to collect discarded stuff didn't stop at objects — not too long after her acquiring her Pack Rat persona, Piper comes across a few men who were former goons of different Gotham criminals that were supposed to be "dealt with" for disappointing their bosses in one way or another and saves these guys before convincing them to join her team.

Powers and Abilities:

• Enhanced Strength: Similar to rats, Piper possesses impressive physical strengh, which allows her to carry a load that is twice her own weight and to bite through different materials.

• Enhanced Agility: Even in her human form Piper is rather nimble but in her alter-ego she displays the full potential of rat agility being able to squeeze into tight spaces, climb narrow surfaces, jump long distances, and even climb vertical surfaces with relative ease.

• Animalistic Senses: Due to being part-rat, Pack Rat has enhanced smelling and hearing.

• Swimming Abilities: Due to her rat physiology, Pack Rat has small membranes on her hind legs which allow her to travel in sewer pipes even against a strong current.

• Intelligence: Above Average. Despite sometimes giving the impression of a naive and silly person, Pack Rat is actually a fairly intelligent and skilled individual. She is very adaptable and diligent and, considering her former job as a janitor, has knowledge of various cleaning products and basic maintenance around building renovations.

Trivia:

• Due to the version of the serum Piper ingested being a middle stage between Kirk's and the students' versions of the formula, she both possesses anthropomorphic characteristics like ability to speak like her human self and more animalistic traits like rat anatomy and occasional episodes of following instincts alone

• Piper has a level of fondness for Chief Rojas due to the general dislike towards him from other workers of the department, which is displayed in her very friendly demeanor towards him and her eating his leftovers the most often

• Pack Rat's hideout is in the sewers area near a dumpster

• Pack Rat's room is filled with abandoned stuffed animals

[for-a-longlongtime]

On Dieter, Goya's Black Paintings, and Pedro on Talk Art 

Alright y'all, it's Saturday evening, I have nothing better to do (I actually do but I don't feel like it), so welcome to my mini TED Talk about 'how to pay too much fucking attention to the Pedro cinematic universe'. None of this is new, and maybe everybody already knew about this, but I didn't... so here's a nerdy tangent courtesy of googling/wikipedia-ing.

I was reading a Dieter!fic (this one right here by @chaoticgeminate - go read her writing!) earlier today, which refers to the 'Saturn Devouring His Son' painting - that giant mural Dieter is working on in The Bubble:

(his brush isn't even touching the wall tho, ha)

The original 'Saturn' by Goya

The fic mentioned its part of 'The Black Paintings', so I got curious and started googling. I'm no art major or expert, so please allow me to just paraphraze the Wikipedia page. 'Saturn' is part of a group of 14 Goya paintings that are called Pinturas Negras/The Black Paintings. They "portray intense, haunting themes, reflective of both his fear of insanity and his bleak outlook on humanity" --this was late in Goya's life, and was connected to several illnesses he had experienced (and the fear of relapsing) and political turmoil in Spain at the time (post-Napolean war, changing Spanish government, etc.

Trivia fact 1: Goya actually made these paintings right on the walls of the Quinta del Sordo (so-called Deaf Man's villa) where he was staying -- so I love that Apatow had Dieter also paint right on the walls.

Trivia fact 2: while Goya was living in this villa, he actually became gravely ill (again) - not by a pandemic obviously, but it's hard to not link that loosely to the COVID period. He had never intended for these 'Black Paintings' to become public; "these paintings are as close to being hermetically private as any that have ever been produced in the history of Western art" (the murals were eventually transfered to canvas by other folks once he had moved out of the villa). Switching back to The Bubble -- I love how the tragic influence of Goya's illness(es) and art/things 'made at home away from the world, not intended for an audience' (so obviously, in a bubble) has that connection to the COVID experience and how many folks were suddenly homebound, along with the burden of illness in many ways (lord knows this all did a serious number on our mental health). In the movie, Dieter and the others do not want to go into isolation again, but that solitude is what eventually led him to painting on the walls in his room. This is not a 'grand discovery' of any kind, but I got a kick out of the parellels once I read up on it - and honestly makes me appreciate the movie a bit more, haha.

Not happy about another quarantine period.

Alright, more hyperfocusing after the cut:

Some googling led me to a post from last year by @nicolethered (gifs in this post are hers), and she included screencaps of the walls of Dieter's room (during that drug scene), which I hadn't even noticed while watching the movie. Upon taking a closer look, I noticed they're outtakes from other pieces of Goya's Black Paintings! I thought that was really cool, they sure worked on the details with that set (there's one more that's shown in a different shot but I can't exactly figure out which outtake that is):

First one is a mirror image from Two Old Men Eating Soup and the second one is basically Satan aka 'The Great He-Goat' from the Witches' Sabbath painting. Which IMO makes for fucking hilarious perfection a.k.a. trivia fact 3 -- because we all know about Dieter and his little emotional support goat, LOL. Excellent connection.

*insert sound bit from Hot Ones interview* : "Just let me love you!"

Anywaaay there's more. The Bubble was shot during Feb 22, 2021 to April 16, 2021, right? Pedro has spoken about how his input in shaping Dieter was mostly regarding his outfits (the Crocs, the robe, etc). But then I suddenly remember the Talk Art interview he had done in 2018, and how he namechecks 'The Dog' by Goya - and lo, guess which painting is actually part of the 14 Black Paintings? Yeap - the dog! So I checked the podcast and he was asked, 'if you could be any painting, what painting would you be?' by Russell. Here is the painting, and below it is what he said on Talk Art:

'The Drowning Dog' by Goya

"I think… it's a Goya. Yeah, old school. I think it's called 'Dog Buried in Sand' or something like that. It's so… I remember feeling it was such a visual representation of helplessness, in such a… come on, let's all admit that helplessness is a very recurring feeling for many of us, you know what I mean? When it comes to so many things. I guess… I was in Spain, in Madrid, and I was 20. And I went to the Goya museum. What's interesting about it is that the head of the dog is really quite small and sort of adorable, it looks like a stray mutt, and the painting - if I can remember it correctly - is very rectangular. There's so much above him, like the world just seems so big. It's quite incredible, isn't it? I know it's really sad, and sort of dark, and maybe I really like enjoy perceiving myself like..." (He gets interrupted by Russell, and then continues;) "Yeah, he's certainly not dying, it's sort of - it's a moment", (then interrupts himself with;) "Maybe he's totally dying, there's no way that dog is getting out of that. That dog is SO fucked. Anyway, that's the painting that represents my life". (All three of them burst out into laughing.)

If you're still reading this - I am impressed with your dedication to my silly little post, haha. Anyway, I just thought it was so striking that there basically is a straight line from the painting he mentioned in Talk Art to what Dieter is painting in the Bubble. Makes me wonder if perhaps he - or even Russell/Robert - had any input in that part of Dieter's backstory.

Thank you for attending my TED Talk on artistic analysis of Dieter Bravo during COVID, we now resume your regularly scheduled program for Saturday night. 🤪

(Have I been smoking because a local dispensary actually had 'Mando' bud? I sure as fuck have and I blame that for this post.)

[silkendandelion]

Say My Name (This Time I Will Answer)

A One Piece fanfiction (completed, one-shot), Gift Fic for Mirage In The Desert reaching 2,500 hits on ao3!!

ao3 link

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 7.6k Genre: Smut, fluff, romance, angst, bottom Crocodile

Rated: Explicit for sexual content, no external warnings apply

In Mirage In The Desert, Crocodile fantasized about a world where he and River met under different circumstances, one conducive to a love they could nurture. So I wrote it. In a world where he never lost his hand, and remained both a swordsman and a pirate captain, he hires a man off a random dock on some unknown island, one who proclaims he’s on pilgrimage from a Paradise island, and is looking for work. Can be read as x reader because River is not described nearly as in depth as the original fic. It can also be read alone from MITD, but might not be appreciated the same way.

Thank you for all of your continued support, and please enjoy 💙 it was so fun to work with Croc and River again, and this one is a personal favorite. Sweet, romantic, soft Crocodile, moonlit swimming, and lots of sauce 💝 have fun you guys

~*~

For all of Crocodile’s love of gold, and the flash of truth in the eyes of his opponents as the arc of his blade reaches it’s apogee, the sea was his first. His greatest paramour, a punishing lover that shouts and thrashes as much as she laves his skin with warm foam, cleansed of lesser men’s blood and graced by a crown of coral while she whispers:

My king.

So he procured a ship. To be close to her, to see a better, wider world than the one he knew, one overflowing with gold and power. He fled his home country on a stolen carrack worthy of his ambition, and filled her with a crew that was appropriately dangerous, loyal enough, who called her La Forza Dorato.

Today, years later and under such a bright sun, he wanted to be nowhere else.

“Captain!” A young crew member called to him, where he stood on the pier. He had already forgotten this one’s name. “Your list is exhausted, Sir. We sail on your command.”

“Immediately.” With only his word, they bustled to begin loosing the sails, and he remained on the dock long enough to light his cigar. His left thumb flicked open the solid gold lighter with a bright ping, while his right shielded it from the passing wind.

Thwip, thwip. But it only sparked. He clicked his teeth, about to bark out an order for one of the crew to hop down and buy lighter oil before they departed, until a man spoke up beside him.

“Need a light?”

An elegant hand with a calloused forefinger offered him a flame, attached to a man younger than himself but certainly not a boy by the creases along his eyes. Strikingly violet eyes among tan skin and dark, expressive brows that matched the mane of thick, black hair draped down his back, pulled neatly into a leather hair cord. Crocodile’s gaze flickered from the silver lighter to the twin swords on his hip, both the same shade of moonlight.

“Thank you,” he replied, polite but curt, and head bowed to accept.

“Is this your ship?” The stranger turned to his boat, wandering nearly onto the ramp until the crew gathered to block him, ready to defend.

“Oh—have I overstepped?” He chuckled nervously—handsomely, Crocodile hesitated to admit—and he nodded to his pirates to relax.

“Only fools wander onto a pirate ship of their own free will. Or stupidity.”

“I assure you, it’s foolishness, really,” the stranger explained. “I’m on pilgrimage from a Paradise island. If you have work for me, I promise to work hard.”

The crew grumbled in a ripple of protests, unimpressed by his fine-tailored clothes and sturdy boots, worthy of an adventure, sure, but only barely broken in. On that, Crocodile agreed, hesitant to entertain any self-proclaimed mercenary who, despite the hand-me-down rucksack slung over his shoulder, smelled of expensive perfume when the wind picked up his long hair.

“Are those swords just for show? Or do you claim to be a professional?” He pulled back his cape with his left hand to show the rapier on his own hip, a golden blade with a spiral hilt, too heavy to be a dress sword and proportionate to his tall, wide body.

“Why don’t you find out? Or are you just the captain?”

Crocodile had killed mouthier fools for less lip, but the mirth in those eyes, dancing among purple firelight and hinting of mischief, made him want to find out. He took a long drag off his cigar to keep from smiling, though it nearly turned into a scowl when the stranger spotted his decision—and had the audacity to grin at him.

Careful, beautiful stranger. Looking at men like that tends to make promises I doubt you could keep.

“You will refer to me as such.”

“Yes, captain,” replied the stranger with a deep, flourishing bow. “River Joel Faustina, at your service.”

“Shall I call you River?”

