#drawing luffy without his scar feels odd | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

n3on-graveston3s-calling · 5 months

Text

Hand.

Word Count: 800

Characters: Shanks, Benn

Warnings: Brief talking of phantom limb syndrome.

Author's Notes: @/huyandere posted This Amazing Art earlier and it gave me brain worms about Shanks and his arm. Thanks. <3

Shanks lost his dominant hand.

That’s the first thing that he has to come to terms with, really. That he did, indeed, lose his dominant hand. Arm, really- not just the hand. The Neptunian did a number on him, but then again, he’s lucky, isn’t he? To have just lost the arm, not the side of his torso, nor the child who he had foolishly protected because for one reason or another, he liked Luffy. This scrappy, chaotic child who had survived so much already, who he saw so much promise in even if it scared him half to death to imagine him on the seas one day.

He lost his dominant arm.

The healing process was difficult. Hell, having a limb suddenly amputated wasn’t something you did every day, after all. The poor village doctor nearly had a damn heart attack looking at his arm. Benn had cried- shed actual tears over his arm in private, holding him close to his chest, whispering about how he’d failed him as a first mate.

(He hadn’t failed. Shanks just acted without thinking. That was his fault; he had always been a touch too impulsive, even as a kid).

So he’d lost his arm.

It took months of healing before even thinking about leaving. An open wound like that on the sea was simply asking for gangrene to set in, or for the flesh to grow infected with Gods know what, for him to take ill suddenly and oh, Gods, he couldn’t imagine how bad that could be! He loved his former captain, but he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps of getting sick.

He had to learn how to use his right arm.

His sword had been a custom, made for him to wield it left-handed. Gryphon was the blade’s name. A strong saber, custom made to have a longer than average blade length to it. Green hilt; beige guard. The weight was off for his right arm, he was sloppy with the way he waved it about. For a while, he thought that he was simply doomed to never wield a sword again.

(He couldn’t fight Mihawk like this, couldn’t even think about looking him in the eyes after this accident. How could he take him, now? Not one handed, not like this.)

Practice. Stamina training. Relearning how to draw his blade without cutting into his own hip. (And oh, the scars that lay on his right hip now from countless injuries done by practicing with Gryphon rather than a wooden blade at first, like an idiot.) It took well into a year before he was able to keep his balance again. Able to walk across the ship while waves rocked against the hull and not tip himself over with his inability to hold himself up.

The worst part was the phantom pains. Not the training- no, Benn and Yasopp kept him on his toes with their training. Soon enough, they were working together once more without issue. The phantom pains are what kept him awake in the night, biting down on his hand or his pillow to muffle the sobs of pain that tore from his throat. It burned, it ached. He could still feel his arm. He could still feel it reaching out. Could swear it was touching his blankets- but no, it wasn’t there. It isn’t there. It will never be there again.

He had to relearn how to write.

He’d had remarkable penmanship prior to this, something that Rayleigh had forced both himself and Buggy to learn. Something about a good pirate had good penmanship? He wasn’t sure; Roger was never bothered with it, his own writing had been chicken scratch. But he had good handwriting.

Not anymore.

Looking at the parchment, he felt a wave of anger crash over him. He almost- almost- swept the contents of his desk to the floor before he caught himself. No use in that, really. Ink was expensive. Parchment- good parchment at that- even more so. So, he sat down, and started once again. A, B, C, D- the entire alphabet. His hand shook as he held the quill; it ached in his fingers, this odd form of writing. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it- he would do it, Benn reminded him, leaning his hip against his desk. He would do it, because he needed to. He would do it, because he wanted to. He would do it.

He did.

The first letter was wobbly written, looking more apt for a ten year old rather than a man who had just turned thirty-two. The lines weren’t straight, the script tilting down towards the right side of the paper despite his best efforts.

“Dear Buggy,

ㅤ⠀I am writing to you

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀once again.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀Hope this letter

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀Finds you well…”

#one piece #red haired shanks #akagami no shanks #buggy the clown #benn beckman #shuggy #listen Benn makes like two appearances okay #but also their shuggy art gives me fucking life and I adore it so much & their art style #I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND PEOPLE WRIITNG FICS BASED ON YOUR ART AAAAAAAAAA-

54 notes · View notes

thelastburaiha · 6 months

Text

My heart leaps as I feel his breath there.

