#You are Already Dead: The Creature

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

for the title of Worst Gryphon i submit to you: pericles. african grey and black-footed cat. how to make god abandon a timeline out of pure fear

[starry-bi-sky]

im having normal CFAu thoughts. naturally.

I had the very vivid image of Jason asking Danny to turn human while they’re laying in the grass beside Danny’s observatory in GZ, and then Jason sticking his hand through Danny’s chest so he can physically feel his heartbeat

Jason and Danny would have Perfectly Normal and Sane Thoughts about this. of course.

[psyscha]

Part 2 of my LBM Jason piece, where complex feelings are had.

Part 1

The fic!

[fisheito]

what sort of twisted powerplay is this

[martincrushcameback]

What if they got to be a toxic couple before TSFTSR huh what then he really deserves better she's such trouble and he's actually a good guy

But like what if someone mourned for her.... and what if it was him.... what if I was mean and broke his heart and you all thought it was silly because they're both my OCs and she's a real bitch but what if he didn't know that, guys. What if he never saw that unhinged side of her?

[headfullof-ideas]

HELP I JUST CAME UP WITH ANOTHER ANT!ANGST PROMPT-

[rackartyg]

in therapy today i just talked about the dark urge and astarion and my therapist was elated about it. it was fantastic. “wow you’ve really been using this story and those characters to process things. that’s amazing!”

the era of being ashamed of my interests is over. it’s apparently Cool and Healthy to use fiction to cope. i wish i could tell fifteen year old me about this it would blow her mind

[lovelikeafuneral]

what do you mean the focus of guillermo del toro’s frankenstein isn’t on the relationship between victor frankenstein and the creature 🫥

[graphicpolicy]

Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week!

Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week! 12 comics to check out this week! #comics #comicbooks #manga #graphicnovel

Wednesdays (and Tuesdays) are new comic book day! Each week hundreds of comics are released, and that can be pretty daunting to go over and choose what to buy. That’s where we come in Each week our contributors choose what they can’t wait to read this week or just sounds interesting. In other words, this is what we’re looking forward to and think you should be taking a look at! Find out what…

[finnbin]

he's trying his best...!

Post Revival: Questions

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[zombiekittypets]

the only reason why i think there should be more official gravity falls stuff is because i need to know if my extreme distrust against the axolotl is unfounded there's NO way that dude is actually doing something good, even if the intentions are good

[hecticelectron]

Hi, this is a big post about my new TTRPG, Defy the Gods, which recently had a hugely successful Kickstarter! It’s a queer sword & sorcery adventure-romance set in fantasy ancient Mesopotamia. It’s inspired by Conan, Clash of the Titans (1981!) and Princess Mononoke.

Art by Thalie Shelen! @thalieshelen

(Btw hi I'm Chrys, a queer, trans game designer in Columbus, Ohio. This will be my second published game. The first was a furry pack of nonsense called Raccoon Sky Pirates.)

Defy the Gods is sword & sorcery as a story game. My favorite PbtA games emulate specific stories and lead you to resonant emotional moments like you find in those stories. Here, I used PbtA to emulate sword & sorcery, with an emphasis on the romantic moments—but also plenty of metal 🤘. You use the flirtation mechanics (taken from Thirsty Sword Lesbians) to tempt, support, or thwart others. But then, you can roll too high (taken from Apocalypse Keys), where you get more than you bargained for. Like Conan running out of the Tower of the Elephant while it crumbles around him.

Also like Conan, you have a glorious destiny, but in this case it ain’t good. Rising to your most powerful self makes you monstrous, heralding your character’s end as a hero and their beginning as an NPC antagonist.

It’s a queer game. You can fall in love with anyone, or make them fall in love with you. But because the game is also about power, the gods and tyrants wait to stomp on you if your enticement falls flat. Like if you flirt with someone in the wrong neighborhood. Every character has their own arc, and one of the things I had the most fun with was making those feel like queer problems as well as ancient-world sword & sorcery problems.

Play a fierce Sword, chaos-loving Sorcerer, fugitive Revenant, mischievous Sailor, immortal-sworn Vessel, or wild-raised Wolfling. (All character portraits by Thalie Shelen @thalieshelen)

The Sword is big-hearted and violent. You have a move that lets you kill any human-sized mortal NPC within arm’s reach, without rolling, if you’re not already in combat. This always causes more problems than it solves.

