A Sparrow at Sea 4/4
MDNI
Whitebeard pirates/reader (fem? functionally gender-neutral)
I do not curate tag lists, but I reply to comments on each chapter when the next goes live.
Summary: Turned into a bird as part of a slave-smuggling operation, you get your revenge - and then your revenge gets you. Panicked and alone, you crash land on a very large, very famous ship full of very large and quite infamous men.
***Warnings: graphic violence (birds go for the eyes, kids), blood, burning, mild body horror, technically kidnapping, reasonable fear of death, crushing/suffocation, implied nudity, panic attacks
(I tried writing four one-shots for my birthday and wrote one four-shot instead.)
Master List
Ace was a fire hazard. Izou always looked like he knew too much. And Marco remained a type A(sshole).
Though you flitted from one to the other, even trying Jozu’s armored shoulder and Haruta’s puffy sleeves, you always found your way back to Thatch. Although he might be even busier than Marco, he was surprisingly chill about it all.
The ship’s kitchen filled a thousand bottomless stomachs three times a day, with a limited menu available at all hours to accommodate every shift, sleep schedule, and appetite. He always had something to do, but he loved his galley, and it showed. Everything had a place, and all of his team knew their roles.
Every kitchen you’d ever seen on half this scale was a warzone of barked orders, small fires, and tears when the customers weren’t looking. But Thatch clearly understood that none of his men could leave, could find a work/life balance. The ship was their home. That included the galley. He gave them reason to stay and opportunities to experiment with the variety of ingredients gathered from remote islands.
He also wore shirts as intended – jackets even! – which made your life easier. No matter how battle-hardened they were, you knew men could be big babies about little things, like claws pricking into skin when they moved too quickly. Even an accidental swat could kill you. You’d felt those muscles under your feet. That would suck for everyone, especially you. And you weren’t ready to leave Whitebeard’s crew for the big sea in the sky, so those considerations remained a priority.
Thatch didn’t even twitch the first time you awkwardly flailed up to his shoulder.
“Picking me? I’m honored.”
And that was that.
The first day you caught some long looks from the other men – but you were what appeared to be a messy wild animal in a place full of food. It didn’t last. When you didn’t shit indoors and actually policed your own feathers as they dropped, your presence was accepted. But you’d never had to prove anything to Thatch.
He chatted with you, even when his crewmates were working beside him. You answered, pretending it was a real conversation, and he smiled when you replied, even though all he heard was birdsong.
You weren’t above playing favorites, but you still did the rounds, because Ace looked too damn sad about it if you didn’t. With every return, Thatch greeted you with a big smile and a handful of seeds. He liked feeding you like he enjoyed feeding everyone else. After some discussion, the kitchen team cleared out a small cabinet. They removed the door and kept the make-shift birdhouse stocked with various nibbles, a water dish, and a pile of old rags.
You found it embarrassingly homey.
And you quickly found yourself settling in, riding Thatch’s shoulder as he began breakfast prep hours before dawn, groggily nestling into the crook of his neck as he explained the menu. Ace would come down at some point in the day, puppy-dog-eyed and eager. Trial and error led to a mutual agreement that his hand was actually the safest place. Or his hat. He only squashed you once when his narcolepsy struck, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to hold it against him.
The others came to you as time allowed or need demanded.
Marco was doctor, sure, but fuck if the crew of orphans and outcasts didn’t need several full-time therapists to handle their festering emotional wounds. It wasn’t hard to spot a pirate having a rough day as he trudged to the kitchen door, asking if Birdie was in.
It felt like pulling your weight, in a way. You thanked them for feeding you, caring for you, and not asking the wrong questions by spending long evenings perched on the rail beside Vista, staring out to sea. Or recovering the pens Marco dropped when he worked too late into the night. Or jumping on Ace’s head when he stared into the middle distance for more than five minutes at a time.