One Piece AU | Tralfagar Law x Luffy

“Your enchantments last long after your song fades.

Trafalgar Law is a successful young marine biologist who, together with his research unit, sails the seas in a yellow submarine. After a malfunction, the submarine needs to be repaired in a small harbour where the myths of mermaids remain strong and deep.

In the middle of his investigation along the "Grand Line" measuring the salinity of the water and collecting small samples, a magical encounter arises between him and what he always thought was a fantasy.

A curious young merman with a huge smile, red scales and a straw hat tied to his neck, found him in the sunset among the rock formations of the bay collecting samples.

This merman will follow him while his research is halted due to repairs on his submarine that mysteriously do not progress while the singing in the black water lulls the young tattooed doctor into lucid dreams of a naked black-haired boy with a scar under his left eye.

Between these dreams of the boy and his encounter with the dweller of the Deep, the Captain of the "Polar Tang" has stopped his voyage without revealing anything to his crew but hoping to unravel or at least resolve the longings of the past that have sunk into his chest.

The siren does not speak, but smiles at him, plays and makes a dolphin-like sound while they seeks to get closer to the men while his tail still touching the water. At night the boy in his dreams asks him about the things he found during the day and of which he had a record in his logbook. The mysterious boy seems to know more than he does about what dwells on the seabed. He snoops through his papers, sees his drawings, and in some cases gives him precise details of which only he and his "unwanted" company know, as he has started to narrate to the mermaid his discoverings In search of feeling less lonely on their "walks” along the beach.

Somehow Law has the feeling that the boy of his dreams and the mermaid are the same person who against all odds or inclemency has chosen him as his home and the sunset on the beach likewise the company at night are the only ways they can "live together" until he figures out how to make this son of the ocean break the chains that bind him to the salty waters.

At first he thought of using it as an object of study, a revolutionary discovery for his already successful and rising career in the field of marine research. But slowly, the newt's innocence and warm gentleness made him soften and want to protect his evenings sharing the golden hour on the sandy beach.

As the weeks go by, the crew of the "Polar Tang" begin to worry about the lack of interest in their captain returning the submarine to the seabed. Seeing it immersed in his "research" as it does not comment on anything, the hours he spends outside are longer and longer, carrying with him more than two portions of lunch and snacks instead of his instruments or diving equipment. This arouses the suspicions of all the crew, for when they return, night has fallen, and Captain Law is up to his waist in seawater and wants to bathe and sleep without complaints or comments on how the submarine keeps failing safety tests to set sail again.

#lawlu #one peice #one piece au #trafalgar law #monkey d. luffy #traffy #fanfic #fantasy au

19 notes · View notes

naviculariis · 20 days

Text

ㅤ⠀Shanks lost his dominant hand.

ㅤ⠀That’s the first thing that he has to come to terms with, really. That he did, indeed, lose his dominant hand. Arm, really- not just the hand. The Neptunian did a number on him, but then again, he’s lucky, isn’t he? To have just lost the arm, not the side of his torso, nor the child who he had foolishly protected because for one reason or another, he liked Luffy. This scrappy, chaotic child who had survived so much already, who he saw so much promise in even if it scared him half to death to imagine him on the seas one day.

ㅤ⠀He lost his dominant arm.

ㅤ⠀The healing process was difficult. Hell, having a limb suddenly amputated wasn’t something you did every day, after all. The poor village doctor nearly had a damn heart attack looking at his arm. Benn had cried- shed actual tears over his arm in private, holding him close to his chest, whispering about how he’d failed him as a first mate.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀(He hadn’t failed. Shanks just acted without thinking. That was his fault; he had always been a touch too impulsive, even as a kid).

ㅤ⠀So he’d lost his arm.

ㅤ⠀It took months of healing before even thinking about leaving. An open wound like that on the sea was simply asking for gangrene to set in, or for the flesh to grow infected with Gods know what, for him to take ill suddenly and oh, Gods, he couldn’t imagine how bad that could be! He loved his former captain, but he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps of getting sick.