While most players roll just 2d6 & add their stat, the Sorcerer casts spells by rolling a lot of dice & looking for patterns in them. If you can’t find any patterns, your sorcery runs amok. This chaos is kind of lovely. For instance, you're always changing your body—sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. But always gorgeous.

The Revenant is like Inanna, or if Eurydice made it out. They escaped the land of the dead. They aren’t who they were in their past life, nor who they were as a shade. They're still figuring out who they are now. Demons pursue them to claw them back to the Underworld.

The Sailor can call on a cast of past friends and lovers for help. They always have a plan, and an eye for the exit. One of their moves lets you fill in the map of the otherwise unknown world.

The Vessel is in love with a minor god. They channel their patron’s power by wounding themself, but their patron can also soothe their pain.

The Wolfling was raised by animals in the Wilds and is curious about the humans, but they belong in neither world. They're definitely the part most directly inspired by Princess Mononoke.

The World Forces are the antagonist. You build them at the table, in quick rounds of pick lists. They are:

The Pantheon: gods, goddesses, and demons. They make the rules, but maybe you can break them.

The City: tyrants, the wealthy, and others with the gods' blessing. They push you to the margins, but you can fight to be seen.

The Wilds: gigantic creatures and their trackless wilderness home. It's place of danger and new rules, but you'll probably break them.

The Shadow of Atlantis: long-gone elders. They dared to scorn the gods, and the Pantheon destroyed them for it, but through you they may live again.

Death: a hungry, totalitarian force. Its underground domain is the end for all mortals and the mockery of hope. But maybe you can return.

Art by Shan Bennion! @anonbeadraws

This was an intensely personal project, but it was too big for me to do by myself. Here are all the people who helped make it a reality:

Avery Alder: Design advisor

Basheer Ghouse: @basheerghouse Cultural consultant

Cat Tobin: Horizons Mentor https://www.pelgranepress.com

Cris Viana: Graphic designer & layout artist

Ezra Rose: Interior art

Kanesha Bryant: Interior art

Katrin Dirim: Interior art

Jaqueline Florencio: Cover art

Lyla Fujiwara: Developmental editor https://www.jarofeyes.com

Mary Verhoeven: Interior art

Omar Ramadan-Santiago: Cultural consultant

Rae Nedjadi: Developmental editor https://temporalhiccup.itch.io

Rue Dickey: @ilananight Copy editor

Sean D’souza: World-builder & writer https://linktr.ee/seandsouzax

Shan Bennion: Interior art

Thalie Shelen: Interior art

(art by Shan again! @anonbeadraws)

Thanks for reading! Preorder the book here!

[camslut7]

Dad!Sukuna

honestly i am obsessed with dad!sukuna fics so i wrote some head canons

hope you like it

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE

pt.2

—————————————————————————————————————

dad!sukuna that knew that so much unprotected sex would eventually lead to you being pregnant. not that he was complaining. he was absolutely trilled about you carrying his child. at first sukuna was pretty calm about you being pregnant but the moment your belly started showing he was done for. did every little thing for you, even carrying you around (i mean he literally has four arms might as well use them)

dad!sukuna that we all knew was hoping for a boy. i mean he wanted an heir. so you were kinda scared to tell him when you found out that you were having a girl, not knowing what he would think. when you told him, at first he didn’t react like at all, but that viscous smile of his showed up. he was so happy about the little girl, even if she wasn’t exactly what he wanted, he would still love her. after all she was his and your’s baby.

dad!sukuna that was worried about you during birth. he hated seeing you cry, even more seeing you in pain. but the moment he saw the little girl in your arms he forgot all about that. he fell in love.

dad!sukuna who was the happiest curse? alive ever when his little girl opened her first set of eyes, them being the exact same as his. she was the carbon copy of him. god she even had his pink hair and she just got born.

dad!sukuna that was confused at first about how and what he was supposed to do with a baby. he thought he could hold her how ever he wanted, thank god you taught him how to. he quickly learned that you need to be very gentle with babies or else they will cry (he sure as hell didn’t want that).

dad!sukuna that didn’t know how to play with his 5 month daughter so he was showing her his four arms and eyes hoping that she will also open her second set of eyes. instead tho she was laughing her baby ass off thinking that her father was the funniest creature ever.

dad!sukuna that didn’t know how to react when his daughter, peacefully laying on his stomach, turned to him while making random noises. he was confused as hell cuz she was full on dead stare looking at him (he was scared from the resemblance between the two). he saw the lashes on her lower set of eyes flutter and then suddenly she opened them. his face was one of pure surprise and as if she didn’t shock him enough already, she even said her first word “da-da”.

let’s just say that dad!sukuna was flabbergasted

[ilium-ilia]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter One: fall

tw: historical au, not specified ancient greece/rome aesthetics, violence, threats of rape, murder, ancient forms of torture/execution

There are whispers in the wind. 