You still hadn’t approached Whitebeard. He knew of you, and the crew discussed your aversion to their captain, but no one forced the issue. He was too much, the epitome of all threats in both strength and observation. The world boasted many strange and wonderful things, but he’d seen more than most, and you were willing to bet he’d see right through you.
You’d hate to be found out.
Not that you liked being a bird, but if you ever got your skin back, you’d have to disappear, and that would upset the crew. But even that would sting less than the alternative: finding out the truth.
You hadn’t done anything to intentionally manipulate them, and you’d never sell them out, but after sharing so many vulnerable moments, you knew they’d see it as a betrayal. Honestly, just remembering what you really were felt like dishonesty.
But you were an unwilling accomplice in an espionage mission that never was, and you really hoped the ones truly responsible were already dead.
Time returned your feathers and carved your niche in the crew. You worried less, burying the eternal scream that still bubbled up when you considered just how accustomed you’d become to being a bird. It wasn’t that it felt right to have feathers, but the horror had become terrifyingly mundane. And while you were still very wary of them, you only feared the men you sailed with because of their size and its potential consequences. But you had no qualms riding on their shoulders, hands, and heads.
That was for the best, because in the months since you boarded, the Moby Dick didn’t put into port. You couldn’t have left if you wanted to, not easily anyway. Smaller fleet vessels came and went with commanders, off causing their own mayhem and gathering supplies to return to the family home. The enormous ship was a roaming port of its own, really, unless something specific caught the captain’s interest, and that hadn’t happened for a hot minute, apparently.
The commanders’ cycling adventures forced you to adapt your schedule from time to time, but it didn’t usually bother you. Your birdhouse remained, and come-or-go, there was always at least one familiar face to pester. Or the kitchen team, who took it as a matter of honor to speak to you while their division commander was away.
Thatch rarely left, and when he did, you spend much more time on deck, watching for sails. It pulled a lot of ribbing from the other men, primarily aimed at Thatch. Plenty laughed and assured you your favorite would be back soon. Maybe it made you look clingy, but you spent most days literally clinging to men’s shirts entirely in the buff. There were better things to blush about.
So, you found yourself hanging in the rigging, watching Thatch’s ship inch into view, from sail, to ship, to sailors. He climbed aboard, laughing and holding a strange fruit destined to be sliced, diced, and served up in a pie. You fluttered down, catching bits of the conversation as he crossed the deck.
A mystery devil fruit.
Your claws sank into white threads, and you chirped as loud as you could in his ear, Better not be another Logia. If you turn to smoke or some shit while I’m on your shoulder there will be consequences. I never shat in your mouth when you fell asleep over your cookbooks, but there’s a first time for everything.
“Birdie missed you, yoi,” Marco drawled.
The threat of a taunt hovered in his smirk, and you leapt back into the air, circling until you found an opening. Feet outstretched, you snagged his hair. The grip stopped your momentum, and you nestled down in the golden explosion as he yelped and tried to pull you out. Which was difficult without pulling his own hair.
Try me, Pineapple.
Before he could sort through the mess you’d made of his ridiculous styling (not that most of the crew were much better – Thatch included), you escaped, cackling in triumph, and returned to your usual place on Thatch’s shoulder.
The cook didn’t hide his delight. “Let’s go see what chaos you’ve caused while I was gone,” he said, trailing his fingers over your head. That meant going to the galley, the best place on the ship, and you gladly settled in for the ride down.
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The crew celebrated Thatch’s return that night with a feast on deck. Thatch really only got to enjoy part of it, of course. He was still stirring pots and tossing skillets when it began, and he retired early to prep for breakfast.
Ace tried convincing you to stay on his hat with a few berries when Thatch left the party, but you didn’t want to leave Thatch to just talk to himself while he worked. So, off you flew.
He was busy. Bending, lifting, and climbing to review stocks and ensure everything was properly stowed before he even brought out the cutting board for the pile of zucchini awaiting his attention. Your birdhouse made a better resting place, and voices carried in the empty space, reverberating off tiled walls and polished counters. You could hear him. He could hear you. And you stayed out of the way.