“Please,” he replied, beaming like his new captain had committed some incredible deed by merely offering him employment. Conditional upon his performance, of which pretty smiles held exactly zero weight. Crocodile rolled his eyes as he gestured for them to board, at the same time his crew were already scattering to enact his anticipated command.

“Let’s go!”

~*~

Crocodile ruled his ship the way he governed his heart: loyalty must be earned, obedience is non-negotiable, and failure often proved to be a fatal mistake. As to why the fool was still alive, even he didn’t know.

Perhaps he found his perseverance endearing, determined to haul sails and throw freight with the brawniest of his crew no matter how it reddened his fingers, his fine clothes beginning to fray with the strain of manual labor. Perhaps it was because Crocodile often forgot himself, unabashedly studying his newest sailor piling all of his hair to the top of his head between orders, and clicking his teeth that he was never wise enough to begin with his hair up. Surely, the ditsy stranger had to know how the loose pieces stuck to his neck in sweat-soaked petals, how the pieces curling around his chin in the humidity were capable to cause insanity.

He suspected a long plot, one where the stranger knew exactly the picture he painted when he stood by the railing to wring his shirt dry, the long line of his back tempting Crocodile to press fingerprints into his skin, until he was love drunk and bewitched, too warm and drowsy to prevent the robbery of more than just his jewels. That in mind, he respected the stranger’s dedication to his scheme, putting in long hours day after day, from his calculated “good morning, captain” at first light, to sending him dark eyes across the fire of the evening, and further flaunting himself across his captain’s restless dreams.

“I don’t like him,” Crocodile declared to no one.

For as long as he’s sailed, Crocodile always ate last, preferring to eat alone, and only after he deemed the day well and truly finished, the sun long gone. Despite his singular statement, containing it’s own beginning and end, the crewmate who poured his ale felt the need to reply. For tonight, on this subject, he would allow it.

“No one does. But, he does as he’s told. So how much can any of us complain?” They shrugged.

“He can’t be trusted.”

“I wonder where he goes every night, when he sneaks out of his bunk like none of us have ears.”

The clatter of Crocodile’s fork to his plate caused the startled crewmate to flinch. A coat of sweat began to dot their pallid skin, as they watched him slowly replace his fork to the napkin. “When would I have learned of these nightly occurrences, if I had not spoken?”

“I-immediately, captain, as—” They swallowed around their tight throat. “The moment I knew what it was the brat was uh—up to.”

”We’ll never know then.”

Crocodile’s rings caught the candlelight in a deadly flash, the promise of a permanent end to their business as he wrenched the crewmate up by his shirt.

“WAIT! You can’t—DON’T—”

A door opening elsewhere startled them both to silence, the cabin perfectly still while they both listened to it close, and the joining patter of feet on the deck. He tossed the man away, suddenly uncaring to enforce his own rules, to the grateful pounding of the frightened crewman’s heart.

“Get out,” he said simply, eyes and ears still trained to the almost imperceptible noise of footsteps.

The man scrambled to leave him alone, dashing off to go through the door they had heard open, while Crocodile ventured the opposite way to the deck. Empty, he believed at first, awash with moonlight and the white noise of the endless sea, enough to rock the ship but not to wake the crew in their beds. Against the railing, he spotted him, the sneak, his face turned to the damp wind, and… standing there?

He waited long breaths for him to reveal a snail phone, communicate to his handler he was getting close to his target, or mark notes in a pocket journal about his plot to fell the rising pirate before he became too powerful—but he only stood there. Basking in the moon, catching spray on his cheeks and gazing out at the sea like he was in love with her too.

Perhaps there was no plot after all, and his newest sailor was simply a fool. Nothing more. For now, there in the dark, damp and awed, he knew only one truth: that he found him beautiful.

~*~

Did he know his captain watched him walk the deck every night? Wondering what he scribbled about in his journal, a salt-stained book with it’s leather worn soft? Does he know he captivates me?

“It’s poetry,” he answered when questioned one morning at breakfast. The pirates at his elbows leaned to see the pages better, and the stranger had little mind to cover up or pretend to be embarrassed.

“What’s a man like you doing out on these seas?” Another one asked.

“I’ve come to see the world,” was his simple reply. “Find a new home, maybe find love.”

From the doorway of the galley, Crocodile blew smoke from his mouth, an olfactory announcement of his presence. The stranger was the only one to raise his head and meet his guarded, golden stare. “You’re a fool for that too.”

He rumbled some warning to the crew about other ship’s in the area, determined to appear indifferent to the stranger’s show of vulnerability, like he hadn’t fled to the sea for the same.

~*~

That night, as Crocodile sat beside the window in his quarters, smoking and thumbing a book without absorbing the pages, he wondered why the fool was late. 18 minutes, according to the golden watch in his pocket.

Tch, he clicked around his cigar, and was about to pour himself a drink when he heard the crew quarter’s door opening.

“A night for star gazing, eh?” He said quietly to no one, seeing the stranger come to the deck without a book or his pen. The night was perfect for such, their ship drifting aimlessly on a glass sea, the air warm and sky clear. His thoughts drifted back to the dark liquor on his desk. Would tonight be the time he went to him with two glasses and a hope fluttering around his insides? He seized the crystal glasses before he lost his nerve, grabbed the neck of the bottle, but—

The sight of endless skin outside the window froze him where he stood.

Once-fine linen pooled around bare feet, and the stranger stepped from their puddle to approach the railing, the night bathing the entirety of his skin a dark, deep blue.

“What is he—wait! Fool!” Crocodile ran from his quarters too late to catch him, just in time to watch him dive over the railing and down into the warm water. Bubbles preceded his resurfacing, among a gasp of delight and a handsome, shamelessly giddy smile.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile scolded down at him, quietly lest the crew wake and his voyeurism be revealed completely. “Are you insane?”

“Oh! Hello, captain,” the stranger replied, wading happily like he wasn’t being glared at by his highest superior. “Would you like to join me?”

“Get back up here—that’s an order. Storms can roll in at a moment’s notice.”

“Sky’s clear, captain. It’s only you and me,” he said, paddling onto his back to show him the planes of his body, chest barely breaking the surface and modesty only partially maintained by the black, shadowed water.

“Do you have any idea the kinds of animals that live in these deep waters?”

Dark eyes find his, and the mesmerized sway of his mind suddenly feels too much like falling over the railing. “I’ll protect you, captain.”

Absurd. Impudent. Brat. Crocodile cursed him repeatedly as he yanked at his clothes. But, with every article he tossed to the deck, his annoyance dimmed, soothed by the promise of warm seawater and a welcoming soul. He dove over the railing, the water parting for his large body in a burst of bubbles that tickled along his skin with the melodious laughter above him. Coming up for air promised the sight of the tempter up close, dotted on every inch of his skin with droplets of diamond—but he found he was gone.

“… Where—,” he gasped, startled at the brush of skin against his legs, and a dark shape darting beneath the rippled surface. What could easily be an expert swimmer or fish revealed itself as a man some meters away when the stranger reappeared. Beneath his wet lashes, he found his own yearning reflected back at him, alongside the same glimmer he saw at the docks all those weeks ago. The one that promised to either transform or drown him.

“If you catch me, you can kiss me,” promised the stranger.

They dove beneath the waves, and Crocodile soon realized he chased a native of the sea, as fast as any animal, breaking the moon beams that shone down through the water with the strong arc of his body to remain just out of his reach. He tumbled over the net of his hands with ease, exciting bubbles around them with his need to tease, to tighten his nimble limbs around the struggling thump of Crocodile’s vulnerable heart.

But Crocodile was also born to the sea, a predator of his own environment, and asking him to give chase was a simple request, as effortless as the yield of the stranger—this siren’s body when he folds into the hands that ensnare him. First, by the gentle grasp around his ankle, then sliding up the length of his legs to hold him in the wrap of his arms. With his delicate organs separated from the predator’s wide palms by only smooth skin dotted with moles, he offered Crocodile the air in his lungs, the warmth of his blood rising to his face as they finally catch their breath.

“Caught you.”

Under the compounding heat of his gaze, the water felt suddenly cool. Their limbs remained intertwined as he realized the only reason he held this creature of the sea—a man with a name, he reminded himself—in his hands, able to feel the thump of his pulse and the puff of his breath across both their lips was because he swam into his net of his own free will. Were he to deem his captain unworthy to touch him, he would have swam to the bottom and drowned him.

Yet here he floated, soft and beguiling, like he might dissolve into foam if Crocodile didn’t kiss him right this moment.

The slam of a door on deck flinched them apart, and Crocodile covered him with his body, despite them both bare, able to be seen completely if only the ripples calmed. Incoherent, sleepy grumbling floated down, among the sound of a zipper.

“How rude. Hey—” River called when a big hand clamped over his mouth, barely heard over the sound of liquid over another part of the railing they couldn’t see. Crocodile kicked them towards the netting along the side of the ship, quiet enough the sailor must have believed them to be fish, and left them alone to wander back to the cabin.

Among the silence, Crocodile realized with devastating clarity, lips still tingling where they had nearly touched, that he could not bring himself to continue.

Nevermind the moment being shattered by a weak bladder, their focus had been elsewhere long enough for Crocodile’s doubt to creep back into his edges. Cold, sour doubt, the worry about his worthiness of love, and wondering if River could smell his weakness. Wondering if he would still want him if he knew the fragility of his heart. Unbecoming, he believed, of a dangerous, cruel, and ruthlessly resourceful pirate. To remain apart was to protect his most vital asset: himself.

“… You should be in bed,” he said quietly.

“But—”

“That’s an order. River.” He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, not when he might see the breaking of his own heart reflected back at him.

“Yes, captain.”

River climbed the net first, crestfallen, and Crocodile could not even bring himself to admire the back of him as he shed water and fumbled back into his clothes. He took no delight in going back to his quarters, clothes in hand, to lie down alone. Damp hands scrubbed down his face, reaching for a cigar to soothe the sting of his self-inflicted isolation. A punishment? For what, the imagined sins inflicted upon him by people he had already killed?

No, he thought as he flicked open the lighter. For my own weakness. That I replaced the chains of the dead with my own shackles. He does not deserve their weight, and neither do I.

Smoke wafted to the ceiling in lazy plumes, filling his lungs with the blanket of a hard decision.

The next time I hold him, he will have to decide: be mine, or find a new captain.

~*~

“No breakfast today, captain?” A crewmate asked when they were called to fetch his neglected tray and an empty carafe.

“How long until we reach the next island?” Crocodile asked instead.

“Day after tomorrow, captain. Our supplies will hold, despite how much that flimsy swordsman eats.”

He spun his cigar over the ash tray, tired, unseeing eyes scanning the correspondence and notes sprawled across his desk. “Perhaps… he will not be with us much longer.”

“Anything else, captain?”

“That will be all.”

Once his door clicked closed, the silence all but clawed at his nerves. He placed a record on his gramophone, finding comfort in the little band inside the tin speaker, and the weight of his rapier in his left hand. A few practice strokes, precise, gentlemanly, sharp in every way he was also. Were he to lose his hand, his ability to fight, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill him, or worse perhaps, leave him alive.

He wondered if River could love a version of him without his sword, a man who would surely crawl from bloody ashes refusing to die, one who no longer cared to smother his rage. After all, even whole he was still that man. To love someone, to be theirs and keep them, was to love both who they are and who they could become.