It arrives as a susurrus so faint that it nearly slips between your fingers like ocean water, leaving behind nothing but grains of sand for you to read. A vague redolence of smoke wafts on the early morning air where it burns your nostrils as you walk to fetch water, yet when you turn to face the sky you’re met with nothing but the same pale blue as you always are. It hangs high above you as you lower a wooden bucket into a well to fill your pitcher until it nearly overflows. It sloshes on your feet, but you can’t feel the discomfort over the sound of the gale swirling by your ears. 

You’re not sure what the whispers say, you only know how it makes you feel. It leaves you with singing blood and twitching fingers. Something roars in the distance—it bellows loud enough to shake the earth like a mighty lion, forcing your bones to rattle with it. There’s something vaguely familiar about their words. Terribly sagacious, they know more than anyone living ever could, and though you have always been a good listener, their omen is something you simply can’t translate. 

So you continue with your morning chores. Bare feet against smooth stone, you travel back to the palace with your arms occupied with your water pitcher while you focus on not tripping on your oversized chiton. Still shaking the fatigue from their bones, the other servants move lazily throughout the halls. Their eyes blink heavily, and their mouths open wide with yawns, but they still have the capacity to send grievous glares your way. Narrowed eyes and sly smirks, they ask you how your morning is. 

You cannot answer. 

But you are not petulant. There are no words left for you to speak, and even if there were, it would have no effect on your status. On the fact that you are a terrible creature—something meant to only be regarded with distaste. Your head stays high as you traverse through pale, cavernous hallways until you arrive at the chambers that house your emperor and lord. 

His name is Herschel Shepherd and he sits at the edge of his bed waiting for you with sizzling patience. Half clothed and greying, he is not as virile as he used to be when you were a child. Soft around the edges, he stares at you with pale eyes while awaiting your services. You utter no greeting as you retrieve a small bronze water basin from beneath a mirror on the far side of the room—a thick bristle brush already sits in the bowl waiting for you. Emperor Shepherd says nothing as you place both the pitcher and bowl at his feet before kneeling in front of him. 

He sighs. “Well. Go on, then.” 

You fill the bowl with water from your pitcher, and then swirl the brush through the liquid before beginning to clean your emperor’s feet. This action has long since lost its humiliating connotation for you. When you were younger, the action left you feeling soiled, just as intented. Now, it is simply a chore; taking care of this man who can hardly bother to look at you with disdain anymore. Scrubbing his heels, rinsing his toes—nothing but a simple assignment. 

You’re halfway through washing his left foot when he speaks again. “I’ll be dead by the end of the night.” 

Pausing, you look up at your emperor with questioning eyes. There’s no bemusement to be found in his features; in fact, there’s nothing at all. Just those same stoic eyes that seem to stare right through you. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” he humors blandly. “You’re mute, not deaf. I know you’ve heard the whispering and seen the wounded. I know you’ve heard that Emperor Price and his barbarians are closing in on the city, breathing down our goddamn necks for the last few months trying to suffocate us. I’ve seen you lingering where you shouldn’t be. I’d punish you for it if I was worried you’d go blabbering about it. Well, they’re here. We’re on our last breath of air.” 

A wicked callosity quickly seeps into the pores of your skin as you stiffly return to your task. You’re not sure what to make of his words. This promise of destruction—of his death. A part of you wouldn’t care if this empire burned to a crisp with nothing but the memory of bones to whisper about its existence. Something to be studied by intellects of the far future. No one in this city has ever done you any favors. Though, you would miss your schedule, you think. Chores and all, you crave consistency. The routine. 

As you move to clean his right foot, you think you might even miss this. 

