Some Whitebeard Pirate Excerpts

"But," Rakuyo whimpers. He sounds so very small. "But I'm your son."

Whitebeard's face remains cold. "I have so many sons."

"Oh shit," Marco chokes. "Rakuyo, run!"

The call is picked up and echoed, his siblings crying out for him. He hears the cooler heads among them holding the others back from rushing to their own deaths trying to save him. "It's too late for him!" They shout. "There's nothing we can do, he's a goner!"

Not without a fight. He scrambles at the ground on all fours, animal-afraid, and tries to force enough speed into his fragile, mortal limbs to escape what's coming. He barely makes it two feet before Whitebeard's shadow falls over him like a physical thing, oppressive and heavy. Stifling all the air in his lungs.

Someone screams "Pops, you'll kill him!"

There is the boom of displaced air. Rakuyo has just enough time to think this isn't how I thought I'd die. Then, all at once, the world goes dark.

Whitebeard's massive fucking pillow is practically the size of Rakuyo's entire body, and it slams over him with a fwump that squishes him flat and knocks the breath out of him and sends a spray of oversized feathers up into the air. Some of Rakuyo's siblings have continued their dramatics, and from under the very soft weight currently crushing him to death and muffling his ears he can hear Haruta wailing "He was so young!" and Thatch's hysterical "He had so much to live for!"

Rakuyo gets a corner of the pillow pried up enough to drag in a breath of fresh air, only to immediately inhale a feather and almost actually die choking on it. The rest of the gathered crew are avenging his gruesome murder, and Whitebeard is now fending off most of his children while they attempt to collectively beat him to death with pillows.

Pops, the bastard, just laughs.

It's Blamenco who comes to actually help pry the goddamn pillow off of Rakuyo so he can escape it's down-filled clutches. "You're the only person in this family who actually loves me," Rakuyo tells him.

“That ain’t true and you know it,” his brother scolds him, but he’s grinning, too. “Look, they’re all killing Pops for you. That’s gotta count for something.”

Rakuyo sighs. “Only if they actually manage it.”

------------------------------------------------

“Wh— Is this therapy?” Ace sputters. “Are you therapizing me right now?!”

From somewhere behind him, Jiru mutters, “That’s not a word.”

Kingdew raises his eyebrows. “Without your consent? I would never. It would be malpractice.”

“You lost your license,” Ace seethes.

“For murder,” Kingdew peacefully informs him. “Not malpractice. I’m very serious about the privacy of my patients.”

Ace grits his teeth until his jaw aches. “You are a lying liar who lies.”

“I am?”

“Yes!” Ace waves a hand vaguely at the two of them, and the table they’re sitting at, and the — the fucking hot chocolate. “You’re… trying to get me to talk about my problems because your whole thing is beating up everybody’s brain goblins for them. You’re like, obsessed with the crew’s mental health. I’m onto your game.”

“My game?”

“You’re like—“ Ace grapples with the words. “You’ve got like, that thing, where you can’t do a lot of physical lifting or chores or fighting sometimes because of the fibro-thing, so you try to make up for it by being everybody’s shrink because it’s something you can do even when you can’t stand up.”

Kingdew nods, thoughtfully, like they’re having a debate and Ace is raising interesting points. “Hm…” he muses. “Now who’s therapizing?”

“It’s still you!” Ace shouts. “You’re doing a — a one of those — reverse psychic things on me! Well it’s not gonna work!”

“It already did,” Kingdew informs him, all innocence. Ace can practically see his fucking halo glinting. “You just told me you think it’s normal for people to feel like they have to earn their right to exist.”

“That’s — I —” Ace gapes, too stunned to even really argue. “You’re an asshole,” He realizes.

“Hmmm,” Kingdew intones. “And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, fuck you!” Ace jumps up from the table, snatches up the hot chocolate (it’s good hot chocolate, and shouldn’t be ruined by — by shitty therapizing crew mates!) and storms out of the room.

Before he slams the door behind him, he hears Pops’s voice, a deep rumbling sight. “Do you really have to come down that hard on him? You’ll scare him off.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Kingdew sounds way too goddamn pleased with himself. “We’re making great progress.”

Project "I will give the rest of the Whitebeard Commanders characterization if it fucking kills me" is officially under way!

Project "If Oda Won't Give The Rest Of The Whitebeard Commanders Personalities And Backstories I'll Do It Myself" continues

Blamenco is fourteen the first time he meets a pirate.

He’s also fourteen the first time he kills a man, since the second thing happens about a minute after the first. It’s hard to say who’s more surprised by this, Blamenco or the pirate, but later he’ll look back and figure it was probably himself, on account of the pirate was dead, and dead men can’t be surprised. Dead men can’t be much of anything, really. That’s sort of the whole thing about being dead.

Here’s how it happens: He’s in the woods gathering mushrooms with Lana, the pretty daughter of old farmer Scratch. Supposedly Scratch ain’t his real name, but Blamenco’s never heard nobody call him anything but, and usually when folks get an odd nickname they like to tell the tale of how it came to be. Blamenco’s never heard that neither though, so he figures probably the man’s name really is Scratch and folks just say it’s fake to give him a hard time for it.