A knock at his cabin door tells him the sun had set while he was in his head, the entire day lost to his sword strokes and spinning thoughts. The turning of the knob without his permission tells him exactly who stands on the other side, and River slips between the door and the frame to encroach on his habitat with little care for how he might be received. It clicks shut behind him, at the same time Crocodile’s scolding dies on his tongue.

He stands in night clothes Crocodile had never seen on him, a long linen shirt fluttering around his calves, his body bared as if he were nude by the glowing orange of the lamp light behind him, while his hair and limbs drip seawater onto the floor in gentle patters. The cloth soaks through where it touches his skin, framing goosebumps and tight nipples that perked up on the walk from warm water to the cool, dry cabin.

“Are you going to send me away? Captain?” His quiet voice startled Crocodile from his ogling.

“Why?” He manages with a dry mouth after a moment, and River opens his mouth to reply but he was not finished. “Why do you torment me? What do you want?”

“How do you not know? Can’t you see me?”

The slam of Crocodile’s palms on the short bureau behind River startles them both, caging him between corded arms that strain his dress shirt. He dips, poised to rumble the penultimate question against the warm skin of his neck where his pulse flutters against his lips. Between his legs, Crocodile’s knee keeps him spread, vulnerable, at the mercy of his crazed musings, and squirming as the furniture digs into the give where his rear meets his thighs.

But his question goes unasked. So he decides, as he stands close enough to see his own burning want reflected back in blown pupils, feel the impatient quiver of him against his body, that whatever his answer might be, he needed this night first. One night to begin a lifetime of bliss, or a special, singular night to carry him through.

“River.”

“Yes, captain?” His pink tongue flicks out to wet his dry, bitten lips.

“No. None of that,” he growls in the space between them before surging forward to lock their mouths together, tongues sliding as he grips the back of his thighs to hoist him onto the bureau. Both of them grab and yank at the bottom of River’s shift, hoisting it up to pool in the bend of his thighs so he can cage Crocodile’s waist between his thighs the way he himself is trapped between the hard planes of his body and the wall.

“Captain, we—”

A jeweled hand grabs his jaw, thumb digging into the joint, and keeps them impossibly close to let every letter of his order vibrate in his blushing throat. “Say my name.”

The blushes rises to flood his cheeks, a challenge if Crocodile had ever seen one, to turn his entire body pink to match. “But you said when we first met—I mean, someone will hear us.”

“They would not come through that door even if they believed you were being murdered. Don’t tell me you are shy?” River’s answer comes as an unabashed moan, Crocodile’s reward for sucking hot kisses into the junction of his neck and shoulder while wide, greedy hands knead and pull at the flesh of his hips to drag their erections together through their clothes.

“The man who came to my quarters in nothing but a shift has no right to be shy.”

He hauls him into his arms but does not move to the bed, instead setting him down on the table where his dinner had lain only hours before. The sigh of anticipation that stutters from River’s chest urges him to continue talking, to keep working his body with his voice. All burgeoning promise and smoke, the one that has him leaking into the crumpled mess of his shift with thoughts of Crocodile using those big hands to yank him back into his stroke on every single piece of furniture in the room.

“With the ease you stripped yourself bare to jump into the sea, I do not believe the moon can see any more of you than it already has.” Crocodile’s words were punctuated by shoving his shift up to his chest with one hand, bearing all of him to his hungry gaze as his other hand pulled open the buttons on his shirt. He yanked his belt open to give himself some modicum of relief, sighing hot when thinner hands slipped themselves into his trousers to stroke the clothed outline of his cock. Relief indeed—but tonight, he had no patience for mischief.

”What if someone had seen you?” He reached passed him for the oil (the same bottle he had used to maintain his rapier earlier in the night), and the scent of cloves drifted up from where he hastily slicked his hand. Long, thick fingers briefly massaged the skin behind River’s sack, down over nearly the entire cleft of him until he pressed one inside.

“Or did you want to be seen?”

To the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the rhythmic flex of River’s hands on his shift as he obediently keeps it lifted out of the way, he bullies in a second finger. For all his intent to stay still and let his lover adjust, be tended to, River’s hips squirmed in restless circles, tempting Crocodile to be mean to him with the little moans that puff from his kiss-bitten lips. But, for them to collide in a wave that swallows them both, he needed to hear from those lips he was wanted, even if the answer came ripped from River’s throat in the wail of his ecstasy.

“Answer me.” His fingers continued to drag over sensitive walls, pulling out just to shove back in again, again, pressing to his spot on every entry with an insistent curl. “Did you want to be seen? Eh? Would just anyone do?”

“N-no, I never—they wouldn’t,” he stammered out, his breath stolen by the lightning bolts of pleasure beneath his navel that lit up his entire body. A plea laid across his tongue, ready to be sprung but Crocodile’s fingertips refused to let him breathe enough to confess, like they were intent to keep him drunk and babbling until he could no longer recall excuses.

“O-only you. Only you, Captain, wanted y-you to see me. See me, fuck me—” A loud moan chopped off his words, loud enough to wake someone if not for Crocodile smothering his lips with a wet kiss, sucking on his tongue as he swallowed the cry caused by a third, thick finger. He consumed his sounds with a greed he hadn’t realized he could have for anything but gold, possessed to wring River’s body of every heaving breath and take them selfishly into his own lungs—

Until he had everything he could give.

River’s body rattled, toes curled hard enough to hurt as he wrenched his lips back on a ragged gasp, hips bucking into Crocodile’s soaked palm until he broke on the choked, shameless cry of his captain’s name. He moaned his crest to the ceiling, legs beginning to shake when those fingers refused to stop pistoning inside him. Crocodile almost regretted being so aggressive, but seeing those violet eyes shine with tears, lips equally glossy with drool as he called his name for the entire sea to hear—he wanted to reward him with blinding, wracking pleasure until he could recall no other words.

In the sudden quiet, he reached to soothe him, brushing his palms down his sides and hauling him into his arms to bring him down slow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of slowing breaths, their matched heartbeats pounding against the other’s ribs, until River’s eyes finally peeled open at the beckon of his voice.

“Did I break you?”

His answer came as a surge of energy in a desperate kiss, arms flung around his neck and a mournful sound pressed between his lips. Even through the tears, his eyes shone wetter than before, prompting Crocodile to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.

“You made me come. Didn’t you—don’t you want me? To be inside me?”

The tight squeeze of his hands on River’s quivering waist dries those tears awfully quick.

“What kind of men have you allowed to touch you, that you would think one is enough?”

He isn’t prepared to watch storm clouds roll into his eyes at his question, elegant hands suddenly gripping into his shirt to shove him back from between his legs. For a shorter man, he carried a strength Crocodile had yet to witness in action, now aimed at himself as he wrestled them down onto the bed to perch above his hips in a tall line that spoke of some kind of pride.

In his miles of moonlit skin he saw it: the threat to be drowned by a man he didn’t fully understand. Yet, it only made Crocodile want more, grabbing for a life preserver in the strong thighs draped over him, and watching River toss his shift somewhere into the dark.

“I’m tired of your questions. Your assumptions to know me, what I’ve done with my body.” Above him, his gaze, the weight of his brow sat open and startingly sober. Among the storm, he found another emotion, the precursor to love, so close to honesty, and yet Crocodile could not identify it as devotion because he had never seen it before aimed at him.

“From the day I came aboard this ship, I never pretended to want anyone else, never hid my intentions. I only ever screamed them if you would bother to look.” He swallowed around his resolve. “You don’t believe me, that I want you? I will show you.”

For all of Crocodile’s hard-nosed affection, his growled demands and confident fingers, the immovable line of him lies willingly supine under the smaller man, long legs parting for him to crawl off his hips and down between his knees.

He looks perfect this way, they think about the other, meaning the way River pulls his endless, black hair to the top of his head with the leather from his wrist, and Crocodile’s wide chest beginning to rise and fall faster, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching and releasing with anticipation River can see plain in the heavy, tight line of his cock against his hip.

The shock of a hot mouth against his tip makes him hiss, soothed by wet kisses along every inch of him that is revealed by River’s hands slowly peeling down his trousers. Momentarily, River ponders undressing him completely so they match, but finds he enjoys too much the sight of Crocodile half undone, shirt bearing his solid torso and lower-half exposed only down to the tops of his thighs. Perfectly disheveled, begging to be consumed, bared perfectly for the moon to see all of him too. Hard evidence it was River’s hands that destroyed him, who cared to reform him.

A telling bead of precum, worked up by River’s ardent staring, tempts him to taste, swipe the tang of him away and lead him between his soft, inviting lips. Crocodile’s answer is a long moan squeezed up from his chest by the squeeze of the throat around him, and betrays exactly how much he’s enjoying himself. His stoic face is unused to being scrunched in bliss by a feverish mouth taking him down to the root with just a few, determined swallows. River takes a moment to hold him there, nose pressed against the dark, neat hair on his pubic bone, for what Crocodile believes to be a breath-stealing, head-spinning eternity—until it’s gone too soon.

He thinks he might lose his temper when that mouth pulls off completely to speak to him.

“You are so much more than I imagined. Oh,” River panted into his skin. Red, slick lips mouth up to his flushed tip to suckle and demand for more precum until it rips a haggard groan from his chest, and Crocodile gives a flushed, pissy scowl, one that demands he stop fucking around.

It hardly frightens the man between his legs, not when Crocodile’s hair has fallen from his meticulous style in damp strands over his cheeks to match the shine of sweat on his forehead. Between his knees, the heat of him nearly steams where River breathes over his sack to roll them around on his tongue too.

Crocodile wants to complain about the crawl they’ve fallen into, demand he pick up the pace, but before he can arrange thoughts on his tongue he’s rewarded by those lips slipping back over him. They fall into an easy rhythm, one that slides hot and tormentingly slow over the entire length of him with every complete bob of River’s head.

A soft, yielding “fuck” flutters out above him, anxious thighs brushing his ears, and River takes the moment to admire the crimson flush creeping into the valleys of Crocodile’s chest, the bob of his swallow around an unguarded groan. Big, sword-calloused hands cradling the curve of his skull are their own reward, as are the little, muffled moans he lets vibrate along the cock in his throat, tempting those hands to squeeze into the roots of his hair.

Crocodile puffs out a quiet chuckle, needing it to be mean but the lack of air in his lungs is a powerful enemy. “Look at you. So haughty and spitting a moment ago. How quickly you’ve become docile for me,” he says, deep in his chest as his jeweled thumb smears a drop of drool away from River’s lip, across his cheek.

Is that how it appears, captain?

River’s eyes flick open, dark as the depths of the ocean that housed creatures more dangerous than either of them, and promising to ruin him on his own pride. They steal the rest of his breath, trading air for lightning in his veins, all while never ceasing the steady rhythm of his head. One of River’s hands, the one that had contented itself to rub over the firm planes of Crocodile’s abs while he pleasured him—suddenly slipped away.

But, Crocodile hardly had the mind to count limbs, not when a tongue prods the hole in his tip, massaging his foreskin and coaxing his eyes to close, assuring him he was the one in control. A pretty thought, pretty as the man who knows the truth, the one collecting his own precum to nudge behind his balls, lower, lower still, and massage over Crocodile’s hole.