Though you would not miss him—Emperor Shepherd, so oddly named. Never has he shown the kindness and humility of someone nurturing a flock of sheep. He has only proven himself to be a butcher. No, worse than a butcher. A huntsman. Someone who slaughters and poaches just for the sake of seeing that sweet vermillion ichor. He maims. He shreds. He’s built his empire upon nothing but bone. It’s laughable to think he’s surprised that the corse is finally rotting and giving away beneath his feet. 

“Tell me, girl, do you miss your tongue?” he questions. 

You freeze. 

You were only ten years old when he ripped it from your mouth. Even after over a decade you can still remember the way the marble flooring of the throne room dug into your knees as soldiers forced you to the ground. They had killed your father first. It was said he had spread perfidious propaganda and false accusations against Emperor Shepherd. His punishment?—to be tied to a horse and dragged along the streets. Both you and your mother were made to follow behind him as the bindings dug into his wrists, skin ripping from his flesh as the unforgiving streets tore into him. People threw rocks into the street for him to be dragged over, as if the stone wasn’t punishment enough. He died before you reached the palace—he gasped his last breath just at the base of the stairs—but they refused to cut him free. They kept dragging his mangled corpse until Emperor Shepherd could see your father for himself. Nothing but a limp pile of meat. 

Next was your mother. Her punishment was worse—one that you never got to see, but you could hear plenty well. Shoved inside of a brazen bull, her screams contorted until she sounded like a dying animal as they slowly roasted her to death. Superheated bronze and charred flesh—you don’t think there was a body left to bury when they were finished. For someone they so desperately wanted to silence, the citizens reveled in her blood curdling cries until death ultimately consumed her. 

Then, there was you. A trembling child who could hardly hold back her pules, Emperor Shepherd took pity on you. At least, he claimed as much. It didn’t feel like mercy when his blade cut through the wet muscle in your mouth while tongs pierced the tip of your tongue to hold you steady. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were forever seen as an outcast and forced to work as a servant to the man who stole your autonomy. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were made to wash his feet every day as if you should have been grateful for the second chance at life—as if your life was ever his to take in the first place. 

Shaking your head, you continue to wash his feet. He chuckles at your claim. It’s dry and acidulous, just like he always is. 

“You show such intrepidness for someone so pitiable,” he huffs. Suddenly, he snatches his foot out of your hand, forcing your neck to crane to view him. He does not wait for you to dry him off before placing his soles on the stone floor. “I’ll once again take pity on you, girl. Take today as a day of rest before this city is overrun. Emperor Price trains nothing but beasts. Do yourself a favor and sacrifice yourself before dusk, lest they rape you to death or sew your skin into their clothes. Not unless you’re brave enough to face those barbarians alive. Are you, girl? Courageous enough to face those brutes?” 

Your teeth bite into the side of your cheek as you once again shake your head. 

“Didn’t think so,” he hums. “Go. Let this be my last good deed.” 

When you step foot back outside—far enough away from your emperor that you feel like you can finally breathe again—you realize the wind is still whispering. It’s louder now. What was once a gentle hiss in the air has now grown into small chatter. It chirps like a swarm of birds ready for migration; but they choke on the attar of smoke that hangs like a noose over this city. 

How arrogant of Emperor Shepherd to think he commits a good deed by allowing you one day of freedom. As if he has any other choice than to cut you loose with John Price breathing down his neck. 

The only sound strong enough to drown out the wind is the crashing waves of the ocean. 

Brackish mist kisses the heels of your feet as you sit at the edge of the escarpment, legs dangling above the void. The palace has sat upon this cliff for what’s felt like eons; as if it was created when the world was. Always high upon a precipice, always looking down on the vast city that grovels at its feet. It’s given the impression that this building is important. Towering marble columns, statues of long lost gods and goddesses with forgotten names—the palace is fit for a king, and acts as a brutal reminder that it will always remain out of reach. 

Or, that’s what it used to be seen as. Now, with you sitting behind the garden and staring out at the vast sea that crashes against the palisade below, it feels like a dead end. A terminus. Nothing but a corral to cage in the flighty livestock Shepherd has curated over his countless decades as ruler. The people feel it too. You see it in wide eyes and trembling hands; it lurks in rumbling stomachs that beg for food yet can’t seem to hold it. 