Anyway. Scratch’s youngest daughter is two years Blamenco’s senior, pretty as a daisy, and sick as a dog more often than not. Seems every time the seasons change or the the rain comes down too hard or a pig farts within a hundred miles of the Scratch house poor Lana’s laid up in bed wheezing and coughing into her handkerchief. Makes her unfit for field labor, but she finds other ways to be useful. Old Scratch comes to the family farm once or twice a month to make trades and get drunk on the porch with Grandpa, and most times he’ll bring baskets and scarves and all sorts of other things Lana made while she was holed up in bed. Grandma sends him back with fabric and good thread and any leftover rattan or willow they might have laying around.

On the days when Lana is feeling well enough to move about she likes to find herself chores to do, and she’s real stubborn about it and won’t listen when her family all tell her she aughtn’t push herself, so it’s happened once or twice that Lana went off on her own to gather herbs or berries or to check hunting traps or what have you and then didn’t come home quick enough and a whole search party had to be whipped up to go and find her wherever she’d collapsed all fevered and exhausted, and that’s where Blamenco comes in.

It’s improper for a boy and a girl to be off alone in the woods like this, but their families have been friends for a good long while now, so nobody’s looking sideways at poor Lana for tromping through the woods with Blamenco at her heels, and he’s big and strong enough to pick her up and carry her back home if the need arises. Stubborn enough to make her take breaks and rest, too, which is more than can be said for Lana’s own brother, who’s bigger and stronger than Blamenco by a good bit but who’s too soft on her by far.

Blamenco doesn’t mind it. The weather’s nice out, all cool and crisp this time of year, and for all he and Lana can hardly seem to be in the same room together without bickering he likes her company, and she likes his. One of these days he’ll even get her to admit it.

So he’s following her through the woods, holding her foraging basket for her and giving her a hand when she needs to hop across a creek or climb over a log or lift up some heavy thing to check underneath. They’re playing Would You Rather, spinning silly choices out of the air to pass the time, and Lana’s got him stumped between licking peanut butter off a hobo’s foot or getting locked in a cage with hungry tigers, and he’s so focused on trying to decide which of those awful things he’d have an easier time enduring (he’s leaning towards the tigers) that it takes him a good while to notice the heavy footsteps tromping through the woods towards them.

He doesn’t think much of it, at first. It’s clear from the sound that whoever it is ain’t used to these woods — branches are crackling and crunching all under their big clumsy feet — but there’s hardly a reason to assume the worst of somebody just for doing some exploring, or maybe the poor fella got lost and is wandering confused trying to find his way back to the path, so Blamenco slows and Lana does too, and they both turn to see who it is causing all that racket.

And then, well. Blamenco knows for sure the man must be lost, ‘cause he certainly don’t look like the sort who belongs in the woods. He’s dressed all fine in a yellow frock and gold rings on all his fingers, and his hair’s even got gold chains braided into it. Damn near every bit of him is sparkling with some kind of pretty thing when he comes all stumbling past the tree line and lands flat on his face on the ground. Blamenco doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many fine things all in one place before, and certainly never all on one person. Lana’s eldest sister Marnie got married to the tailor’s son at the start of the year, and she looked like a real princess at her wedding, but this man probably could have bought her whole dress with just one of the baubles in his ear.

So of course when the man shoves himself upright again Blamenco bows, ‘cause that’s what you do with royals and nobles and rich folk, and says with all his best manners “Good afternoon, sir. Are you lost?” at the same time as Lana bursts out laughing.

Lana don’t mean no harm, but man gets all puffed up offended by it, and Blamenco’s not sure what she’s laughing at anyhow until she points to the ground and Blamenco looks and sees the man’s fancy brocade boots all caked in mud. “Sorry!” Lana gasps, not sounding as sorry as she probably should. “Sorry, just — your nice things are all ruined, sir! What are you doing out here? You didn’t wear hiking boots?”

It ain’t just the boots, ‘neither. The man’s got sticks and leaves all in his hair, and his pretty frock coat is torn like he’s snagged it on something. Blamenco can see why Lana’s laughing about it, all those fine things all done-in by a walk in the woods. They crawled right through a blackberry thicket to get to this clearing, and other than some snarls in Lana’s long hair neither of them are the least disheveled from it. Fancy things may look real nice, but they don’t seem to be all that practical.

That’s about where it all starts going wrong. The man doesn’t seem to take kindly to being laughed at, even in as harmless a way as Lana did it, and he looks angry. Angrier maybe than Blamenco’s ever seen just about anybody who wasn’t the bad sort of drunk. “No,” He says, all seething through his teeth about it. “I didn’t wear fucking hiking boots, you bumpkin!”

He’s slurring a little when he says it, and when he comes stomping closer Blamenco catches a whiff of strong rum off of him, so maybe he is the bad kinda drunk. It’d explain why the man is stumbling confused through the woods in the first place. He comes to a stop in the little clearing and gets his first proper look at Blamenco and Lana and his face does something Blamenco doesn’t like. Something kinda like how the tailor’s son looks at Marnie, ‘cept instead of all warm it’s cold. Cold and hungry.