His eyes fly open, face suddenly as red as his chest, shooting up to his elbows like River can’t feel him getting even harder against his tongue. “You little—brat—”

“Push me away, then.” That mouth, that smirking mouth lay open to let his cock slap on his glossy tongue. “I’m a swordsman too, certainly no waif, but you and I both know I didn’t lay you down on this bed against your will. If I’ve overstepped—stop me. Tell me to stop, Crocodile, if those rippling muscles have suddenly failed you.”

The pleased chuckle he breathes over the tip of his cock coincides with Crocodile’s surrendering sigh, and the impossibly long line of him falls back to the pillows with the dizzying slide of River’s finger inside him.

“Add another, hurry up—”

“Ah,” he tuts at him. “I will treat you with the care you showed me. Even if you didn’t wait very long at all,” River chuckled again, and Crocodile’s teeth clicking in annoyance turns a huff of pleasure when he gets his request.

He wants to be infuriated at the impudent swordsman for pushing him down and taking liberties with his body, but he can’t feel anything beyond the eager, searing heat that keeps swallowing his semblance of thoughts through his cock, and the expert, clever fingers massaging his inner walls so thoroughly.

River holds back a teasing comment about “who’s docile now” as he opens his eyes to admire him through the tears pooling on his lashes. For all River’s calm voice spoke of control, he knows neither of them can deny their body’s reaction, from his wet cheeks at his throat being filled dutifully over and over, to his hard cock between his legs that throbs as Crocodile writhes on his fingers, long legs restless against the sheets as his sturdy body shakes and cock swells in his throat. Such the cycle continues.

Below him, Crocodile melts on the simmering heat filling his body, threatening to burst from his cock and yet it doesn’t, can’t, as it’s held back by the distracting hand leaving fingerprints on his insides, all over his swelling prostate. He’s in a loop of pleasure, riding higher to a place he hasn’t seen in so long, so out of his reach from atop his throne. And yet here he was, moaning, gasping for air on the sticky, devoted affection of the man who came to his quarters and presented himself first.

The barrage on his senses retreats suddenly, and Crocodile nearly begs for the high, wounded sound he made to remain their secret. Luckily, River looks to have no intention to tease him as he wipes his lips clean with his arm, using his slippery hand to stroke over his own cock. By the glow of the oil lamp, Crocodile can see all four of his fingers shining, but recalls no pain when they had entered him. And they must have, if the openness of his hole is to be believed, felt by a quick touch of his own fingers.

“Why did you stop?” He rasps into the humid air between them.

River answers by leaning over him, hair mostly fallen from it’s quick style, pupils blown as they keep him pinned to the pillows, all while his greedy hands knead at Crocodile’s strong thighs. “Do you believe I want you now?”

Crocodile means to fire back some quick-witted, biting retort, until his thighs are hoisted up, baring his hole and held aloft by deceptively strong arms.

“I’m sorry you haven’t come yet… Would you believe that I want you if I had let you come in my mouth, showed your seed to you on my tongue before I swallowed it?”

“You are…” Crocodile growled out, golden eyes equally blown as his hands grabbed at the sheets. “A cruel, impudent little thing.”

The calloused hands on his thighs flex. “Cruelty recognizes itself, Crocodile, and I think you need better proof of my intentions.”

“I believe you.”

His ragged gasp as he breathed in, so unlike the Crocodile that strangled control from every aspect of his life down to his pleasure, desperate and—if River was anymore bold—vulnerable, had them both snapping to each other's gaze. For a moment, only the sound of the ocean outside filled the warm room.

“I believe that you want me, and I want you. Beautiful River, handsome poet, I want you, so—” Any more words were swallowed by the moan in his chest as River surged forward, bracing his hands beside his ribs and pressing his cock inside in one firm thrust.

River’s hips meeting his stretched rim comes with Crocodile’s big hands on his body, one in his hopelessly lost hair bun, the other on his lower back to feel his muscles clench and twist. “Come on, you wanted to show me proof. Or is this pretty face the extent of you? Your pretty cock—”

He’s interrupted by the throw of his hips, an honest moan worked up from both of them when River grabs at the mattress for leverage to work Crocodile’s body harder than his fingers could ever hope.

“I am more than this pretty face,” he pants over him, one hand leaving the bed to grip his thigh and spread him wide to bury himself even deeper. “More than the swords at your disposal. I will ruin your body, your soul.”

Crocodile’s head, also hopelessly mused from it’s style, presses to the pillow with the force of his hard, steady strokes. Quiet, panting moans leave his lips in rising succession. He touches River’s bicep where one of his arms keeps him braced, fingertips scratching him gently in a way that might have been reserved for admiration if not for the drop of drool that escaped his clenched teeth. Breathing is so hard suddenly, when he can easily look down to see the poet’s pretty cock disappear inside him, his own lying neglected and useless in a puddle of it’s own pre against his stomach.

He can’t help but be impatient, especially after being denied his orgasm down River’s throat, and reaches down to stroke himself off. His breath rises again, shorter, more labored as River shifts his knees to match his attention to Crocodile’s prostate with his wrist’s efficient, choppy rolls.

“That’s it, come on. Come for me,” River coaxes him, voice rising, whining and urgent like he was the one approaching orgasm and it flings Crocodile over the edge with a punch to his diaphragm that comes out as a deep, cracked groan. His vision blurs for long moments, white and crackling at the edges, until he comes back to himself to realize the rhythmic thumping against his flank has not ceased. River’s still at it, dragging him out of the dredges of over-sensitivity and back on the road to another, stronger orgasm.

Perhaps he will drown him anyway.

“I’m sorry it look so long for you to come, but I—,” River swallows around his dry mouth, “I will make you come again, I promise.”

“You stupid poet, you beautiful—” His words hold no bite as they wheeze from his wet lips, choking on air when River threads his elbows behind his knees to spread him wider, impossibly so as he leans over him to capture his lips.

He feels himself blush to be pressed completely open, River’s soft thighs rubbing against the skin of his hips to fuck him slower, deeper than he had before, the length of his cock dragging against Crocodile’s most sensitive places for the entirety of his stroke. It made kissing nearly impossible, not when the overworked neurons in his brain are firing off at a rapid pace and his body has begun to melt into the sheets.

“Kiss me, please, I need you,” River whimpered against his tongue, like he didn’t have him folded in half, moaning on his cock and golden eyes dripping tears down his temples and into his hair. Crocodile seized him to bring them chest to chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripped on his rear to press the shape of his rings into his heated skin. Dizziness crept into his vision, he knew he was flying too high, only able to wrestle a few words from his vocabulary beyond the fluttering in his chest and the boiling just beneath his skin.

“Mine, all mine. Always,” he panted, his glassy eyes causing River to wonder if he meant him or his cock. The lightning in his belly begged it was the former.

“Yes, yours. No one else’s. Only you, captain, it’s always been you,” He moaned out, nearly a sob as Crocodile’s head flopped uselessly to the pillow. In the fog of his cooked consciousness, he still felt River’s forehead press to his temple, mouth hot near his ear, begging his words to be heard clear and coherent among the humid air between them.

“I’m yours, Crocodile, only yours for as long as I live.” The rhythm of his thrusts wavered as Crocodile’s mouth dropped open, dumbfounded to feel him swell even harder inside him, right against his sweet spot. “Command me, fuck me, use me as you wish.”

The storm rising beneath his ribs burst suddenly, flooding his body to the tips of his fingers and toes, his internal muscles squeezing unbidden, and they both call each other’s name over the ocean rushing in their ears. To Crocodile, it felt so different from the orgasm he had impatiently wrung from himself earlier, hand stripping his cock while he allowed River to sweeten the deal with his dutiful stroke. But this, this, River was in control of his pleasure, fucking it deep from within the most molten parts of his core and pushing him impossibly higher with every hungry, obedient thrust.

The sweet, keening moan above him is a treat, along with the last pleas of stuttering hips pumping him deep with a liquid heat that sweeps his insides to the corners of his soul. An apology, he thinks, for the ache in his hips as River finally lets his legs fall to the side.

He contemplates scolding him, picking the pieces of his pride off the floor to remind the other man he did not have permission to come inside him, until a muted thump to the mattress captures his attention first. Beside him, River lies bathed in moonlight, wearing his sated flush like a silk chemise, and decidedly too endearing to shout at. He sighed at length, supposing he earned it, after coaxing him to come twice on his cock and hard enough the second time to hit his own face with his seed.

But who would he be if he didn’t complain a little?

“Ugh. You come into my room, make a mess of me and my bed. I don’t suppose you intend to clean up after yourself, do you?”

“Shall I use my tongue? It will only take a moment.” River jumped up to lean over him, beginning to suckle the semen off his abdomen with a happy hum, to Crocodile’s flustered outrage.

“Outrageous, mischievous—hrn.” A strangled sound fell from his tired lips when the tongue moved to lap at his hole, interrupted by Crocodile’s firm hand in the roots of his hair. He dragged him back up for a kiss, tasting himself in their shared sigh, and a fond calm settled over them as they parted with a wet sound, not unlike the waves after a storm.

Crocodile anchored his stare by the firm grip on the back of his neck. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Every word.” River answered without hesitation, and let their foreheads gently thump together. “Do with me as you wish. Forever.”

“Promises like that, to a man like me, are liable to breed hatred eventually. You will come to resent me.”

“No, I won’t. Not this time.”

He wants to ask him what he means, why his gaze is so calm, as if he’s come home from a long journey. Maybe he’ll ask him one day. But not now, when their skin is so warm where their sides brush, and the ocean outside is quiet.

[st0rmyskies]

On Appearances: HSH Hyrule

That's Doctor Hyrule to you.

Height: 5’7”

Age: 24

Build: Since he spends more time exercising his brain than anything else, Hyrule’s rather thin. I believe even Wind beats him in having more meat on his bones. Hyrule can sure run a code, but he's definitely going to be winded afterward. 

Accessories and otherwise: Since Hyrule is Calatian in origin, he looks a bit different from the other Links in the house. His skin is a warm olive tone, his hair is dark brown and curly, and he has the slightest accent: a curl in his R’s and his L’s that you’d miss if you blink. His father was Hyrulean, thus his traditional moniker of ‘Link’ with the more familiar nickname ‘Hyrule.’ It’s about as obnoxiously nationalist a naming scheme as you can get. He does sport casual men’s hoops in his ears, although they’re so small and thin they usually get lost in his hair.

Fashion sense: Hyrule spends most of his life in scrubs, so the rest of his wardrobe doesn’t get much mileage. What he does have is usually quite comfortable and in many cases a bit too big on him. Since he’s often running cold, he doesn’t leave the house without a sweater or jacket of some kind. He’s also the kind of guy who will rock a sock with a Croc or a sandal, bless him.

Parting thoughts: 

Shortly after reaching adulthood, Hyrule left home to pursue his dream of med school. His family life is largely unknown and not something he talks about, even with Legend. He has no contact with his parents. 

All of the nurses love Hyrule because he’s one of the new docs who doesn’t come in with a chip on his shoulder and is incredibly kind and respectful. Also, he looks like a solid breeze would knock him over. They try to feed him a lot. 

Hyrule is engaged in a fellowship program as of HSH: The Brave. It comes with its own royal sponsorship, which Time and the other boys know nothing about just yet. 