The crying starts around midday when John Price and his warlords breach the edge of the city. They come with long pikes and horses strong enough to trample stone into gravel. The army is baronial and clad in a mix of leather and bronze armor that you can see from the palace—the glint of their swords is nearly enough to drown out the sun. Every man within their ranks roars and you swear you can feel the reverberation echo in the soil. They’re nothing but brutes. Animals. Barbarians. Your emperor had said as much himself, hadn’t he? 

All defences crumble into fine dust within hours. The soldiers stationed at the city environs find themselves skewered like a hog on a spit, painting the road to the palace russet with blood and soot. They cut through the city like a hot knife through butter, rarely bothering any citizen; many of whom are locked inside of their homes as if a door would save them from an army. You watch them close in—from a distance they look like nothing but a line of ants. But those ants grow larger, and their marked prey couldn’t be anymore obvious as they slice directly towards the palace. 

Shepherd does not bother with the theatrics. There are no grand speeches or lordly actions, he does not fight alongside the men who fruitlessly attempt to protect him—he simply sits upon his throne and waits. A dead man walking, he slumps as if he’s already in decay. Pallid and thin, you hardly recognize the man who stole your tongue from you all those years ago. You suspect he’s already been dead for quite some time; marked by John Price, there’s no room left for him to run. 

When dusk hits, and the ocean mist has grown too cold for you to bear, you wander back into the marble palace while your heart is plagued with incertitude. Stepping foot into this building while an army marches towards it isn’t a good idea, but your curiosity pulls at your limbs. It whispers don’t you want to see the end? The end of this empire, the end of him? 

Your mother always said your curiosity would be the death of you someday, but the promise of satisfaction is too great for you to ignore. 

Chaos soaks every inch of the palace as servants flutter through the corridors like flighty birds from a forest fire. They’re nothing but wide eyes, quiet sobs, fists clutching valuables and loved ones—they pay you no attention. They never do, unless it is to sneer. You travel through the halls uninterrupted until you reach the throne. A lordly construct, a large chair carved out of marble sits upon a peak of stairs rising well above the floor. A dying emperor is slumped forward with dull eyes, and if he hears you enter through the side door, he does not show it. 

You hide behind a pillar, obscured by numbra and poor torch light, hands against the cold stone, gaze peering around the curve of the structure just as the main doors burst open. Without guards to protect your hunted emperor, his life is cut short, quick and easy. There is no fanfare of conversation or shouting, or anything else that the old songs would have you believe. There is only a man—John Price—and his knife in Emperor Shepherd’s stomach. 

The old man falls, frail body sliding down the stairs, hands gripping the blade in his gut and yanking it free. Ichor pours from him like the fountains in the garden and the city square. It spews like rust in the light, but he makes no effort to stunt the bleeding. Instead, he looks around, dull eyes soaking in the view of his once great empire, until his attention lands on you. Hands still against the marble, head peeking around the curve of stone—it is the first moment since the knife made its bed in his stomach that he looks upset. 

“Stupid girl!” he spits, throat closing, airway blocked by terminal secretions. “I told you to run!” 

These are the last words he speaks before a new knife runs along his throat, kissing the tender flesh, marring his vocal cords beyond recognition—then, he falls forward, face flat against the floor, his last breath left sputtering in the blood. 

Despite the body at their feet, all eyes in the room turn to you. Pathetic little thing, you can only stare back. Countless men clad in armor with swords clutched in their fists look at you with bored curiosity, but none of them strike fear into your heart quite like him. 

You recognize him instantly only due to the hushed stories you’ve heard from guardsmen. Taller than any man or beast, twice as broad as a working horse, and face obscured with a human skull—they call him Ghost. Eyes darker than the night itself pierce through you from the empty shell of the faceplate of bone as scarred lips grow tight beneath the decaying teeth. It’s held against his head with leather straps, and though it obscures his cheeks, you can still see the keloids that dance along his jaw, hairline, and chin. 

They say he’s slain a battalion by himself. That he’s moved boulders three times his own size to cut down his enemies. Conversation alone would not have you believe such claims from the mouths of garrulous soldiers, but now that you behold him yourself, you think they may have been telling the truth after all. Even his hands are large—long, thick fingers that would make quick work of your skull, squeezing it tight, popping you like a melon. 

Just as your heart leaps into the tightness of your throat, fearing the worst is about to fall upon you, you realize these men are just like everyone else—they look away from you without so much as a second thought. 