ㅤ⠀He had to learn how to use his right arm.

ㅤ⠀His sword had been a custom, made for him to wield it left-handed. Gryphon was the blade’s name. A strong saber, custom made to have a longer than average blade length to it. Green hilt; beige guard. The weight was off for his right arm, he was sloppy with the way he waved it about. For a while, he thought that he was simply doomed to never wield a sword again.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀(He couldn’t fight Mihawk like this, couldn’t even think about looking him in the eyes after this accident. How could he take him, now? Not one handed, not like this. He feels a hot burst of shame any time he thinks of facing his dear old lo-)

ㅤ⠀Practice. Stamina training. Relearning how to draw his blade without cutting into his own hip. (And oh, the scars that lay on his right hip now from countless injuries done by practicing with Gryphon rather than a wooden blade at first, like an idiot.) It took well into a year before he was able to keep his balance again. Able to walk across the ship while waves rocked against the hull and not tip himself over with his inability to hold himself up.

ㅤ⠀The worst part was the phantom pains. Not the training- no, Benn and Yasopp kept him on his toes with their training. Soon enough, they were working together once more without issue. The phantom pains are what kept him awake in the night, biting down on his hand or his pillow to muffle the sobs of pain that tore from his throat. It burned, it ached. He could still feel his arm. He could still feel it reaching out. Could swear it was touching his blankets- but no, it wasn’t there. It isn’t there. It will never be there again.

ㅤ⠀He had to relearn how to write.

ㅤ⠀He’d had remarkable penmanship prior to this, something that Rayleigh had forced both himself and Buggy to learn. Something about a good pirate had good penmanship? He wasn’t sure; Roger was never bothered with it, his own writing had been chicken scratch. But he had good handwriting.

ㅤ⠀Not anymore.

ㅤ⠀Looking at the parchment, he felt a wave of anger crash over him. He almost- almost- swept the contents of his desk to the floor before he caught himself. No use in that, really. Ink was expensive. Parchment- good parchment at that- even moreso. So, he sat down, and started once again. A, B, C, D- the entire alphabet. His hand shook as he held the quill; it ached in his fingers, this odd form of writing. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it- he would do it, Benn reminded him, leaning his hip against his desk. He would do it, because he needed to. He would do it, because he wanted to. He would do it.

ㅤ⠀He did.

ㅤ⠀The first letter was wobbly written, looking more apt for a ten year old rather than a man who had just turned thirty-two. The lines weren’t straight, the script tilting down towards the right side of the paper despite his best efforts.

ㅤ⠀“Dear Buggy,

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀I am writing to you

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀once again.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀Hope this letter finds you well…”

#𝕮𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓'𝖘 𝕷𝖔𝖌: [ FICS ]#𝕺𝖋 𝖗𝖚𝖇𝖎𝖊𝖘 & 𝖌𝖔𝖑𝖉: [ akagami no shanks ]#𝕬 𝕯𝖗𝖔𝖕 𝖔𝖋 𝕹𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓'𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉: [ Red Hair Pirates ]

8 notes · View notes

whirlybirdwhat · 4 years

Text

Sea of Monsters - Chapter 14

Wow aren’t you guys lucky. Two chapters in Two days!!!

Warnings - The following chapter relates to Marineford. Take caution if need be.

“Garp’s no angel, despite the wings adorning his back and horns atop his head. He cannot do anything - not in the face of Justice.”

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and authors notes! Gen, creepy, featuring all of the Straw Hats, multi-chapter story. (Tag “Ficart” on my blog should also show some fan art for this fic!)

“The East Blue has a different nickname to those in the Grand Line, and those who hail it as home have a few… unique traits.”

Justice - Garp

In the South Blue there is a religion from before the Void Century, that speaks of beings they call ‘angels,’ with beautiful faces and soft, feathered wings. Their faces are sweet, their hands kind, and some scholars on the Grand Line think the religion derived from Sky Island visitors.

In the East Blue, the South Blue’s neighbors across the Grand Line, people (demons) know better.