Hyrule might seem quiet and like he keeps to himself, but the reality is that he's had more casual relationships than the other boys in the house.

[fancoloredglasses]

Over the Edge (Well, THAT escalated quickly!)

[All images are owned by DC Comics and Warner Bros-Discovery. I hope I’m too small-fry to sue…]

[Thanks to Batgirlspain for the inspiration]

I originally wanted to review this episode of New Batman Adventures for Halloween, but I think most of you will agree that what I went with instead worked better (though a number have commented that I may have been a bit too harsh. However, I stand by my opinion!) So now, instead of a few days before Halloween, this review will be out a few days after the Day of the Dead, which I think is more appropriate.

If you would like to watch the episode, it’s available on Max or behind your favorite paywall.

We open with Batman and Robin on the run from…

Wait, the GCPD is after Batman (and using deadly force)? AND they know who he is?!  What the fucking fuck?!

One of the officers throws a grenade (what police department lets its officers carry grenades?!) at them, nearly blowing Robin to bits! The Dynamic Duo run for the Batmobile, but…

They have RPGs as well? Why aren’t they using this sort of ordinance on Bane or Killer Croc?!

The officer blows up the Batmobile, cutting off the Caped Crusaders’ escape.

Batman buys some time by using his trophies against Gordon and his men.

Namely, the giant penny.

Then, another avenue of escape is cut off by Detective Montoya, but they jump off the ledge toward the water below and into the waiting Batboat. Gordon is about to fire on them when…

…Alfred joins the struggle. He’s quickly subdued, but bought enough time for the Batboat to clear the Batcave. However, they’re not in the clear yet as…

Once again, the cops have an RPG handy to blow up the Batboat (someone please explain why Gordon’s been just sitting on these), but misses. Just as they’re about to fire another volley…

...Nightwing joins the fray and draws their fire. He then fires mini torpedoes at the Police boat’s engine, disabling it as the Dynamic Duo and Former Boy Wonder make their escape.

But why is the GCPD going all out to take down Batman? And how does Gordon know who Batman is? We’ll let Batman explain…

(Thanks to FLYBOY727)

OK, while I understand Gordon being upset about Batman being responsible for putting Barbara in harm’s way, that’s a HUGE step from blaming him yo being her murderer (after all, Scarecrow was the one who knocked her off of the building)! Personally, I think Bullock was salivating at the chance to take down the Bat and planted the seed in Gordon’s head.

But that still doesn’t explain how Gordon knows who Batman is!

For that, let’s fast forward a bit in this flashback to Wayne Manor where Bruce gets a phone call from Gordon.

OK, THAT explain it, though are you telling me the future Oracle wouldn’t have encrypted her computers out the wazoo?

As Gordon hangs up, Bruce sees the GCPD drive up, including a battering ram tank! (Seriously, if Gordon had access to all of this, then WHY is Gotham’s criminal element allowed to run rampant?!) Bruce and Tim retreat to the Batcave, which brings us to where we came in.

(Thanks to Tim Bengsch)

Yeah, you’d think Dick would realize that Gordon is capable of putting two and two together.

Now on his own, Batman ponders his next move (I hear Star City’s nice this time of year)

Meanwhile in Gordon’s office, Mayor Hill tries to get Gordon to stand down.

Since the public knows about Barbara’s connection to Batman…

Hill demands Gordon’s resignation.

Meanwhile, on Tabloid TV…

The assembled villains are suing Bruce Wayne for $1 billion!

...under the advice of the Dini-verse's version of Johnny Cochran.

Meanwhile, Gordon has to decide if he quietly resigns or fights the legal system.

With the clock ticking, Gordon goes to Blackgate Prison.

The convict in the shadows agrees to Gordon’s plan.

(Thanks to The World's Finest)

Oh, don’t tell me this was an “it’s all a dream” episode?!

I guess it was!

Turns out Batgirl got a lungful of the Scarecrow’s fear gas and it surfaced her worst fears in her mind.

Barbara decides that, to keep that nightmare scenario from happening, she would come clean to her father (though not reveal the rest of the Bat Family’s secrets)

That night, Barbara invites her father to dinner…and a talk.

Barbara tries to stammer out what she has to say, but is interrupted by Gordon.

So it is implied that Gordon might already know about Barbara…and possibly the others.

And with that, we fade out and credits roll

[blubushie]

Why do you like Mick Taylor?

Aussie

He's fucking funny. Complete larrikin. If he had a stand-up show I'd watch it.

Charismatic when he wants to be.

Pig shooter. I am also a pig shooter.

He's fucking funny (and he hates Kiwis!)

He lives out bush. We're so underrepresented in Aussie media (except for Croc Dundee who is on my level of bushman) so any time we get to see Rural Aussie In The Outback I go wild.

John Jarrat is a (big) ripper and he's great. Love him.

I've met many men in my day who are basically Mick Taylor, mannerisms and all, just minus the homicide.

I love to hate Taylor for how much of a bastard he is.

Taylor is fucking terrifying as an Aussie.

It's not something that's easily explained to people who aren't Australian, but especially rural Aussies, everyone knows a Mick Taylor. He's an incredibly effective villain because everyone back of Bourke knows a bloke Taylor's age who dresses like him, and talks like him, and might crack a disparaging joke now and then, and isn't exactly politically correct, but he's down to earth and he'll never hesitate to offer help when it's needed. Everyone knows a bloke like Taylor whose blood is worth bottling. And for us, we're fucked out there without your neighbours and good samaritans to help you. If something goes wrong and you're too far out, it might be days to weeks until someone comes along and finds you. And because Taylor screams familiar to us, every Aussie who watches Wolf Creek wants to trust Taylor the same way you'd trust your neighbours and your mates. You meet a Taylor every day. Your neighbour is a Taylor. Your best mate is a Taylor. Your father is a Taylor (Mick Taylor's mannerisms and manner of speaking were actually inspired by John Jarrat's father). Everyone knows, and trusts, their local Mick Taylor.

So when that trust of such a familiar image is betrayed and revealed to be a mask, under which incomprehensible sadism and cruelty lies? When the man you, as an Australian audience, would trust with your life, is revealed to be a sadistic killer who wants to see you in agony? When the familiar face of your father, or brother, or best mate is turned into something monstrous but still familiar? That is FUCKING TERRIFYING to your audience.

I love Mick Taylor because he's one of the best horror villains ever put to screen. Because he is realistic, and a product of his origin, and if you saw him or interacted with him at a pub you'd like him because he's just that personable, and five hours later he'll have you strung up to be fed alive to his dogs because you made the mistake of trusting him.

Mick Taylor is the scariest fucking villain out there for an Aussie, and I adore him because of it.

[the-bar-sinister]

Crimson Sunset, Azure Dawn (6259 words) by thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 2/? Fandom: One Piece (Anime & Manga) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: shuggy, mishanks, cross guild polycule

Additional Tags: Polyamory, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Enemies to Lovers, The Cross Guild (One Piece), Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Getting Together, Drama, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking, why is shanks like that, Background Relationships, Rating May Change, POV Third Person Limited, POV Alternating Summary: Red Haired Shanks had wrapped himself in mystery and glory and vanished from the lives of everyone who cared about him, leaving a trail of old flames lost and confused in his wake. Years later, Mihawk would have been content to finally give the duel long owed him. Buggy swore he simply wanted to give him a piece of his mind. Crocodile just wanted the pair to have some measure of closure, difficult as it might be.

No one expected the rising star of the scarlet emperor to crash so suddenly and violently to earth. No one expected to fish a lost and broken Shanks out of the wreckage of his ship.

But maybe it takes disaster for old flames to flicker back to life, and for Cross Guild to bring in its most surprising member.

-

Prologue & Chapter 1

Note: the prologue of this fic and one scene from the first chapter originally appeared in Deicide: Onigashima Afterparty and can be skipped if you have already read that.

-

Prologue

The Cross Guild ship sat anchored a few miles off the coast of Wano with the former marine vessel locked in tow for when they departed. It had been a hell of a few days.Crocodile and Mihawk had practically gang pressed him— and the crew— into what he had called a 'recruitment mission', chasing Smoker and his marine boys to the closed island after getting intel that they were there.

It was a crazy move. And crazier still, it had worked. Cross Guild now had a couple of famous marines (and an undercover marine pirate!) and their crew on the roster, a fact which seemed to please Crocodile to no end, and admittedly, probably would further demoralize the navy.

But that wasn't what was on Buggy's mind.

Buggy had gotten a few drinks into himself by the time he’d worked up the nerve to confront Crocodile. He and Drake had celebrated his switching sides the best way they could— by getting drunk and flirting back and forth for a few hours— before Buggy had finally had to excuse himself.

He rolled up his baggy sleeves and took a deep breath before he slammed open the door to the little lounge he knew Croc was skulking around in with as imperious a face as the new Emperor could muster. “Crocodile! I gotta talk to you!” 

Crocodile, of course, didn't even lower his cigar. He didn't even answer. He just waved him over. He was sitting in his tall armchair, feet on the table, with a bottle of rye and the morning's newspaper.

Buggy sauntered over with his hands floating off his wrists (and rested against his hips) and a big frown on his face. 

“I gotta talk to you, I said!” He leaned in. “About my crew!” 

Now Crocodile took the cigar out of his mouth, and breathed smoke in his face. "Alright, clown. I'm listening. What about your crew?"

Buggy breathed it in with a little shiver, before he huffed. 

“...you gotta treat my men with a little more respect. Cabaji’s tellin’ me that you’re going around barking orders at him and the rest of my guys.” 

Crocodile stared at him for a long moment, and then he patted his lap. "Sit down, Buggy."

Buggy huffed, flushing brightly as he stomped over and dropped neatly into his lap. “I mean it, Croc. They’re my men…they respect me. You can’t just push ‘em around like they were yours.” 

Croc's arm slithered around him and his hook dropped across his legs. "Buggy. Sweetheart. I bark orders at everybody. You know this."

Buggy pursed his lips in a frown, looking him in the eyes as he looped an arm around his shoulders. “...I mean, yeah. It’s onna the charming things about you, Croccy. But Cabaji’s gettin’ annoyed.” 

Crocodile puffed on his cigar, for a moment, and then pressed it into Buggy's mouth, still damp with his saliva. "That's your swordsman, right? Long dark hair? Bunch of knives?"

Buggy took a puff off it, hanging around his shoulders as he relished the taste. “Yeah, that’s the one. My number one acrobat. A real standout guy. He thinks you’re disrespecting us.” 

"Does he now?" Croc snorted, and stroked the curve of his hook over Buggy's thigh. "Alright, Bug. There are two solutions to this. Either one– you stick to me like glue so I can tell you the orders and you bark 'em…"

He left the suggestion hanging for a moment.

Buggy’s leg rubbed against his hook as his torso disconnected to lean into his body. He blushed, huffing softly. “You ain’t the worst company. But go on.” 

"Funny you should mention that," Croc chuckled. "Option two is you bring your 'number one acrobat' to bed with us and we sort out questions of respect that way."

WIth that, Buggy went bright red, and his head popped off to turn around and look at Croc with wide and flustered eyes.

Cabaji would be into it, of course.

It’d probably sort it out, one way or another, if he was invited there. It wasn’t as if they weren’t already intimate.

“I’ll think about it,” he said stiffly. “...on that note! I got something I gotta bring up about him.” 