The fancy man stands up tall and tries to brush some of the debris off himself. It don’t work well — he’s got prickers all stuck deep in his yellow coat, those ain’t coming out without tweezers and a good sharp little knife. He swaggers a step closer, and stumbles a little one the next. It’s early in the day for a man to be this drunk, but maybe nobles don’t have to worry about their chores getting done like working folks do. Either way, he misses the first time he reaches for Lana’s face, which is good, ‘cause Lana doesn’t much seem like she wants him touching on her.

“Hey now,” Blamenco starts. The man talks like didn’t even hear him. “Well well,” he says, all deep in his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, lovely, I didn’t realize I was speaking to such a beauty.”

Treating somebody nicer or worse based on how pretty or ugly they are is a dumb thing to do, but Blamenco maybe only thinks that ‘cause he’s ugly. Lana never talks much about looks — her own or anybody else’s — but she’s probably the prettiest girl Blamenco’s ever met, and she turns plenty of heads when she’s feeling well enough to go to town. When Blamenco goes with her to carry her bags and hold doors for her people laugh at the way they look together, with her all slender and beautiful and with her long dark hair looking like spun silk and him all pale and fat and following behind her like a troll. Lana always gets real angry when she hears people talking like that, and then she yells at them and tires herself out and has to go lay down with a cool damp rag over her eyes, but Blamenco’s never minded it much. He knows how he looks, and he’s not one to get all bent out of shape at being the butt of a joke. Folks like to laugh, and he’s an easy thing to laugh at. He laughs at himself too most days.

Still. There’s something about the way this man calls Lana beautiful that Blamenco doesn’t like, and that’s unusual. People are always calling Lana beautiful, and Blamenco’s always agreeing, but the fancy man says it like he means something else and more and more Blamenco’s starting to wonder if maybe he aughtn’t just scoop Lana up and take her home, even with this man still lost in the woods and her mushroom basket only half-full.

The fancy man says “What’s your name, pretty?” He tries to touch Lana’s face again. Lana backs away this time, and Blamenco gets a hand on her arm and pulls her behind himself. The fancy man blinks like he’s just remembering Blamenco even exists, and he looks at Blamenco with his face all twisted up and sour, but people look at Blamenco like that all the time, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He hopes Lana won’t try to yell at this man like she yells at the people in town, though.

This fella doesn’t seem like he’d take it well.

Pops has always smelled like peaches. It was the first thing Marco had noticed about the man, way back when he’d been nothing but a panicked pup stowing away on the wrong ship. The crew had been stupid enough to pick a fight with Whitebeard, and Marco had been cowering behind a stack of barrels, hoping the violence would pass him by, when all of a sudden he’d been scooped up and draped over the shoulder of an absolutely massive pirate, and Marco would have probably passed out from the panic if he hadn’t been so completely thrown off-guard by the rich, thick scent of an Omega.

Marco had still had a pup’s nose at the time, so the scent didn’t really register as much more than sweet and fruity and safety, comfort, I have you now. After his first rut, he’d scaled up Pops’s coat and stuck his face in the man’s neck and marveled at the smell of peaches and cream and strong black tea, caramel and cloves. He’d immediately gotten scent-drunk off the warm, rich sweetness of the old man’s affection, and the only reason he didn’t tip back and fall right off his shoulder is because Pops reached up in time to catch him.

Omegas are pretty rare on the seas. Not as much as the World Government tries to make them out to be of course, but there is some truth to the stereotypes; if you run into an Omega traveling with a pirate crew, it’s even odds they’re on that ship against their will. Not that that’s any less true with any other type of criminal, of course. Gangsters on land and pirates at sea and nobles in their feasting halls, it’s always the same — bullies go for the easy target, for the weak and the vulnerable, the young and the desperate and the naive. They fall on the feeble like ants to a corpse, and pick you clean.

It had honestly scared Marco at first, how open Whitebeard was about his sex. The man didn’t take scent-blockers. He didn’t bind his chest. When his heats came — and they came like clockwork every three months, because he wasn’t on suppressants either — he’d bundle himself and most of his small crew away into his nest, and yowl shamelessly for food or cuddles or for someone to start up a song. Part of the reason it took so long for Marco to accept that this was a permanent thing, that Whitebeard was keeping him and Marco didn’t need to keep a bag packed and an eye on the exit, was because he was so, so sure the loud, unruly, shameless Omega would be taught a lesson soon enough.

It had scared him, frustrated him. Made him wary. Nobody is allowed to be that free, he’d wanted to explain to Whitebeard, who for some reason just didn’t seem to get it. Nobody is allowed to be that happy with themselves. You’re too loud. You’re too proud. You’re too comfortable in your own skin. It doesn’t matter that you’re big and strong, they’ll kill you.

They’ll kill you, and I’ll be on my own again.