Angels - the South Blue speaks in hymns, Guardians of Light, Guardians of Gold, Guardians of Souls, Their faces are held high, Guardians of Justice, Please heed our call.

Angels – they say, ignoring the first images in their holy books, images of unholy beast with wheels of fire along their limbs and hands and million black eyes, Pure Beings – pray to them!

Angels, they say, drawing them, unaware of the East Blue’s truth, Righteous, ethereal, with a single pair of eyes.

Garp has never guarded anything well but his job. He has not bent to anyone’s pleas of help, or assisted in a righteous miracle.

He has simply been (Justice.)

(The East Blue knows that winged visitors did not come from the sky but from the darkest heart of the sea.)

To look at him, with the Veil across your eyes, you would see an old but muscled man, gray haired and wild eyed. He would have a laughing grin with perhaps some crumbs in his beard, and a scar across the left side of his face.

A Vice Admiral.

A man with power, but a man all the same.

To look at him without the veil, your eyes might bleed from your head in melted terror, viscous and bloody, mixing with the tears of fear also running down your face.

To take away the Veil is to see bones crackle and shift in a body containing a beast, to see wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades, with feathers sharp and deadly to those he wants to cut. To see horns curled and deadly and colossal atop his head and eyes running along every limb in every space. To see feathers, shift into fur and fire along his back, and terror in every ounce of his being.

If the South Blue could see him, Garp would think they would call him a fallen angel.

His people (The East, the Children of Ocean and the Darkest Blood, religions are so messy when true monsters walk amongst the line between mortal and demonic – between human and hell) call him the King of Beasts.

(Roger, after he earned the title the burning crown above his head indicated, would tease him and call him ‘my fellow majesty’)

(Garp would always attempt to punch him after that.)

Now, he calls himself a failure, a disgrace, as he sits and prepares to watch his grandson die, hoping beyond all hope that his other grandson would save him.

(Oh? Did you think Justice (the angel) was blind, indifferent to the plights and pleads of every soul around her, indifferent to suffering and death and loss?

Or do you think Justice is multi-eyed and weeping, tears at every atrocity she sees as she sits on her knees by the master who calls her, calling his war justice and the death of millions justice

Do you think Justice is a slave to whoever calls her name, forced to be the face of death and despair?

Do you think?

Garp does not think this.

Garp knows this.

Garp knows this because he is Justice, wears it on his back proudly without fail, wears it as his wings are clipped and his many eyes sealed shut because the tears that blurred them stopped him from carrying out the Navy’s (Justice’s) orders.

He is Justice and he is chained to a master he no longer wants, forced to watch a second grandson die and the third near kill himself for nothing.

Justice is not blind - he has a thousand eyes all trained on what he sees, his hands bound by duty to shape the world to those above him.

Justice weeps.)

Upon the platform, Garp stretches a wing that only three present can see over his grandson, the only form of comfort he will let himself have. Ace, eyes watery and wet trails along his cheek (does he know that his tears glow like molten lava?) glances at him.

“Old Man.” Ace grunts, the words sliding past a fang lined mouth.

“Brat.” Garp says, remembering the first time he held his grandson, how his skin was the color of charcoal, how even without the power of his devil fruit he burned with a light no one good put out, how the marks on his back never grew into the wings they thought they would (but that’s okay, because the mark that makes Ace happy is there instead) how the babe had curled a finger and near burned his hand off.

Sengoku watches from the side, unable to see past the Veil but conscious that something not quite there is occurring before his very eyes.

Garp’s 156th eye, located on the back of his head, gives the Fleet Admiral a glare. Garp likes to think Sengoku can feel it.

“I didn’t want this for you, or your brother.” He didn’t want it for Sabo either.

(Death takes and the South Blue says angels can stop it.

Garp hasn’t been able to stop it.)

(Luffy isn’t an angel.)

“I know, Gramps.” There’s something wretched and vulnerable in Ace’s voice, something Garp hasn’t seen before in his eldest grandson since… since ever really.

Garp’s never been one for words, but he hopes the weight of his wing, warm and soft over his grandson, like the guardian he never was, says I love you clear enough.

By Ace’s sobs, it does.

War is hell, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.