It is then that the empire that you loved—the one that never loved you back—falls. Brick by vicious brick, John Price and his Ghost dismantle the order of things until all men loyal to the deceased Emperor Shepherd are either dead, or have re-sworn their allegiance to a new host. You watch them stomp around the palace, swords heavy on their hips, gazes hard and stony as they redirect servants and bark at soldiers to do their bidding. The city transforms overnight. New flags are hung upon homes. Strange men demand order. 

But for you, nothing changes. The death of your emperor does not regrow your tongue. It does not make the other servants respect you. At the end of the day, you are still in your room—one so small it hardly houses a mattress on the stone floor, with a single small window for lighting—alone with nothing but the distant sound of the waves and new shrieking to lull you to sleep. 

And in the morning, the sun still rises. 

A blood orange hue seeps through your small crack of a window, faint smoke still lingering in the air, rusting the gold rays into something macabre. The stench of death hangs heavy over the city as you rise, peeking out into the garden. Untouched, the plants still thrive and the fountain sputters a prismatic spray of water as it always has. Birds play in the basin. Seagulls squawk in the distance. 

Since nothing else has seemed to change, you begin your day like you always do. A trip through the garden, bare feet hitting against the smoothed stone, curious eyes that flicker to you only to avoid your gaze the next moment—if it weren’t for the different uniforms covering the soldier’s bodies, you could almost be convinced as if this was just another normal day. Dip a bucket into the well. Fill your pitcher until it’s overflowing. Tread the path you always have. 

It isn’t until you reach Emperor Shepherd’s chambers that you realize something has shifted. Once pure white linens made of the finest cotton now lay strewn on the floor, marred with darkened bloodstains—red fading to hazel. Bronze and leather armor sits by the foot of the bed, laying against the wooden frame next to a sheathed short sword; the wooden handle is stained with fingerprints. In place of proper bedding, there are now animal pelts. Soft deer hide, wolf pelts, and other creatures you can’t quite name. 

When you see the hulking beast curled up beneath these trophies, you freeze. 

Laying on his side, back faced toward you with no chiton or blanket to cover the pallid skin, you blink as if that will get the figure to vanish. You tread carefully, hands clutching the pitcher so tightly the stonewear nearly shatters beneath your grip as you drink in the lines of scars that pucker on roughened skin. He glows too much to be your dethroned emperor. His skin is full of life and vigor—strength radiates from him with each rise and fall of his shoulders, breaths silent and even. 

You’re nearly at the edge of the bed now. Quiet sunlight illuminates patches of dried blood on his skin. Speckles of high impact splatters dot the side of his bicep, even going as far as to curl over his shoulder before it trails toward his spine. His calf peeks out from beneath the swathes of blankets, revealing dried mud and gore along the ridge of his foot and up his shin. He is sordid. Messy. The antithesis of Emperor Shepherd. 

Still, this act is brazen even for one of John Price’s famed barbaric men. Soiling a dead man’s bed with gore and filth, making the most intimate of spaces his own. But it isn’t until you recognize the skull face plate and leather straps sitting next to the yellowed pillows beneath the beast’s head that you realize just who lays before you. 

Ghost. 

“You’re more quiet than the others they’ve sent in the night.” He speaks like thunder. Not a crack, but a rumble. Deep in the sky, dancing between clouds, chasing the birds from their nests and people into their homes. You jump at the sharp tone to the point water sloshes out of your pitcher, running down your chiton, forcing the cotton to stick to your legs. Unable to clean yourself, you watch in horror while Ghost turns to face you, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he rises, opaque eyes piercing through you like an onyx blade. “Are your people so desperate to be rid of me that they sent a whelp like you to drown me in my sleep?” 

His face is curious, and for a moment you find yourself lost as you look at him. A deep scar carves into the prominent but crooked curve of his nose, reminding you of the cliff that looks out over the coast by the garden. Somehow, without his mask, you do not find yourself capable of being truly terrified of him. He is a man, like any other. The same breed that stole your tongue and your parents—there is not much left to be taken from you. 

“Well?” Ghost stands. Blankets and animal pelts slide off of him, revealing his naked body, but you’re too entranced by his eyes to look anywhere else. He stalks forward, forcing you to take a step back as you shake your head. “No? Then what’re you here for?”