Eventually, somewhere between the second and the twentieth would-be challenger Whitebeard wiped the floor with, Marco started to realize that the man was more than big and strong, he was powerful. Powerful enough, maybe, to be loud. Powerful enough to be free, without worrying that someone would cage him for it. Marco watched the man who called him son conquer impossible challenges and defeat unbeatable enemies like it was easy, and somewhere along the line he forgot to hold onto his fear. Marco stopped sleeping with his shoes on, he unpacked that bag he’d been hiding in his locker, and then one day when the sun was high and the waters calm and Pop’s scent was syrupy-sweet with happiness, Marco had said “Pops-yoi? Would you bond me?”

And Whitebeard had. It was a little awkward — his fangs are long enough to puncture clear through Marco’s throat — but Whitebeard had been so, so careful, piercing the scent gland in Marco’s neck with the tip of one fang and injecting the venom deep into his blood stream. Then, to Marco’s stunned disbelief, Pops had picked him up and draped him over his shoulder and asked for a bite of his own.

That’s how it starts. An Omega with no pack and a boy with no parents and the peach-sweet summer scent now sunk into the both of them, on a rickety ship that won’t survive the year and with a handful of scavenged crew-mates that will either leave or choose to stay forever before that year is up. Those that choose to stay practically line up when they see the bond wounds on Marco and Pops, clambering for a chance to bite and be bitten. By the time they’re in Water 7 buying a used ship (it will be years still before the Moby is commissioned) Marco is a part of something he can’t remember ever being a part of before.

A pack.

The newspaper — the South Sea Gazette, apparently — is so old it practically crumbles under Ace’s fingers, the paper yellow and powdery with age, the edges disintegrating into nothing from however many years of being picked up and handled. The headline reads: Maniac Schoolteacher Slaughters Classroom. The photo on the front page shows a small schoolhouse, showing signs of wear and hodge-podge repair, like the town it belonged to couldn’t afford it’s upkeep but did their best anyway. The stairs leading up to the front door are bloody, and there’s more blood streaked across the windows from the inside. One small hand can be seen poking out the edge of the doorway, flopped limp across the floor. A group of Marines drag the “Maniac Schoolteacher” away from the scene of the crime in chains while he flails and struggles.

It… It’s Jiru. A very young Jiru, he can’t be any older than, god, maybe his early twenties? If that? He looks like he’s barely Ace’s age in this photo, and his face—

It’s not the face of a maniac who just went on a bloody rampage and murdered a bunch of kids. His hands and clothes are streaked with blood, but not nearly enough to account for the carnage implied behind him, and his face is wet with tears. The look in his eyes is one of such gut-wrenching despair that Ace has to tear his eyes away. The rest of the article is just — bullshit, Ace is sure, and the letters are dancing around and he doesn’t want to read it anyway so he doesn’t bother trying to make them quit goofing off and get back where they go. He just… stares blankly instead at where his hands are digging into the paper, crumbling it more under his grip.

“Ah,” Jiru says. “I should’ve put that away.”

Ace startles, whirls around. The fourteenth division Commander is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and shoulders slumped, eyeing Ace with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry,” Ace says, scrambling to put the paper back where he found it. “I’m — sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I was coming to see you about watch rotations. Pops said you’re in charge of that?”

“That I am.” Jiru enters his room. Ace has to scramble out of his way when he walks to the desk, lifting the newspaper up delicately — not like he’s handling something precious, but like he’s handling something that disgusts him. Or, maybe, something that bites. Something that hurts to touch. “The transfers from the Moby 3 haven’t been added to the Watch Rotation yet, and won’t be until we know how long repairs will take. That’s not why you were taken off the night watch. You were taken off of the night watch for your narcolepsy, and Tate scares me, so you’re not going back on the night watch unless there’s an emergency.”

“But—”

“No buts. She will stab me with needles.”

That’s… probably true. Ace still scowls at the unfairness of it all. He focuses on that — on the absolute crime that is all these damn people caring about his health and his wellbeing and his safety — so that he doesn’t have to focus on the paper while Jiru carefully slides it into an empty drawer and then locks that drawer shut. The key gets hung up on a hook by his desk, where it’s immediately covered by the fabric of the cloak that’s also hanging there.

“… You can ask,” Jiru says, after a moment. “It’s not a secret.”

Ace startles again, tears his eyes away from the closed drawer. Jiru’s face is still unreadable, but he doesn’t look angry, really. Ace bites his lip.

“What… happened?”

Jiru snorts. “Not did you do it?”

Ace snarls, “You didn’t do it.”

Now Jiru smiles. It’s a really shitty, awful, sad little smile, and Ace kind of hates it. “No,” he confirms. “I didn’t do it.”

He walks to his bed. Takes a seat. Scrubs a hand over his face. “… You ever hear that rumor about Gold Roger having a kid?”

Ace goes very, very still.

Jiru must see his reaction, but he must misunderstand it, because his smile grows — not sad anymore, but bitter and hurting and furious. “Yeah. Wasn’t ever anything but a rumor, mind you. Stories and gossip. The Marines didn’t have any leads, didn’t have any proof. Didn’t have anything but ‘somewhere in the South Blue’ and ‘somewhere between the ages of eight years old and literally an unborn fetus’.”