Crocodile cackled, and grabbed Buggy's floating head by the pigtail. "Don't fly away on me, clown. What about him? Planning a spring wedding?"

Buggy yelped, and his head fell down against his shoulder again. 

“N-no!” he huffed sharply. “I wanna get him a devil fruit! He’s worrying about keeping up with all the freaks in the New World.” 

Crocodile twirled his fingers through Buggy's hair for a moment. "Huh, smart man. He doesn't already have one, then? Is he a haki guy, or what?"

“He’s an acrobat. And a damn good one too.” Buggy poked his chest with his floating hand, though…he did nuzzle Crocodile’s hand. “And he’s not a haki master like Mihawk or nothin’.” 

Crocodile stared at him, even as he stroked his thumb over Buggy's jaw. "So what, he's just a guy? And he hasn't fucking died yet?"

Everybody from Crocodile's 'crew'-- Baroque Works, what was left of them– had a Devil Fruit. Everybody he associated with had some trick up their sleeve.

Buggy brushed the scruff of his jawline against his fingers with a nod. Cabaji was amazing for having come this far with him— even against all the shit they faced, he was still alive and kickin’.

That had to count for something.

“He’s just that good, Croc. But he wants to be better.” 

"You know what? It sounds like he's fucking earned it," Crocodile grumbled. He patted Buggy's face not unfondly, and grinned. "I'll put in a request with Doffy and get him a fruit lined up. And I'm thinking you should bring him to bed whatever else we figure."

Buggy grinned widely at him, his body floating in pieces against the other man. 

“Damn right he has! I’ll let him know, Croccy!” He winked. “...about the invitation, too.” 

"Good man," Crocodile leered. "I–"

They were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, at which Crocodile barked, "enter!"

Buggy’s head jerked up, and his body parts rapidly snapped back together as he wriggled on Crocodile’s lap with a grumpy murmur of ‘my respect as a co-leader!’

Crocodile didn't let Buggy up, his hook still firmly over his lap– but it didn't end up mattering anyway, it was just Galdino.

"Sir. Buggy."

"Mr. 3," Crocodile drawled out with the air of an almost affectionate nickname. "What's with the knock?"

"Some uh, interesting news, actually." He glanced back and forth between Buggy and Crocodile in a rather nervous way– despite that, Buggy thought whatever the glance was about, it didn't have anything to do with the compromising position.

“Hey Galdy.” Buggy murmured as he fell back against Crocodile with a sigh. “What’s up?”

"Well…"

"Out with it," Crocodile barked. He grinned wickedly. "Promise I won't shoot the messenger this time."

Galdino gave them a look somewhere between sour and wry. Crocodile's attempt at murder had become a joke somewhere along the way between them.

"It's Red Haired Shanks," Galdino said. "Doflamingo's faction reported in by transponder snail that his ship's been sighted around the other side of Wano."

Buggy’s face blanched underneath his makeup, and his eyes went wide over his smile as his lips closed. 

“.....” He gripped Crocodile tighter. “.......Shanks… is in Wano…as we speak???” 

Crocodile grimaced and raised his hook. "Is every damned Emperor on the sea in the same hundred mile radius?"

Galdino held his hands up. "Don't ask me, I just took the message. But… it sounds like it's close, anyway. Even with the recent shake up."

"Wonderful." Crocodile grumbled. He squeezed Buggy's arm. "Alright, Galdino. Thank you for the information. Were there any other details?"

"They said it seemed like he was making ready to leave."

Buggy grabbed Crocodile by the lapels, looking at him with wild eyes. “We should intercept him, before the bastard slips away again!”

He knew, distantly, he was being irrational. Something about Shanks always set it off in him. The entire reason he’d gone off at Luffy to begin with was because of that damned straw hat of Shanks’. 

Crocodile's hook pierced through Buggy's leg, as his grip tightened on his shoulder. "Are you crazy, clown?"

"I'll just… leave you to it then," Galdino murmured, slipping out the door.

Buggy leaned his face nose to nose with Crocodile.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to give that red haired bastard a piece of my mind? He…he…” his hands shook, “he broke my heart, Croccy!” 

Crocodile stared at him with incredulous annoyance that slowly melted away into exhaustion, and maybe a trace of sympathy. He let go of Buggy's shoulder and grabbed the bottle of rye from beside his chair, taking a long pull before putting it to Buggy's lips.

"Yeah. You've mentioned," he grumbled. ".... we're gonna have to go find Mihawk."

Buggy grabbed the bottle, and tilted it back in several long swigs. 

“Yeahhh….oh he’s not gonna be happy either, is he?” 

"Yeah, he sure fucking ain't." Croc shook his head. "How the hell did I end up with both of Shank's fucking exes?"

Buggy took another long swig of rye before he leaned in to kiss Crocodile’s lips. “I think that says a LOT about you and your taste in men, Croccy.” 

Crocodile kissed him back, before grumbling. "Well, I fucking hate that. Alright, let's go find Hawkie and give him the bad news."

Buggy laughed, leaning back enough to look him in the eyes. Despite the big smile on his face, he was reeling.

Shanks. Fucking Shanks. Red Haired Shanks the Emperor…the dopey cabin boy from when he was a wide-eyed idealistic brat himself. A boyfriend, a confidant…at least before he changed.

His fingers tightened on the bottle. He was going to need a lot more to drink if he was going to deal with him today.

-

On the Rocks

With the aid of his spyglass combined with his observation haki he could keep watch on someone from quite a distance away. Could watch them far before they knew he was there.

Red Haired Shanks stood perched on the rail of his ship, glass in hand, watching the crew of the Thousand Sunny make ready to depart Wano.

Now was the time. After what he'd seen the kid do in the fight against Kaidou— the white haired deity that had flickered to life from his devil fruit's power— now was the time to tell him the truth about the fruit. About his destiny. About what Roger had said.

Now was the time to challenge him, and see what he could really do.

Shanks tried to smile, but something gnawed in the pit of his stomach.

He should be happy.

Everything had been leading to this moment. Everything since those whispered words from his captain long ago. Ever since seven years ago when Luffy had claimed what should have been—

Since Luffy had claimed his destiny.

Shanks should be happy.

Shanks shouted the order to make ready to sail. They'd follow the Sunny at a distance until they were a day out from Wano and then make themselves known.

It was good enough that Luffy would be happy. That so many other people would be happy. He was sure that Roger was smiling somewhere, still.

He had to be sure of it.

-

Mihawk sat on the deck of the ship, carefully cleaning Yoru with a reverent and practiced hand. Under the broad parasol he’d insisted they install, he watched the sea beyond them as his fingers and his cloth trailed over Yoru’s shining black blade.

“Daz. Do you think the tea is steeped?”

The blood of the marines who hadn’t yielded was still fresh in his mind, the thrill of the short but interesting battle and its resolution of a whole cadre of new crew and executives for their little organization still buzzing distantly behind his sharp and canny eyes.

Cross Guild had devoured two of the Navy’s finest. Welcomed them, and their powerful underlings, into the fold. It was a victory; and now they moved on to the next step in their plan to whittle the Marine’s strength to nothing.

"Should be," Daz nodded as he eyeballed the teacup steeping on the tray.

“Thank you,” he glanced back at him with a subtle smile as he held his blade up to the light. Bergamot tea, steeped strong— he trusted Daz to make it correctly. “What do you think of our new friends, the former Marines.” 

Daz was the man that Crocodile had brought from his adventures in Alabasta. Mihawk's own man, Wallace, was with Perona, currently.

"As long as they don't stick a knife in our backs, I think they'll be great." Daz handed him the cup of tea. From the smell of it, he'd gotten it just right.

MIhawk took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance before taking a long sip. Yes, it was perfect. “They seem to have impressed Crocodile…and he is not a man who trusts easy.” 

"Sure isn't," Daz agreed. Mihawk knew that he was well aware. Apparently, Daz had been working officially for Sir Crocodile and Rain Dinners for quite some time, while working unofficially for "Mr. Zero" and Baroque Works without knowing that the two were one and the same. And yet, he'd followed him even afterward. Through the depths even of Impel Down.

“He seems to have put quite a bit into that crew— I’m not a trusting man, myself… but if he trusts them I will endeavor to do the same.” 

Daz nodded. "Spent some time with a couple of 'em last night. They seem alright. I hope it won't kick the captain in the teeth."

Mihawk looked up at him with a thin smile. “If it does, I’ll simply have to hang their heads from the prow. But let us hope it’s as good as it seems.

He liked Daz. It was a comfort and a relief to know that Crocodile had had someone looking out for him in the years when they couldn’t meet under the watchful eye of the World Government.

Once, and once again in a way, he had been Crocodile’s right hand. His first mate and swordsman. He and Daz were still settling out exactly what that meant for the two of them– Daz having occupied the spot that he had vacated for so long– but it didn't seem to be a real problem.

"If you need a hand with that, let me know."

MIhawk chuckled as he sipped his tea again. “I might need a hand with it, should push come to shove. I–” 

"Hawkie!" Crocodile snapped sharply as he stomped up from below deck. He was dragging Buggy with him, a bottle of alcohol in the clown's hands. Mihawk could already tell something was up. He leaned over the back of his chair, teacup by his side and Yoru over his lap. His keen eyes scanned the bottle of alcohol as his lips drew into a tense frown.

“Crocodile. Bad news? Have the marine recruits betrayed us?” 

"Nothing as simple as that," Crocodile growled around his cigar. "Got a report, didn't we, Bug?"

Daz shot an apprehensive glance toward Mihawk, clearly picking up on the same 'bad news' feeling that he was.

Buggy slid over grinning a smile that wasn’t at all reassuring as he wiggled the booze bottle his way. 

“How about we have a drink, huh? The boys said they saw uh… they saw a ship off the coast of Wano.”

Mihawk raised his eyebrow at him with a low hum. “And…?”

Crocodile put his arm around Mihawk's shoulders. "And it's Shank's ship, Hawkie."

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Red Haired Shanks. The two of them had a long and storied history. Meeting during a grand adventure, becoming rivals— the clash of wills and sword that reverberated around the world— and Shank’s injury bringing with it distance and the World Government’s interference as Mihawk became a proper Warlord of the Sea.

“What brings him to Wano, I wonder.” He stood smoothly up from under Crocodile's arm, and lifted Yoru to place upon his shoulder, glowering at the island in the distance. “...bring us around to him. I’d like a duel.” 

"You're kidding me," Crocodile growled. "Now you wanna duel him? Hawk, I brought Buggy over for you to talk some fucking sense into. We can't roll up to Shanks with one god damn ship and a handful of hungover marines!"

“You think he’ll simply kill us then?” Mihawk glanced over his shoulder at Crocodile as Buggy laughed nervously and popped open the bottle to take a long sip. 

"Hell if I know! Man was always a wildcard, and look what he did to the two of you! All I hear about is him decimating crews all over the grand line; do you two think he wants to have a fucking nice little duel and a chat?"

Daz quietly walked over and put a hand on Croc's shoulder. "Easy there, captain."

“What if he wants to say he’s sorry to me?” Buggy asked with a sniff as he hugged the bottle to his chest. “He’s got a lot to make up for, that bastard!”

Mihawk huffed sharply, his arms crossed over his chest. “His legend has been growing, but it isn’t as if I have stopped my rise either. If you don’t want to face him, Crocodile…I can go on one of the lifeboats.” 