As the night wore on and Thatch regaled you with hyperbolized tales of his strength and valor on his trip, a shadow moved into the galley. Thatch noticed, too, breaking his narrative to acknowledge the intruder.
“Hey, Teach.” The cook didn’t even turn around, still hard at work. “Need something?”
The shadow nodded, drifting closer.
“Ya might say that.”
You’d hated Teach from day one. Thatch and Ace had both tried reasoning with you, explaining he was big and a little careless but he certainly didn’t mean any harm. That he was a friend worth having. But that wasn’t the man you saw.
The longer you looked, the more he reminded you of a cat. Some prowling thing waiting in the light, content and lazy in a way that masked his oddities. He didn’t want anything, which was strange enough for a pirate. He didn’t ask for anything despite his tenure, and he laughed off his open selfishness as a harmless quirk.
Always smiling, but too widely. Always laughing, but at the wrong times. Quick to offer advice that almost sounded mocking.
No, you didn’t trust Teach, and you were glad as you observed, silent, from your nest.
He was moving too slowly, too carefully, fixated on Thatch. His steps echoed the cook’s like he wanted to be forgotten as he moved. One hand gripped something on his belt, and a stray beam of light caught the silver gleam of a blade leaving the sheath.
You sat up, hopped to the edge of your cabinet, and peered down as Thatched moved to the counter below.
“Well, there’s still a basket of leftovers from breakfast. I don’t think there’s any pie, but if you’re starving…”
Teach’s eyes blazed as he raised the knife over his head, smiling honestly for the first time. His whole face changed with the expression, transforming from clown to monster.
You lunged.
Shrieking.
Thatch looked up, surprised by the noise, and you latched onto Teach’s left eye. Your claws punctured into viscous jelly before either man realized what had happened.
It threw off the killer’s aim, and the blade sank into Thatch’s shoulder as the cook turned to follow your trajectory. You didn’t pause to see more than that, devoting your full mind, body, and spirit into tearing this backstabber apart.
“FUCK!” Teach grabbed at you, and you retaliated by hooking your feet into his eye socket, pecking and tearing viciously as he stumbled. “Damn bird!”
He caught you, hand as awful as you remembered, but you had a good grip, and pulling you off would mean pulling out his own eye. There wasn’t much he could do, and your feathers slipped around in his unsteady grasp, smeared with his blood.
Cursing, Teach squeezed. Hard. If he couldn’t get you off his face, he’d crush you.
It pushed the battle cry right out of your body, but you hold on. His eye was your only lifeline.
“Birdie!”
Thatch joined the fray from where he’d fallen, cutting at Teach’s legs. Cook he may be, but Thatch was still a pirate, and his time in the kitchen taught him just where to slice. Meat was meat, joints were joints, and tendons were tendons.
Teach buckled, howling.
He tried to catch himself, grabbing at the air for balance, and instinctively let you go. Not that it did him much good.
Now everyone was on the floor, wounded and slipping through the mess. Thatch rose to his knees, pulling out a knife of his own. You could see the hilt of Teach’s weapon over his shoulder, and your favorite’s face was pale, glistening with sweat as he fought through the pain.
Before Teach could get his hands on you again, you released his left eye and sprang to his right, flapping and spreading your wings wide to block his view. You couldn’t get the knife out of Thatch’s back, but you could make it easier for him to sink one in Teach’s chest.
You raked over Teach’s lid with your claws and pried at his lashes with your beak as he thrashed. He had the sense to keep it closed as he cursed you to hell. You were so consumed with keeping him blind, you didn’t see the hand coming. One strike sent you flying into the cabinets.
A blur, a wet smack on impact, and a short drop.
It felt like you’d left your ghost on Teach’s face, and your body sat in a soulless, thoughtless heap.
Then air hit your lungs, your mind rushed back into action, and you focused stunned eyes just in time to see Thatch kneeling on Teach’s gut, his chef’s knife stabbing into the traitor’s neck. He pushed it deeper and deeper as red fountains jumped to life and Teach wriggled, gaping like a fish. Still trying to push Thatch’s hands away from the killing blow. Trying to breathe.