Here he chokes a laugh, flicks his fez off to scrub a hand over his shaved head. Takes a slow, shaking breath, and then another one. “… It wasn’t my kids,” he says. “Every one of them had fathers known and accounted for. It wasn’t any of my kids. But, hey, what’s logic in the face of justice?”

From somewhere far away, Ace is aware of the sensation of his own tongue, clicking dry against the back of his throat. His own voice, echoing down a distant tunnel. “If — if one of them was Roger’s son?” He hears himself ask. “What would you have done?”

Jiru looks at him for a moment, considering. Scratches over his head again. “Aw, hell, Ace, I dunno,” he says finally. “I’d like to say I would have scooped the kid up and ran for it, but… back then…” That fucking smile, all bitterness and regret. Ace really does hate that smile.

“Back then,” Jiru says, “I just wasn’t fast enough.”

It is seven thirty in the morning. An hour ago I bolted upright in bed possessed by the image of Klabautermann cultivating human forms like swords spirits in xianxia novels. In the process of me exploring that concept, I somehow got myself emotionally invested in the inherent homoeroticism of a seventy year old pirate and his goddamn boat

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“It was… hm. Maybe a year and a half after you’d been built. You got that big ass hole in your hull.” Newgate swirls the sake in his cup as he reminisces, watching sunlight catch off the liquid. “We managed to get you patched, but before we could get to the next island all those damn storms hit, one right after the other

Moby inclines their head. “I recall.” Their hand drifts to their side in the gesture of someone touching an old scar.

And isn’t that interesting? “I kept thinking we aren’t gonna make it. We shouldn’t have made it. There were so many times on that journey that by all rights we should have sunk, but you… you got us there.”

Again, an incline of the head. There’s something majestic about the Moby, even in this mostly-humanoid form. Something about the way they move, the way they carry themself. Like water made flesh, all smooth and fluid motion. When they turn to him, water droplets slip off the ends of their trailing braids to hang suspended in the air. They swirl around Moby like the silks of a lady’s dress.

“Your stubbornness had already covered me like a varnish,” they laugh, and it strikes Newgate that his ship is teasing him. “I was not made in the image of one who easily accepts failure.”

Moby’s solid-colored eyes are deep, deep blue, the color of water just at the edge of the depth where sunlight reaches. There’s an eerie liquid sort of quality to them. Here on deck, the light swirls through them much like it does the sake in his cup.

Newgate finds himself shifting in his seat. He clears his throat. “Were you — aware, even back then?”

“I was,” Moby says, in that almost-singing way of theirs. “My thoughts were… simple. Crude, but they existed.”

Newgate makes a thoughtful noise. “What was that like, for you?”

Now it’s Moby’s turn to consider the sake in their glass, while Newgate considers their profile. They’re nearly translucent, but only barely. The way light moves through them makes them look like they’re glowing from the inside. “I knew I was damaged,” They say, after a moment. “I knew I could die. I knew I didn’t want to.” They take a sip from their cup, and their throat moves as they drink. A thumb swipes away a droplet of sake clinging to the corner of their mouth. That droplet rolls off them again, joins the water dancing in the air. “I remember thinking — I cannot sink. I will not sink. I was made to carry them.”

Here, they turn again to face Newgate, smiling. Their face is as deeply-lined as his own, but they’re lines that speak of the right kind of aging. Crows feet and laugh lines that crinkle when they smile at him. They look like they’ve smiled often, his Moby. They look like they’ve been smiling for decades. “Of course I got you there, old friend,” they say warmly. “Our children were on board.”

I am once again thinking about One Piece Omegaverse with Omega Ace and his hilarious experiences with joining the Whitebeards

Heat and Rut week on the Moby are flawlessly executed and prepared for weeks in advance. Everybody's cycles have synced up and everybody is accounted for, they know who's spending all or part of their cycle with a mate partner, they have designated nesting rooms piled ceiling-high with scented offerings from all the various crew members, they have food and water and everything all set and ready and people who have specific needs have those needs provided for. Omegas spend their heat week all piled together, occasionally yowling for their beta or alpha pack-mates to bring them something or other, while Alphas in rut are given leeway to patrol and scent and herd their pack-mates into the nest room as often as their instincts demand it of them.

(It is Very Funny watching anybody try to herd Pops anywhere, and even funnier to watch them get broody over him, but the funniest part is how willing he is to just Let Them Get Away With It. You have not seen hilarity until you've seen Marco in a rut sitting on top of Whitebeard's head and glaring at the horizon like a hen gearing up to peck anybody to might come too close. He tries to blame his devil fruit but he's a liar his brooding instinct is just Off The Charts.)

I'm thinking about the first time Ace's cycle synced up with the rest of the pack Omegas and how happy he probably was prancing his little ass into the heat rooms. He's really part of the crew now!!