"Like hell you will!" Crocodile barked. "Like hell I'm letting you go off alone."

Daz raised his hand. "If I may?"

Buggy flopped against Crocodile again, his hand detaching and bringing the bottle to Mihawk.

He took it with a nod and had a long swig. “...I’m listening.�� 

"Why don't we send a messenger and see if he wants to talk and or duel," Daz offered, scratching the back of his head. "It's not like that would be hard to do."

Crocodile grudgingly slipped his arm around Buggy, and did the same once more to Mihawk. He gave each of them a speculative look. "Well? Daz has a point."

Mihawk leaned against him with an affection most never picked up on, huffing a long sigh. “...it’s a good point, Daz. I suppose it would come across as less of an act of war that way.”

Buggy poked his fingers together. “...can I write the letter?” 

"Not without a second pair of eyes on it, Bug," Crocodile grumbled. "But with approval– yes."

Buggy looped an arm around him with a wide grin. “I promise Croccy. You’re not gonna regret this!”

Mihawk wasn’t so sure, but as he stared out at Wano with narrowing eyes he knew something for certain.

He rested his shoulder against Crocodile’s, jaw set as he reckoned it.

It was long past due to face the ghosts of the past. 

-

Buggy’s feet were pacing the floor. Back and forth and back and forth as the rest of his body hovered around the cabin while chewing on the ends of his gloves.

They’d done it. The heavily edited letter had been sent to Shanks’ ship— the deed was done and the offer to meet was sent. 

He was terrified. He hadn’t spoken to Shanks in years and years; he’d only seen him rarely too, like the time he’d spotted him in Marineford during that massive war.

But Shanks— like he’d always been ever since he left— was far too important to notice Buggy back. 

Buggy's brooding thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Captain?"

The voice, and mode of address were immediately familiar.

“Gah!!” Buggy whipped around with a big grin. “Cabaji! My main man! Come in, come in!” 

When Cabaji slipped into the room, shutting the door quickly behind him, Buggy could already tell he knew something was up. There would certainly be rumors around the ship already about Shanks being sighted, and Cabaji was one of the few people who'd know that that held a significance for Buggy— even if he didn't know exactly what it was.

Cabaji nodded to him. "I heard a little rumor going around."

“Is it about fucking Red Haired Shanks?” Buggy’s lips twitched. “...because we just sent a letter to him. Mihawk wants to challenge him to a duel, I guess.” 

He whistled, giving Buggy a dubious look. "Mihawk's going to duel him? What about you?"

Buggy grimaced. “...I’m gonna give him a damn piece of my mind. Probably from the ship, and through an amplification snail.” 

"That's it?" Cabaji looked confused. Maybe it was because of the way Buggy had always talked about Shanks— when he talked about him at all, when he was drunk— like Buggy had been dead set on murdering him to death. "You're sure you don't want to get to him before Mihawk does?"

Buggy grit his teeth, one of his feet kicking a ball off to the side where it ricocheted off the wall.

"It's complicated, Cabaji! I REALLY wanna get down there and show him just how much I’ve grown. I wanna show him the FULL power of Buggy the Clown! But Mihawk’s got his mind set.”

Cabaji put his hands on his hips. "So Hawk and Croc are running roughshod over you again, Captain? What makes Mihawk's grievance more important than yours? Anyway, if Shanks is such a bigshot— shouldn't the two of you put him down together?"

He was losing Cabaji’s faith, he knew it. He half dropped into the sofa of his cabin as his feet ran to catch up, his brow knit.

How the hell was he supposed to explain the complicated bullshit that seemed to inundate his relationship with Shanks? Mihawk was pissed off at Shanks for, admittedly similar reasons, it seemed. 

Heartbreak. Heartbreak when someone they were close to started drifting away because of some grand responsibility or power trip. The worst part was Buggy didn’t even know WHAT bug Shanks had gotten up his ass. One day, one conversation with Roger and he was suddenly not the man he’d grown up with.

“It’s not ...they ain’t running roughshod on me, Cabaji! They’re…it’s complicated, dammit! I don’t wanna kill the guy YET. I wanna talk to him first. He’s got some things to answer for and he ain’t answering from the bottom of a grave!”

That seemed to cut through Cabaji's dubious look-– but it was replaced by another, even more conflicted expression. The acrobat leaned in closer to him, until they were shoulder to shoulder. He put his hand on his back. Usually; not always, but usually, Cabaji waited for Buggy to touch him first, like he was waiting for permission.

"Captain, can I— can I ask you a personal question? I've kinda wondered for a long time now…"

Buggy sighed low, under his breath, and looped his arm around Cabaji with a shake of his head. “I think I know what’s comin’...I’m listening.” 

Cabaji rubbed his jaw, leaning heavily on his captain. After a moment of silence he finally asked. "Were you and Shanks like… together? Is he an ex?"

“Ghhhhhhhhh.” Buggy’s shoulders sagged under his arms. “Yeah, he’s an ex. He and I …we were real close on Roger’s ship. For a long fuckin’ time too.” 

Cabaji wrapped his arm more tightly around him and pulled him closer. "Well shit. No wonder its so fucking complicated. Okay that's… I can see why you maybe wouldn't jump right to killing him. Is Mihawk going to kill him? Do we need to rein that in?"

Buggy groaned. “I’m pretty sure they’re exes too… I think he just wants to beat him to prove he’s stronger or some shit. You know Mihawk…a hell of a guy, but he tends to conflate mortal peril and romance.” 

"That… tracks. I mean, he's not wrong about that, " Cabaji murmured. Then he got indignant on Buggy's behalf again. "But hey! Hey, my question stands! Why does he get the first crack at him if he's an ex, too?"

“I mean, probably because he’s got a big fuckoff sword and jumps to use it at a moment's notice!” Buggy threw his hands up. “But you know what? You’re right! I’m gonna take the first crack. Damn the consequences!” 

"Hell yes, captain!" Cabaji grinned widely. "You know I'll back you up no matter what."

It was a big offer, when you thought about it. There were worlds of power level between Cabaji and Shanks or Mihawk. But he was still ready to jump into the frey.

“Cabaji…” Buggy grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a half hug. “Dunno what I did to get a guy half as loyal as you. I’m gettin’ you that devil fruit…gonna have Doflamingo hunt for it right away…you really are my best man. ...when we face down Shanks…I know you’re gonna have my back.”

Cabaji squeezed him back, the conflicted and dubious look that had plagued his features since he'd entered gone completely now. "Damn right, Captain. You'll always have me."

Buggy was damn lucky. Damn lucky that the crazy fucking acrobat from the East Blue had followed him all the way into hell.

He wouldn’t have it any other way

-

It had been almost a full day since their messenger had gone to Shanks, and had yet to return. Mihawk had been practicing with Yoru. His blade sang with each swing, decapitating dummies with ease as he danced around the ship’s deck with his intense and glowering stare.

If Shanks answered— if Shanks wanted that duel he’d long denied the man— then Mihawk was going to ensure he walked away victorious. He almost didn’t notice as Crocodile came out from below deck, his eyes narrowed in on a dummy in a hat. 

Crocodile stood and watched for a moment, before he cleared his throat. "We got an answer, Hawk."

Yoru stabbed through the heart of the dummy as Mihawk turned his gaze to Crocodile with a sharp grin across his face. "Has he accepted?" 

"You're gonna want to see for yourself." Crocodile smiled back at him, but it was a more careful smile than Mihawk usually saw written on him, as if he was still judging the situation. He held a folded scrap of paper out to him.

Mihawk reached out and grabbed the paper with a thankful nod, before looking it over with his mouth set in a frown.

It’d been so long. The world government and Shanks’ own piratical rise had caused the rift between them— the strange shift in his personality after the loss of his arm had sealed it. He’d forsaken the man as his rival during his spiral into depression and isolation. Part of him hadn't expected anything back at all. 

But there was the message, plain as day. 

Shanks had accepted the duel.

With a caveat.

"See what I mean?" Crocodile said, puffing on his cigar.

According to Shanks' note he was in the middle of some kind of 'important engagement' and would meet for the duel at Queen Ellery Island after that business was concluded.

"Queen Ellery Island…" Mihawk’s eyes narrowed. "...I know that island. So he wants to duel there in three days, does he? Where might he be heading now?" 

Queen Ellery was an autumn isle— like his own home for so long— in the nearby cluster. A dark little metropolis constantly covered in twilit clouds. A haven for crime and vice.

"Good question," Crocodile grumbled. He blew out a long puff of smoke and offered his cigar to Mihawk. "According to our intel, it looks like he might be toward Ellery already. Off in that direction, at least."

MIhawk took his cigar, and took a long intake of smoke to calm himself. Despite the placid expression, some well of emotion was bubbling inside him. Tension…desire…excitement, even distress over the wasted time.

"He used to be my rival." 

Crocodile closed the distance between them, looping his good arm around his shoulders, and squeezing him. 

"Wasn't even all that long ago, all things considered. I remember you two used to duke it out every time we crossed paths."

Mihawk nodded. "I used to think his blade would remain ever sharp, keen enough to help my rise to even greater heights." He leaned against Crocodile with a frown. "...and then he started to change. I changed too."

Crocodile leaned his cheek on the top of Mihawk's hat. "We all changed, Hawk. Time does that. The shit we all went through does that."

Crocodile had been cut down, his dreams dashed to pieces on the floor against Whitebeard… Mihawk had reeled from the splash damage, his own faith in everything so shaken that he began to turn in on himself.

The World Government had erected walls with their offer of ‘Warlord’--- lines of invisible transgression that pushed him from even his former captain.

It was no surprise those walls drove Shanks further away.

"Life changed, that much is true." 

"Derailed all our lives for a long time," Crocodile murmured. "But, me and you, we're getting back at it, right? Maybe the ol' ginger's rethinking things, too."

Mihawk tilted his head. "Do you think so?" 

Shanks… Mihawk had seen the road he was headed down ever since their last parting. Ever more the Emperor, ever more closed into himself and his crew as they worked on who knew what strange purpose.

Ever further from them, on some quest only the scion to the Pirate King could understand. 

"Who knows?" Crocodile shook his head, and ran his thumb over the edge of Mihawk's jaw. "Maybe we'll find out when you duel him, eh? Get the two of you drunk after, and figure out just what the hell has been going on."

Mihawk nuzzled his hand with a flush. "I’ve been wondering… I’ve been wanting to learn just what mission’s seized him so strongly to the exclusion of all else. It all happened when he returned without his arm."

"I've been wondering that too," Crocodile grumbled. He tugged Mihawk over to the bench in the corner of the room-– away from the destroyed dummies-– and sat them down. "He was always distant, and weird. But kinda fun, yeah? After that he seemed to lose his sense of fun."

MIhawk slid over with him with a low sigh, nodding his head before he sat against Crocodile with a nod.

"Yes. After that, he’d lost his sense of fun, and it seemed….something inside him. His freedom perhaps? His drive?" 

"Can't say I'm any better," Crocodile grumbled. "Wonder what it was that finally threw Shanks over the edge though. You ever find out how he lost the arm?"

Mihawk shook his head. "Only that he went back to some island he’d been spending time around, and came back a different man." 

"Must be a hell of a story." He shook his head. "I assume you want me to lay a course for Ellery? Or have you decided you'd rather blow him off."