He had no final words, only a frothy red gurgle.
And Thatch slumped, breathing hard, and you saw how wide the red flower on his back had bloomed.
You rolled to your feet. Shook yourself out. Nothing broken. Possibly very, very bent, but manageable.
Thatch needed help. Fortunately, the door was still open from Teach’s intrusion, and you took off before the blood on your wings could gel. It wasn’t graceful, and it wasn’t half as fast as you wanted, but you made your way through the ship, rising level by level to reach Marco’s study, praying he’d be overworking himself.
Since you couldn’t knock, you reared back as you approached the door and let yourself smack into it. The hit wasn’t half so bad as the one Teach dealt you. No immediate rustling or voice told you the doctor was awake – or even present – and you started chirping for all you were worth, jumping on the handle so it jiggled and rattled.
When the door opened, you slipped right off and landed on the floor.
Marco, rumpled and ink-smudged, blinked at you.
“Birdie? What –”
His eyes turned to saucers as he registered the bloody prints you were leaving on the floor, and he scooped you up gingerly, checking for wounds before he even understood the problem.
Not me, stupid! you screamed. It’s Thatch! Follow me, hurry up! Come on!
You pulled at his shirt, flapping just enough to get airborne before he closed his hands in a clam-shell around you.
This was bullshit.
You let your claws do the talking.
And he listened enough to rethink his approach. His fingers pulled back, and you were on your way again, even slower as your wings dried and turned stiff, but leading Marco where he was needed regardless.
He followed you, asking questions you didn’t have time to answer even if you had the right shape to speak. You’d left a trail of smudges on your way up, and once Marco figured out that you were heading to the kitchen, he caught you again and raced at full speed to the open door.
Thatch sat on the floor between the stove and the pantry door, hunched over, pressing a towel as well as he could do his shoulder.
Teach remained an ugly corpse.
Marco slipped as he went to his brother’s side, dropping you as his phoenix fire flared to life. He shouted for help, hands on the wound to stop the bleeding and secure the blade.
On the floor, by Thatch’s knee, you kept watch, like Teach would sit up, laughing at having fooled you all again. He still had one eye you could pluck out if you needed to.
Jozu, Fossa, and Vista arrived in one great stampede of swearing and drawn weapons. Marco filled them in as best he could between barking orders. Chaos rumbled around you, along with some very big feet in terribly hard boots, and you chirped to remind them you were there as you skittered away from danger.
Vista’s white gloves gathered you up. Crusted blood cracked as you moved, weighing more than it really should. You couldn’t fly after the others as they lifted Thatch from the floor and carried him away, but Vista was better than wings, and he kept pace.
The nurses, who usually cooed over you, took you from the swordsman once you reached the infirmary. You lost sight of Thatch as Marco moved him into surgery, and you were carried behind several screens to a bowl of fresh water where the women helped coax the blood – worse than cherry pie – out of your delicate feathers.
They blotted you dry and left you to sleep on a towel.
It was no one’s business if you eavesdropped, if you listened until Marco emerged, weary and confused with a partial report to send to his Pops. It certainly wasn’t anyone’s concern if you crept your way through the infirmary, sneaking under white-draped beds and around desks until you found Thatch.
No one at all needed to know if you settled on the rolling tray at his side. Just in case Teach came back from the dead. Just in case he needed something. Just in case he woke up soon.
When morning found you preening on top of Thatch’s head while he flirted with the nurses and made a nuisance of himself, no one thought to comment.
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You surveyed the town from the pinnacle of Thatch’s pompadour.
You almost felt human, though taller than you’d been before. Looking down to see people’s faces was better than roaming at an eye-to-ankle perspective, though, and when people glanced at Thatch, you could pretend they were seeing you.