You swallow, thick and clumpy, saliva like sand turning to mud in your mouth. With no tongue to speak with, you opt to show Ghost instead. Gingerly, you retrieve the water basin and bristle brush that you always used when washing Emperor Shepherd. He watches you, eyes glinting with enough curiosity to allow him to hold back his clenching fists as you pour your pitcher into the basin. Then, you carry it. It settles by his feet with a dull thud as you kneel, sitting on your haunches, heels digging into your rump as you wet the brush.

You look up at him, uncomfortably aware of the heavy cock hanging between his legs as he stares down at you. Fables have told you of the way men ravage women in war. How spearing men isn’t enough for them, that they desire the blood that drips between trembling legs after they’ve been torn apart with a meaty cock. If Ghost wanted to, he could do the very same to you. You wouldn’t fight. You rarely do anymore these days. 

It has been made painfully clear to you what happens to people who fight. 

“You think I’m dirty? Is that it? Bet Shepherd told you all ‘bout us. Called us beasts. Barbarians. Do you think I’m not capable of cleanin’ myself up?” he asks. Once more, you shake your head. Scoffing, Ghost turns, attention now drawn by his own chiton laying across the foot of the mattress—he snatches it, and lazily begins to dress himself, uncaring about the gore that still stains him. “You’re quiet compared to the others. Your people like to bitch ‘n moan ‘bout everythin’ beneath the sun.”

Though he doesn’t know it, he’s talking to himself. Or rather, a wall. That’s all you are. A statue brought to life by a cruel artist—one who forgot to give you the muscle to speak. You can only continue to sit there and watch as he pulls the cotton over his body, stained cloth obscuring plush muscle and rigid scars. When he brings his attention back to you, you’re exactly where he left you; hands gripping the brush, water dripping from the bristles, eyes focused on him, soaking up his words. 

“I’ve just insulted your people. Do you still have nothing to say? Are you that pitiful?” he questions. When you shake your head again, he chuckles this time. It’s tense, like a rope pulled too tight, fraying in the center, ready to snap. “Maybe you just like hearin’ me talk.” 

Though his tone is jocular, you can hear the tremors of something different in the vibrations of his voice. He’s frustrated; or maybe curious. An accomplished warrior, he’s gotten everything he’s ever desired. The death of his enemies, valiant conquests where he can pillage anything he wishes—but he hasn’t gotten you. Your voice. Your words. 

His determination seeps from him as he paces around you, knees bumping against your back as he reaches down. A firm hand grasps your throat and then presses, forcing your head backwards, chin pointing toward the ceiling. You recall watching a servant’s throat being slit like this before—head held high, skin going tight so that it may kiss the blade properly. 

“Shame. Always love makin’ the pretty birds sing in the night. Gonna miss that ‘bout home. Now, I’m stuck ‘ere, leading the lot ‘o you. Somethin’ tells me it’s not so easy with you though, yeah? Gettin’ you to sing nice and pretty for me?” His hand wanders, palm rising from your throat up to your chin, thumb pressing against your closed lips. When you make no attempt at replying, he pushes further, the pad of his thumb hitting your teeth. There is no taste. Still, you make no sound, and he huffs; bored. “Do you truly wish to bathe me?” 

You blink, then nod as best as you can with your head knocked against his body. For a moment, you think you see him smile—or perhaps it's just the trick of the light. The odd angle your eyes are forced to view him through. Either way, he seems content with finally getting something worthwhile from you. Something besides a denial. 

“Then you’ll do it properly. None of this sponge bath bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be the barbarian. Don’t you people have a proper bath house?” When you nod again, he pulls his thumb away from your teeth, allowing your chin to drop until you’re looking back at your lap. Your hands are curled so tightly around the brush it mars your skin with indentations—the faint dreams of lacerations. “Good. Take me there. Then we’ll see to it that you sing properly f’me.”

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[arkaiveofurown]

caught in the flash

characters: sanji / ace / luffy / law

prompt: he sneaks a picture of you when you’re not looking

tag: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

ace

You were lying belly-down on the Moby Dick’s deck, doodling on a crumpled bit of parchment, humming to yourself with your legs kicking in the air like a schoolgirl. Hair a mess, tank top halfway sliding off your shoulder, not a care in the world.

“Aw, that’s kinda cute,” came Ace’s voice somewhere above your head.