Mihawk smiled grimly. "....Turnabout may be fair play, but I won’t forgive myself for letting this chance slip by. Set the course, darling. He has much to answer for." 

-

"Hey, Bug, guess what?" Crocodile asked, putting his arm around Buggy's shoulders as he snuck up on him from behind. How the hell did a man that big walk so silently?

Buggy jolted, falling against him as his skin prickled in surprise. "Maybe wear a bell, Croccy! You’re gonna give me a heart attack!"

He spun around to look at him. He’d been busy. Very busy. 

Very busy pacing around the ship like he was trying to set it on fire with the friction of his feet.

Just like normal. He was fine.

Super fine. 

Of course Crocodile just laughed at him, as usual.

"We're meeting Shanks on Queen Ellery. Should be about five days from now."

Buggy’s eyes bugged from his head. "He’s goin’ to Queen Ellery? We’re really gonna go see him??" 

"Yep." Crocodile nodded, thumping his hook against the back of Buggy's shoulder. "He agreed to duel Hawk."

Buggy vibrated against him, his eyes going wide. He’d agreed to duel Mihawk…Shanks. Mr. ‘I can’t even bother to notice my ex-boyfriends at Marineford, I’m too big and important and better than you’ Shanks…

Was going to duel Mihawk. In five days. On fucking Queen Ellery.

"Did he say anythin’ about me…?" he asked in a quieter voice than he intended. 

"He said he's 'looking forward to a chat', yeah," Crocodile nodded.

"Wait…he really said he was lookin’ forward to it?" Buggy grabbed his shoulders with a wide grin, even as his main body half turned under Crocodile’s arms. "HAH…figured that after years and years of being Buggy-less he’d..he’d miss me!"

Sure. Buggy had been the one who left. He’d been the one who never reached out…

But Shanks had changed. 

There was something about him that had shifted after that conversation with Roger. Like all the plans they’d made as kids didn’t matter anymore, and all the dreams they’d bonded over were nothing but something to grow up from. 

"You need a drink about it?" Crocodile asked, staring him down as Buggy gripped his shoulders..

"Yeah… I kinda hate how fired and …" (desperate) "--worked up I get about this. You’d think I’d…I dunno…forget. After a while." 

"But it still feels like a fresh wound, eh?" Crocodile shook his head. "C'mon, Bug. Let's head back to quarters, I'll get you good and wasted and you can tell me for the 10th time how he broke your heart."

Buggy huffed as he looped his arm around Crocodile. 

"sounds like a date, Croccy…" He paused for a moment before he whispered. "You think he’s gonna be happy to see me?" 

"Bug, if he makes you and Hawky any more miserable, I'm gonna fucking end him myself," Crocodile growled boldly. "Emperor or fucking not."

Buggy felt himself flush hotly, before he clambered onto Crocodile, arms looped around his shoulders and his body pressed against his back. 

"Awww, Croccy you’re too good to us!" He kissed the top of his head. "You’re the best warlord a guy can ask for." 

-

Three days from the message. Three days of increasing restlessness as they ticked down the moments towards their meeting with Red Haired Shanks on Queen Ellery Island. Buggy was practically chewing through his gloves as he watched the distant horizon where the sun was slowly vanishing. 

He’d distracted himself. He’d worked out some last minute shit with the boys, worked on routines, calls, everything he had to do for Cross Guild with the fervor of a man trying not to think about something fast approaching. 

There was very little to distract him right at the moment. Alone with the sea, the warm ruby glow of the sunset, and his thoughts.

He brushed his long blue hair over his ear with a quiet sigh and an attempt at a smile. He’d lay into him. He’d really tell him how he felt the last handful of years. And then maybe things would work out.

Maybe he’d even say sorry for whatever the hell had changed between them. 

He was contemplating all the possibilities when something started to nag at him. The clear water reflecting the ruby sky suddenly wasn't clear, but littered with large chunks of debris.

"Uhhhh…" He half leaned over the bannister of the ship, staring down at the water with a frown. "Guys!? Croc? Mihawk? Cabaji? Anyone?? Looks…looks like there’s some trouble around here. Shanks mighta gone to town on someone." 

"Huh? What's up, ca–" Cabaji came running over from across the deck, looking over to see the wreckage too. He whistled. "Damn, that's definitely a whole ship."

As Buggy followed his gaze westward toward the sun on the horizon, he saw the trail of debris become thicker, and a dark plume of smoke cloud the sky. A particularly large piece of hull nagged at the back of his mind.

Did he recognize that ship?

It took a longer moment of squinting at it to realize exactly how he did recognize it

"You’re kiddin’ me…there’s no fuckin’ way." He was breathless. "...that’s Red Haired Shanks’ ship. That bow, that flag…" 

"What?" Cabaji sounded completely incredulous. "No way, you're kidding?"

That was when Buggy spotted it.

Some poor soul collapsed crossways over a piece of flotsam hull barely the size of a door.

Buggy hissed through his teeth 

"Cabaji! Get the boys who don’t got devil fruits and fish that poor bastard outta the drink!" He leapt up on the bannister, grabbing some rigging to peer down at him. "It might be onna Shanks’ boys. We can hear about what the hell went down from him!"

Cabaji had already started moving before Buggy had finished, grabbing rigging from the deck, and holding onto it as he hurled himself straight into the water, and headed for the unlucky man who'd wound up in the drink.

As his gaze followed the acrobat the man on the wreckage drifted in the tide, bringing him around to a better angle for Buggy to see his bright, red hair.

It was Shanks.

Buggy hissed through his teeth, his eyes wide and panicked as he could only wait for Cabaji to arrive back on deck. He was no use in the sea.

"Shanks…what the hell happened to ya…what did you even need to DO?" 

[splendidbadger]

You mentioned a Badger OC between tags on a reblog of mine... I beg to know MORE 👀

HI HI SORRY I TOOK FOREVR TO ANSWER THIS!!

So this is Kris!!

Img description: an anthropomorphic European badger with a red mohawk, eyes, nose and pawpads. He is wearing a plum colored vest and dress pants with a white shirt and tie.

Text on ref says: Kristov Petrov. 16. He/they/it

Likes: cooking, vigilantes, musicals. And dislikes: loud noises, bright colors, and hot weather.

My Badger Boi is Kristov Mishavich Petrov! He’s for a superhero story I’m working on influenced by MHA (pre-overhaul arc) and the movie Skyhigh. His own universe that doesn't have a name yet. Before I talk about him heres a of of lore.

The series is set in the year 2111, and everything up until 2026 canonly occurred within the world. So things like superman the series and sillybands existed/exist. The world was quite normal until a child in Sydney Australia suddenly developed ice based powers. This was referred to as the Sydney Incident. The child was taken away, and no one knows what happened to them. Over time more people began developing or being born with powers until 80% of the world has some sorta power.

In their world there’s three sentient races

Humans (who can look like regular humans, or be mutants aka humans with non human features) humans make up about 60% of the population

Anthromorphs: sentient animal people, who originated from lab experiments involving giving regular animals anomalies. Anthromorphs can be hybrids of any existing animal on Earth. They make up about 45% of the population. Have existed for about 80 years.

Arti-men: Short for artificial men, sentient robots who range from DBZ style androids to looking similar to Cybertronians make up 15% of the population. Have existed for about 16 years.

Kris is an anthropomorph! He’s a badger/salt water crocodile. He looks mostly like a badger but has the snout(but covered in fur with a badger nose), teeth of a croc with scales under his fur. Kris is a super sweet kid from a very broken home who desperately wants to be a superhero who goes into search and rescue! He doesn’t have much self-esteem and his story involves him becoming assertive and more aggressive something he fears due to his appearance.

Despite his upbringing hes determined to be a good person, he doubles down on being good because of how awful his life is. He really only has his big brother Sergio in terms of family. Kris also is sympathetic towards villains because he knows if it wasn’t for his friends and brother he’d be the perfect maelstrom to be a villain.

He’s a nosy kid who digs too deep into mysteries there's a saying about badger anthromorphs in this world! “If God didn’t want a badger to dig, she wouldn’t have given us claws.” There’s more but I feel this is already really long 😭.

One more thing actually he canonly loves Batman the Animated series, and TFA he loves Lockdown because he reminds him of his brother and his face reminds Kris of badger markings!

[xxdoubledaisyxx]

Clash of the Titans (1981) is one of the best movies ever made, and a personal favorite of mine when I was a wee lad under ten.

Just wondering if this is what is happening right now... I hadn't been thinking about it, but in the clouds of cosmic dust kicked up by Hermes on his godly business as he alighted by, there were reflections of the origin of this myth that could be seen. Myths like that of Perseus and Medusa were powerful and popular in ancient times because they tend to reoccur again and again in real life with new people as natural forces come into conflict with civilized forces and justice prevails one way or the other.

Just because the Greek gods (goddesses incl.) are not celebrated with temples and cults today, doesn't mean their cosmology isn't relevant or applicable. Gods do not need faith to exist or participate in worldly matters. Priests, priestesses, lay people, oracles, and believers of any sort are the ones who need faith to access divine power and revelation of the gods, and that is a big difference. Faith is for mortals to hold and the gods to acknowledge. Truth is for the gods to hold and mortals to acknowledge. For a priestess to perform a miracle of healing, the more faith in her cult and community, the better equipped she is to invoke the blessings of a deity.

Except if this is my story... I think I like Medusa enough to want to at least take her on a date first to see if we can be friends, instead of chopping her head off if I don't have to. That is of course if I won't turn to stone when I gaze upon her terrifying and fearsome beauty, crowned by vipers and rattlers as she is and killing with a single glance even the mightiest of warriors who think they will claim her as a prize. Maybe my eyes are already stone, replaced by special orbs crafted in the forge of Tartarus by Hephaestus after being born blind and learning how survive on my own anyway.

This was commanded to be done by Zeus as a boon after I helped tend his ailing, infirmed body when I met him in the form of a noble, calm, and dignified dog. He was a good dog, one who was not afraid to fight when the others did, the girls tearing at each other's throats over jealousy of who was loved more. Always most unwilling to be involved in such savagery, Zeus only evoked his mighty, thunderous bark and snarling the flash of his teeth if they tried to drag him into their vain and bloody struggle. That is why he was an indoor dog with a special bed like Croc, my own companion whose tireless patience, love, and wisdom has benefitted me more in life than I ever could have known as the blind boy I was in my youth. I was not there when he passed, but I am certain he passed with dignity and respect, loved like the good dog he was, wise beyond his mortal form.

Zeus in this myth was dying after a full and adventurous life that began long before we became acquainted. He enjoyed walks through the endless desert where he could roam free for a time while running with the others, swimming in the muddy waters of the Rio Grande with my brother and I as youth, and hiking the trails of the Sandia Mountains on the occasional expedition. At the end, he was suffering from a huge, cancerous tumor on his side like a softball stuck under his fur at the ribs after 100 years alive. When he gave up the ghost and passed on to return to Olympus on high above the veil of clouds that obscures the sight of men from seeing the divine affairs of the gods, I buried him under the yucca for the faithful mortal who was his keeper and caretaker to mourn his passing.

So... since I've got these fancy new eyes made by Hephaestus, I should be able to look at Medusa without needing to fear being turned to stone. Then, maybe, she will see me the way human beings do not.