Garp sees his grandson charging toward him, form shifting and mouth bloody, body crooked in a way it hadn’t been for years, and Garp cries.

He watches from the platform as Luffy gets beaten again and again and again, despite the fact that he’s not really quite there, his body dripping in shadow and blood.His grandson is outmatched and starving, eyes alight with some odd inner fire, and that unholy crown above his head is flickering.

Garp lets Luffy punch him.

Luffy’s not crying.

(The King of Beasts had chosen.

And he had chosen wrong.)

(Justice has been chained for far too long)

Garp’s too far away to hear Ace’s last words as he dies, but he can hear Luffy’s scream crystal clear.

(Ace (his grandson is dead.)

Its like a wild animal, horrid and feral and desperate, full of such an overwhelming loss it’s hard to comprehend.

(Garp can.

He knows his grandson.

(It’d rather die than be alone.))

Luffy’s lost, people are screaming, and there are shadows swamping Luffy oh hell can’t anyone save his grandson from himself please-

(The fire above Luffy’s head is gone.)

Four weeks later finds Garp talking with the witch of the mountain outside her hut. There are bones on the ground and alcohol pouring down the witch’s mouth like water.

If one looks closely, one can see little black marks on the wall, the height of a child, a toddler learning how to walk. There are bite marks in the wood, the shape of a human mouth with far too many teeth, and little burns spread throughout the rest of the clearing, the kind coming from something not quite fire but far too hot all the same.

Dadan is the first to speak.

“Ace learned to walk here. Didn’t find out til two weeks later when he walked right up and stole the meat stick from Magra.”

“Heh. Sounds like Ace alright.”

“He was never quite as bad as Luffy though. At least the blond brat had manners.”

They don’t comment on how their voices crack over Ace’s name.

Instead, they lapse back into silence, waiting as the air grows heavy and the night grows dark. The bones on the ground gleam a ghastly white, and the single candle Dadan has lit in the middle is warming only to the witch and the beast.

A beast howls in the distance and the shadows shift, reaching and pulling at any light they can find.

Dadan pops the cork off the bottle to her left and pours sake, blood, and saltwater onto the bones.

(Its tears or water on their cheeks – either way its saltwater.)

The bones erupt in fire.

(Like all things in the East, it consumes. Consumes light, consumes visitors, consumes hell itself. The waters have raged since the death of Ace, and something not quite safe lurks above the East Sea, as if the demons of hell have recognized that Ace (Son of the King) is dead.

Ace never had a crown of fire floating above his head, but the self-made funeral pyre glowed brighter than the hellfire of his father’s body.)

“Rest in peace, Ace.”

(The beasts of the island are still tonight as the King of Beasts mourns for what he could not guard.)

(Oh – what a failure of an angel you are Garp (you were never one to begin with), what a failure of a grandfather, what a mockery of justice you are.)

Garp retires, but Justice still weeps.

(Her children are dead.)

13 notes · View notes

trellwords · 5 years

Text

fic scrap, (law/luffy), law & monet, ~1000 words; in which monet discovers law’s drawings, including one of luffy.

She’s never considered the fact that Law might care to draw something other than the anatomical, never imagined him as the type to record anything he didn’t strictly need. Discovering this part of him makes a fond delight unfurl in her chest, and she turns the next leaf far more carefully, a smile tugging at her mouth.

—

Drawings cover this journal’s pages—anatomical studies of countless internals, some human, others from an array of other creatures that Law has turned inside out. Distracted from her search, Monet flips through it, drawn in by the detail of each reconstruction and accompanying diagram: here a dissected bat, here a pig’s heart—annotated so illegibly that she’s certain he must have been terribly excited—here six consecutive pages depicting slices of a seabird’s brain, each piece within meticulously labeled. The margin of the last page bears a scribbled-out note followed by three question marks and a rude word, which makes her laugh, picturing his mood.

She turns another page, and blinks down at the journal in surprise. Not all of his drawings, it seems, are so clinical: Bepo and a massive albatross balancing on the bowsprit jostle side-by-side with another gruesome diagram on the next page, so closely-fit that the words possible new parasite cut across Bepo’s ear.