I also think he was just, so hilariously perplexed and caught off-guard the first time he got swept up in all the alpha scenting and herding and checking-up-on. He hadn't been part of the crew for very long by that point and assumed that nobody would really feel protective enough about him to want to keep track of him during their rut but hoooo boy was he Wrong. He comes out of the crawl space he'd been not-really-hiding-in and is immediately swarmed by Alphas all Furiously Sniffing Him like disgruntled dogs. Where Have You Been Young Man We Were Worried Sick.

Ace goes from having One (1) Alpha in his life, and that Alpha being Luffy, who like. Okay yeah he does get twitchy in his rut but as long as he can find Ace when he goes looking for him it's fine -- to suddenly having a whole crew's worth of these fucking knot-heads following him around for an entire week. Ace went to sea prepared to deal with obnoxious horny Alphas who would not take no for an answer. He did not go to sea prepared to deal with obnoxious protective Alphas, half of whom want to Literally Sit On Him.

The worst part is that he knows it's his own fault. If he hadn't given them all such a hard time about joining the crew, they might not be so anxious and paranoid about keeping an eye on Him, Specifically. They're all Up His Ass making sure he's safe and comfortable and staying with them and not going anywhere and he has nobody to blame but himself.

Usopp fumbles in his pockets, digging for a throwing knife or a smoke bomb or a something — comes up empty handed, damn it, why is it always like this in dreams? Can never find anything when you need it. If he turned to run now, he’s sure he’d be running in slow-motion.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” He demands instead. “You’re not my nightmare!” His voice cracks on the last word, high and frightened and making him a liar, but what else is new?

Stealth Black tilts his head, smiling an awful little closed-lipped smile. He’s blond tonight, and it sparks something furious and painful in Usopp’s chest. How dare he wear Sanji’s color? How dare he wear Sanji’s face?

“Are you sure?” he laughs, and it’s Sanji’s laugh, that low chuckle in his chest. Usopp grits his teeth until his jaw aches. “Are you sure I don’t scare you worse than dying?”

Sanji’s hands, raising a cigarette to his lips. Sanji’s voice and Sanji’s words but he’s not fucking Sanji. He’s not even real.

Stealth Black stands up, and the whole fucking counter just crumbles away under him. Sanji’s meticulously neat workstation with all the bells and whistles Usopp and Franky have built into it, just gone, chunks of marble and rotting wood under the bastard’s feet. Usopp makes a sound, almost a snarl, almost a sob. His next breath in smells vile, like rotting produce and rancid mean. Something’s leaking out of the fridge. It puddles on the floor and then spreads, soaking into the floorboards, pooling at Usopp’s feet. Maggots writhe in the rot.

“Your mind makes me real,” Stealth Black says. He takes a step forward. Usopp takes a too-slow step back, and then another, until he can’t anymore with the table digging into his tail bone. “Yours, and his, and theirs. I could be living and breathing by now with how much he thinks of me. I could be more real than he is.”

There are rats in the pantry and flies in the fridge. The table, when Usopp grabs it, is caked in layers and layers of dust. Usopp turns to look, to watch his fingers leave stark streaks in the grime, and that — somehow, that’s the part of this that hurts the worst.

This is the table where they eat. Every meal, three times a day, this is the table the whole crew crowds around, laughing and arguing and shoving at each other, stealing food of each others plates because they know there’s plenty for everyone. This is the table where Sanji feeds them. This is the table where Sanji keeps them fed.

Stealth Black is still talking. “I grow like a tumor inside of him,” He says. He’s so close now, the heat of him at Usopp’s back. “And now you’re infected with me too, and I’ll kill all of you from the inside.”

The fridge creaks and swells. The pantry door splits open. Everything is rot and rubble, churning with bugs. Rats go scurrying across the floor, over Usopp’s feet to burrow into the walls.

This is Sanji’s kitchen.

He can feel Stealth Black’s breath on his neck. Usopp’s pockets are still empty, so he donkey-kicks instead, putting his hips and back into it, leveraging off the table to land his heel in Stealth Black’s gut and send him stumbling back. Not far, but far enough for Usopp to spin on the ball of his foot and land another kick, high and using his body’s momentum, scything at the bastard’s head.

Stealth Black makes a choked sound, more startled than in pain, but he moves back another step and that’s enough. That will have to be enough.

“Is that what you think you’re gonna do?” Usopp snarls. He dives for the knife block on the floor, and this time his body moves as fast as he needs it to. Sanji’s fancy kitchen knives have shit balance, they weren’t made for throwing, but they’re the best Usopp’s got right now so he snatches up two of them and rises to face his friend’s bogeyman. Stealth Black, shockingly, doesn’t charge at him. He’s just watching Usopp, an unreadable expression on his stolen face. Usopp stares right back.

“He builds you up so much in his head,” Usopp shouts. “He’s terrified of you, but I see you. I see you! And you’re not some — some demon sent by Germa to possess him. You’re just a bad dream!”

Humans saying Ow when we bump into something/drop something/spill something on ourselves — even if it doesn’t hurt! Even if there was No Pain At All! We’re saying it just in case! — is genuinely one of my favorite traits of our species and I want to think of a specific Omegaverse equivalent.