Your escort had healed well from the attack, forced to rest by Marco’s glare and Jozu’s physical bulk filling the door. His left arm still hung in a sling to ease the torn muscles in his shoulder, but he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. If anything, his brush with death had motivated him to seize life by the throat and demand everything it had.
After a great debate with the other commanders, he got permission to take you on shore leave.
“If Birdie doesn’t want to join us,” Marco had said, “what kind of pirates would we be to deny a creature it’s freedom, yoi?”
You defense of Thatch, of course, had convinced them all that you were well tamed and entirely theirs, so no one had serious concerns that you’d leave, only get lost.
The Moby Dick lurked half a mile out from the port, easy to see, but only accessible by tender. Half the town came to meet the pirates at the dock, shouting what they had for sale or begging to join up. The other half of town hunkered down behind barred doors. It wasn’t like their absence made the streets any less colorful, and eyed the vibrant spices and vegetables in the market, wondering how much Thatch would purchase (and how much was safe for you to eat).
Damn, you missed your old digestive tract. A bird’s diet sucked when you knew what you were missing, and the greatest drawback of living in Thatch’s galley was seeing all the hot curries, cheesy soups, and chocolate desserts drove you bonkers. You would say nothing of the coffee, because the smell every morning broke your heart anew.
But if you hadn’t been a bird living in Thatch’s kitchen, there would be no Thatch to carry you around the marketplace full of things you couldn’t enjoy, and that was worse. You’d coped for months. What was another decade or five?
“How much do you think Ace would pay me,” the cook mused, “if I replaced Marco’s stash of candied pineapple with durian fruit?”
Not enough to cover your funeral.
“Eh, you’re probably right… but,” he threw a coin to the vendor and slipped the malodorous treat to his collection. “Jozu loves the stuff. And Marco hates repeating his work. I’m safe until the stitches come out, and afterwards I can bribe myself a guard.”
Seas, the man loved trouble. Not to say you wouldn’t enjoy the show, but you untucked a strand from his flawless updo just as a precaution. You needed to tell him some things. He was human. He was fallible. His ego being as overinflated as his preferred hairstyle just made it easier to attack.
He squawked like a parrot, trying to smooth everything back into place as you danced around and over his knuckles, chirping back at his giggled curses with equal enthusiasm.
This was good. This was a life you could resign yourself to, even if no one else realized you were living it. This was –
Gone.
A puff of feathers, a burst of wind, and you were soaring over the town, locked in wicked, curved talons.
Like an owl’s
Thatch had already disappeared, lost in the sea of shifting figures far below, but you screamed for him anyway, struggling until the tips of your captor’s claws pressed through to your skin.
A low hoot chilled your blood, extinguishing your immediate plans to break free and run like you had before.
That was a warning, and you didn’t imagine the Zoan user would be kind enough to repeat it.
He crossed half the island in a matter of minutes. As he neared his destination, the owl glided through a copse of trees, swept around corners, and dipped below the rooftops, shaking anything without wings. There was no way Thatch could see where you’d gone. No casual birdwatchers would know, either. It was your old trick spun against you, and your little heart beat so fast you thought you’d throw up.
No one could help if they didn’t know where you were.
The owl wheeled along the shoreline, tucking close to the piers and rocky beaches on the far side of the island. A large boathouse swallowed you, and before your eyes could adjust, the predator landed, squashing you under his full weight. Just because he’d landed didn’t mean you were going anywhere.
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
You craned your neck between two of the owl’s talons to see the other Devil Fruit user. The asshole responsible for your feathered ass. You took a deep breath to chew him out, wondering if the owl Zoan would understand, but the other bird pressed down, robbing you of any comeback but a breathless squeak.
The man approached his compatriot, who lifted one foot so the human could grab you instead. He tilted you back and forth, looking over the marks that first clued Izou into your strange position.
“The little pest really is still alive.” He squeezed. Hard. “We can take care of that.”
“Punishment should fit the crime, shouldn’t it?” The owl became human, a lanky fuck who didn’t look like he’d bathed in a year. He nodded to an iron brazier across the boathouse. The crackling flames just carried over the lapping waves, and your feathers tried to stand on end.