You didn’t look up. “Whatever you’re about to say next, don’t.”

You heard the faintest click.

You whipped around. “Did you just—?”

“NOPE,” he said way too quickly, hands very much behind his back, grinning like a guilty five-year-old.

You sat up so fast your hair fell in your face. “Portgas D. Ace, I swear to god—”

“Look,” he said, backing up a step, “it’s not even a bad picture! You’re just all—” He waved his hands vaguely. “…You.”

“That’s not a valid description!”

“Soft. And squishy.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“I MEANT EMOTIONALLY—SHIT—”

You launched your sandal at him like a missile. “DELETE IT!”

He caught it mid-air. “Never. I’m putting it in a locket.”

“A LOCKET?!”

“Romantic, right?”

You screamed into your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he sang, skipping away, waving your sandal like a trophy. “You love me and you wanna kiss me and it’s so embarrassing for you!”

sanji

You were half-asleep on the counter, stealing bits of chocolate off a cooling tray, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, licking your fingers like it was a sacred ritual. You were too tired to care.

Click.

You didn’t even flinch. “Don’t even try it.”

Sanji froze. “…Caught red-handed?”

“Caught being a creep.”

He grinned. “I mean, can you blame me? You’re licking chocolate off your fingers like you’re in a food commercial for sinners.”

You choked on the next bite. “SANJI?!”

“I’m just saying,” he said, already opening the picture on the snail. “If that was in a magazine, I’d buy ten copies.”

“You’re so—” you groaned. “Delete it.”

“But you looked so—” he sighed dreamily. “—biteable.”

You stared. “…Sanji.”

“Not like—well, I mean. Not not like that—”

“You wanna rethink your life choices, Romeo?”

He chuckled. “Too late. I’m fully committed to this flavor of disaster.”

You sighed, face in your hands. “You’re lucky I like disasters.”

“You’re lucky I’m a chef. I can make dessert out of this.”

“STOP.”

law

You were curled up on the bench in the Polar Tang’s observation lounge, swaddled in a blanket like a sentient dumpling, watching fish float past the glass with the dead eyes of someone who hadn’t slept in two days.

Then you heard a soft click.

Your head snapped around. “…Law?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Hm?”

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Law.”

He met your gaze. Calm. Unbothered. “Yes.”

“WHY.”

“You looked like a sad sea creature.”

“THAT’S NOT A COMPLIMENT.”

“It was kind of endearing.”

You sat up in your blanket cocoon. “Delete it.”

“No.”

“Tra-guy.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Emo fish man—”

“That’s worse.”

“Give. Me. The snail.”

“Come take it.”

You launched off the couch and he teleported out of reach like the smug little warlock he is. “You’re not supposed to be fast!” you yelled.

“I’m a surgeon,” he said, already halfway down the corridor. “We’re quick with our hands.”

You short-circuited. “That sounded so much worse—”

“I know,” he called back, completely unbothered.

luffy

You were on deck in a tank top, sweat on your brow, trying to fix a snapped rope. Your leg was up on the railing for balance, arms stretched over your head, totally focused. And totally unaware of your very specific pose.

Behind you:

Click.

You flinched, nearly dropped the rope. “LUFFY?!”

He grinned wide from behind the den den mushi. “You looked cool!”

You turned around. “Delete it. Right now.”

“But your leg was up and everything,” he said, tilting his head. “You looked like you were about to fight someone or… I dunno, climb me.”

“CLIMB YOU?!”

He blinked. “Yeah! You know. Like—grabby.”

“GRABBY?!”

“Not in a bad way!” He scratched his head. “You just looked like… really strong. And bendy. Kinda hot.”

Your soul left your body. “LUFFY.”

“Huh?”

“Say that sentence again. Slowly.”

“…You looked strong. And bendy. And hot?” He said it with total innocence—and then blinked. “Wait, was that—was that one of those weird lines Sanji says that makes people choke?”

You choked. “Yes!”

“Oh. Cool!” he grinned. “Should I say more?”

“NO?!”

“Okay, okay!” He tucked the snail away. “But I’m keeping the picture. You looked like you were gonna tackle me.”

You grabbed a nearby towel to throw at him. “I WILL IF YOU DON’T DELETE IT.”

He laughed as he ran off. “Promise?!”

“LUFFY!!”