I could see like. Alphas growling at completely random stuff. A stack of laundry on the chair. The box that just fell over. Their own packmates, coming around the corner too fast. They are not angry! Those are not serious growls! There is no threat there! But They’re Growling Just In Case.

Betas also absolutely chatter just Out Of Nowhere. Think they heard something and they start Kekkekekekeke-ing like cats. A beta will hear a noise at night and Wake Themselves Up chattering at it. They also tend to freeze and stare at random stuff that looks sus for whatever reason. Mid sentence a Beta will just go silent and Stare At A Thing.

Conversely, that thing humans do where we apologize to inanimate objects? Omegas turn that up to eleven. An omega kicks a chair on their way past and they give it a comforting little scent and a pat-pat and tuck it gently back under the table. A towel falls off the top of the laundry pile and an omega gives it a little cuddle as they pick it up and put it back. The roomba gets stuck somewhere and an omega carries it around for a minute putting and scenting it to comfort the poor thing.

Pheromones, Packs, and Bonding Bites

Scents and biting are a staple in Omegaverse but I feel like I haven't seen a ton of really in-depth worldbuilding about how they work. Even fics with otherwise extremely in-depth speculative biology tend to just slap Magic Psychic Mating Bites in there and call it good. Which is fine, of course, but I figured I'd share my own thoughts on the whole thing for anybody else who's interested.

First, we gotta talk a little bit about scents. "Scents" in Omegaverse typically refer to pheromones, which are actually not really scents at all. Or, well. They do have a smell, but that'd be like saying words are sounds. Pheromones are a form of chemical communication. Species that use Pheromones don't just waft them through the air for no reason. They're a language, meant to express particular concepts among members of the same species. Because of this, pheromones are pretty specific. The pheromones bees use to communicate and the pheromones ants use to communicate are completely different; they're speaking different languages.

There are also Allelomones, which are used to communicate between different species, and we'll talk about that in a sec.

What does that have to do with bonding bites? Well, just about everything, actually. In my worldbuilding, exchanging bites injects a venomous compound in the saliva, which chemically alters a person's body, making them able to pick up on your pheromones. Bonding bites are not unique to mated pairs, and are instead a social activity shared between all pack-mates -- especially those who are not biologically related -- in order to create a sort of closed circle of communication. People who are not pack-bonded to you can still pick up on the "main" or "base" scents (your gender, general age markers, some amount of what emotions you're experiencing, that kind of thing) as well as being able to smell your pack on you and you on them, but they can't communicate with you via scent the way you would communicate with your pack.

Okay, so what exactly are these communications? Here's the ones I use.

Aggregate Pheromones are used to gather members of a group to a certain location. All genders produce aggregate pheromones in different forms. Alphas use aggregate pheromones to mark their territory, and these scent-marks are only detectable to the Alpha's bonded pack. The scent is long-lasting but doesn't tend to spread very far, staying localized within the general area of the territory. Omega aggregate pheromones tend to spread quite far beyond the den and territory, but don't last as long or as potently, and are typically meant to actively summon the pack to the omega's nest, whereas Alpha aggregate pheromones are more like a welcome mat. They're produced most often during heat, and are detectable to people who are not bonded pack, which is part of why people are so protective of their omega pack-mates during heat. Betas produce only short bursts of aggregate pheromones that do not linger on objects in their environment, however Beta aggregate pheromones are the "sharpest" and have the strongest compelling effect on calling their pack-mates to them. Basically Alphas mark their territories like a light house, Omegas mark their territories like the smell of food wafting out of the kitchen when you're hungry, and Betas scream Come Here Right Now directly up your nose.

This brings us to territorial pheromones, which are actually allelomones, meaning they're meant to communicate with people who are Not in your bonded pack. Alpha territorial pheromones are most concentrated in their urine and are used to mark the edges of their den and territory. Omega territorial pheromones are most concentrated in their saliva and are used to mark the edges of their nest, or groomed onto pack-mates (particularly pups) as a public claim. Betas typically mark within the bonds of an Alpha's territory. Their Territorial Pheromones are also generally most concentrated in their urine, but they can produce omega-like territorial pheromones in their saliva if their pack needs them to for any reason.

Defensive Rings (or Trap Pheromones) are a chemical cocktail caused by the interactions between Alpha, Beta, and Omega territorial pheromones. An Alpha can mark a territory without laying a trap, but they will rarely do so. The trap pheromone is undetectable to anyone who is not pack, however it will cling to skin of anyone who passes through the alpha's territory. If the intruder enters the ring of beta pheromones, a chemical reaction will occur that is unpleasant and repellent. This can be pushed through -- someone can even build up a tolerance to it -- but it is extremely uncomfortable for the person in question. If the intruder then continues deep enough into the pack's territory to come near the nests and the omega pheromones therein, the chemical reaction increases and becomes actively painful, similar to being maced. To invite a guest safely into your territory without triggering these traps you need only scent them thoroughly before they enter.