Candid sketches of the crew riddle the pages that follow, interspersed with more of his dissections. Nearly every member aboard during the period of time marked on the journal makes an appearance: she counts at least a dozen different drawings of Bepo, equally many of Jean Bart, a handful of most of the others. Many of the drawings seem only half-finished, just enough there to give the recognizable hint of form; others are more complete, but still in a loose hand that’s nothing at all like the grueling detail of his scientific illustrations. It’s clear that each drawing was quick, only a few harsh strokes set down to give shape to something that caught his eye, and she is struck, paging through them, by how much he’s managed to convey with so little.

How clearly you see us, after all. And she dwells, for a moment, on the confounding fact of never having caught him in the act, in all of two years at his side: but of course, she’s always assumed him too pragmatic, and it’s clear these weren’t meant to be shared.

They weren’t hidden, either, she tells herself, and hopes that means that he won’t mind.

A folded scrap of paper is stuck into the binding between the next two pages, and she takes it thoughtlessly out, turns it over in her hands.

Unfolds it, and feels her heart skip in her chest.

The drawing inside is all soft, hesitant lines, and more detailed by far than the others. As though there had been a long period of time in which the subject wasn’t looking, and the artist’s hand had feared making a single erroneous mark—as though Law had held his breath, and looked and drawn with caution beyond telling.

Monet could have guessed the identity of the young man in the portrait based on that alone. Would have known his name even if it weren’t such a perfect, glowing likeness, and it is—his scar, his smile, his expression as he gazes out at some far-distant horizon, all are faithfully rendered in Law’s hand. His straw hat casts a shadow over his face, sun-spotted across freckles, and he is—

—so damningly, achingly beautiful, seen through Law’s eyes—

—so much so that Monet’s heart twists painfully in her chest, and she nearly drops the scrap in her haste to fold it and put it back where it had been. That, she suspects, she had not been meant to see; swallows, and flips the page quickly, as though moving on at once might make up for having looked.

And stops, motionless-stunned.

Her own face looks back out at her from the next page—both pages, a dozen different sketches all tucked carelessly next to each other, all moments that she hadn’t known for captured. In one she curls her hair around her hand, leaning over a book; in another, looks to the side, laughing at something someone else has said. A third, in striking perspective, shows her high up on the foremast, wings and talons outlined against the rigging. Still another he must have drawn while she sat on the edge of the bed, graphite lines tracing the bare curve of her back.

The vision of her spread across the pages is like nothing she’s ever seen in the mirror, like nothing she’s ever imagined herself to be. That he sees her, that he sees her like this, it’s enough to make her head spin, even standing motionless over the desk.

Behind her, Law’s voice says from the doorway: “Did you find it?”

She jumps—whirls, clutching the journal open against her chest with both hands. For an instant she’s irrationally terrified that he’ll snatch it away, not wanting her to see. “No, I—I found—”

“Ah,” says Law, his gaze landing on the cover. “That.” He trudges across the room to stand beside her, picks a bound tome out of the pile to start flipping through in search of the same ship’s log she’d originally been seeking. He doesn’t look over at her. “It’s nothing. Idle hands.”

“Idle hands!” She’s appalled by this low valuation. “You drew—all of us. You drew me.”

She sees his fractional pause at that, half a moment’s hesitation before he picks up a different ledger from the pile. “I’d hoped you hadn’t gotten to that part.”

“They’re beautiful. You made me—” and she sets down the journal, still open to those impossible pages, to his vision of her, “you made me beautiful.” And she is breathless, still, her voice caught. “Is this really how you see me?”

He gives her an odd look, pausing with his hand between the pages of the ledger. “They’re not products of the imagination.”

Which is—so much—that it takes several seconds before she can find her tongue again. Thinks: For someone without an ounce of romance in their entire body, you sure know how to take a girl’s breath away.

“You say they’re nothing,” she says, “but you kept them. Was it just for the diagrams, really?”

Law doesn’t pause, this time. “Not everyone in there is around anymore.”

#trafalgar law #harpy monet #lawlu #one piece #i can't finish this because i can't SEE TEXT #or READ #my left eye is so messed up and not expected to get better for some time i'm in vision jail #fic

43 notes · View notes