Your handler liked the idea. He laughed and sauntered over to a pile of small cages too small to fully spread your wings inside. Still chuckling, he shoved you inside, rough and careless.
But you had bigger things to worry about than a few broken feathers.
The slaver shook the cage, holding it up to his face for a better view as you tumbled around like dice in a cup. “You know how much you cost us? You know how many Berries went up in smoke? How many men we lost? We can’t meet quota now.”
He sneered, giving the cage one more rattle for good measure. “Guess that’s our problem, though. You’re too much trouble to try selling.”
The Zoan user smirked, hooded eyes following your progress across the room. The cage still swayed, but you had enough coordination left to scream for help. Again. To the spiders in the rafters and the fish milling under the sheltered dock.
Thatch, Marco, Jozu, anyone.
You never should’ve left the ship. By the time Thatch reported back, it would be too late. They’d never know what happened. They’d never know you’d been human all along. They’d never know you the way you knew them.
The cage hovered over the flames, just enough for the highest tongues to kiss the bottom bars. You fluttered madly, clinging to the top and staying as far away as you could.
“Not fun, is it?” the Zoan asked.
An inch lower, and a lucky spark caught in the down under your wing. Heat became blinding pain, and you resisted instinct, pressing your wing down to smother it before it could spread. You dangled from the top bars by one set of claws, upside down, cringing into the sting. The men were laughing, but all you could hear was the fire, a tangible echo of the night you’d been transformed.
This story would end as it began – in flames.
Your cage swung like a pendulum, pushing you to scramble away from the various angles the flame kissed you, while leaving you constantly disoriented. It wasn’t long before you tumbled into the bottom of the cage, and everything went bright.
Pure panic claimed you. Even if you’d been human, there was a point where pain drove a person to animal survival instincts. As a bird, your feathers became kindling. They kept the fire close, feeding it into blistering skin as you bucked, throwing yourself against the bars as the breeze coaxed the blaze deeper, hotter.
Other voices joined yours, shouting as chaos exploded through your periphery. The cage fell from the slaver’s hand, and your chest clenched. But although the fire remained, hell didn’t swallow you. Coals didn’t press through the bars to char you beyond recognition.
“The water, yoi!”
“Right!”
Gravity lost all sense of meaning, and you wondered if your soul was leaving your body. Then the cage smacked into seawater.
Everything cracked as salt rushed into your eyes and flooded your sinuses. It burned in a whole new way, debriding your raw flesh. You broke the surface and screamed in agony.
With a voice you barely recognized. Through teeth and lips. Your hands clawed the low waves, but you didn’t know how to fight the crush of new, familiar sensations.
Before you went back under, a big body splashed into the water next to you, and a mass of white and brown caught you, treading water while holding you to his chest. Leaving the water was a haze. Someone threw an old blanket that smelled like fish over you, and Marco was practically screaming at everyone about infection and first aid, and you found yourself looking up at a bunch of men who looked so much smaller, and more human than they had that morning.
Thatch grinned like you weren’t covered in burns and too exhausted to move.
“Glad you’re back with us.”
Your hand lifted of its own volition, and you studied the glistening patches of exposed fascia between familiar scars and callouses. “I’m not a bird anymore.”
Thatch nodded, much too casual about the entire ordeal. It made you think things were even worse than you knew. “Nope.”
“And…” You frowned, rolling your tongue over your hard palate, tasting the smoke with a sharp depth your bird senses hadn’t offered. “And everyone’s… okay with that?”
Enormous, worried eyes swooped over your view of the rafters. Ace’s pinched brows dipped even deeper. “This is who you’ve always been, right?”
Well. Obviously. “Yeah.”
“Then nothing’s really changed, has it?” Thatch asked. He adjusted the blanket as a bunch of new footsteps stomped towards you, shouting something about a stretcher. “Just need to find you a bigger bunk. The kitchen cabinet isn’t gonna do it anymore.”