Alarm Pheromones are released when attacked or otherwise in danger and are meant to trigger either retreat or aggression in bonded pack. Omegas produce an Alarm Pheromone that triggers aggression and is used to mark an enemy. This pheromone is actively repellent to non-pack-bonded Alphas and will typically drive them away or make them reluctant to approach. Alphas who are pack-bonded to the omega will not be repelled. Alpha alarm pheromones can be used on either a person or the environment and are meant to trigger flight rather than fight -- run away, do not go near, proceed with caution. Beta alarm pheromones are a warning call that are not meant to immediately trigger a response in their pack-mates other than a call to attention and to be prepared. Betas do not mark enemies or environments with this scent, instead sending out the warning from their own bodies. It's a message that Something Is Wrong and needs to be investigated, or a call to arms for the pack to brace for oncoming danger.

Trail Pheromones are a trait unique to pup-hood. Children produce trail pheromones from the pads of their hands and feet, and will habitually touch things in their environment as they travel. This is done both so the pup can find their way back to their pack should they get lost, and so their pack can find them. Pups can also produce a homing scent which is extremely potent and travels very far, but cannot be detected by any adult that is not pack-bonded to the child. This allows the pup to broadcast their location to their pack without exposing themselves to a strange, potentially dangerous adult.

The flip side of this, adults who have given birth are able to release something akin to a Nasonov Pheromone, which acts as a beacon to their young. Like the pup's homing pheromones, this is a scent meant to spread extremely far in a short amount of time, without attracting the attention of a non-pack adult.

All genders can produce Calming and Appeasement pheromones, but Betas are the only gender who can weaponize them. A Beta scent naturally carries a slight sedative and soporific quality, which is why Betas produce less oil from their scent glands than their Alpha and Omega counterparts. However, betas can increase the potency of their scent and thus the effectiveness of their pheromones either to soothe a pack-mate when in distress or to weaken a potential enemy when in danger.

And then of course there are all of the obvious horny fuck-time pheromones. Alphas produce pheromones during their rut that are actively repellent to non-pack alphas and generally smell kind of gross and off-putting to non-back omegas and betas. However the alpha's pack will generally find the scent pleasant, and possibly arousing. In contrast, Omega heat scents are generally appealing to everyone, not just their bonded pack. A Beta exposed to the pheromones of their heating or rutting pack-mates might enter a sympathetic heat or rut as a result.

I said this in a discord server a little while ago but it's too funny to leave there so

Behind The Scenes AU where everybody is an actor BUT they still live in the One Piece world. The show itself is a historical dramatization, based on real people and events that actually happened.

Mihawk's actor did the Steven John Ward thing where he was so determined for his swordsmanship to look both accurate and effortless that he commissioned a replica Yoruha to train with and wound up accidentally unlocking armament haki in the process. Zoro's actor, like Mackenyu, is a life-long action star who does his own stunts, so he already had armament on his resume, and the two get way too into their duel and end up almost breaking several cameras, the set, and also each other.

In an interview Whitebeard's actor is asked about the difficulties of being a half-giant on a set of mostly human costars, and the topic of Ace's attempts on Whitebeard's life comes up. Ace's actor is Hollywood's sweetheart for how polite and sweet and well-spoken he is, everybody thinks of him as their golden retriever cinnamon roll, so the interviewer is like "How did you do it? He's so much smaller than you and so well-loved. I mean, when the script told you to backhand him into the ocean, what did you do?"

And Whitebeard's actor goes "I backhanded him into the ocean. That was real. He broke two ribs and dislocated his elbow and then said he wanted to go again because I didn't hit him hard enough."

Like. The Princess Bride style "everyone was harmed in the making of this video" shenanigans where every single actor at some point got so over-enthusiastically into their role that they wound up injured. Luffy's actor has gotten so many concussions from headbutting things he was only supposed to pretend to headbutt. Garp's actor (also an action star, also has haki) was in fact throwing actual cannonballs but ASL+Koby and Helmeppo's actors are determined to make him look like a lame old man so they always say it was faked. The real life actual Flower-Flower fruit goes up on auction and Robin's actress dropped like a million dollars bidding on it. She won.

Thinking about. Daemon AU. Thinking about Jimbei having some kind of amphibian (Chinese Giant Salamander?) and it having to try and drag Luffy's monkey daemon off Marineford while Jimbei carried Luffy.

Thinking about the daemons being too slow, and Jimbei having no choice but to pick Luffy's daemon up in order to get them out of there.

Jimbei is ashamed! He has compounded an already traumatic event for Luffy by trespassing against him in a way that can never be apologized or atoned for. He tries so so hard to stay distant and respectful when they meet again, and Luffy hasn't ever brought it up but he's also keeping physical distance so Jimbei assumes he has graciously been forgiven but also that Luffy doesn't feel comfortable putting his daemon in Jimbei's touching range, which does sting -- he would never have done so outside of such extenuating circumstances -- but he can't fault Luffy for his caution.

Then Jimbei gives Luffy a blood transfusion, and as they're both laying there Luffy's monkey crawls over and climbs right up onto Jimbei's chest to curl into a little ball over the scar he got saving them both. As the crowd of gathered fishfolk start absolutely losing their collective minds, Jimbei just goes "Ah. I see." And puts a comforting hand on the monkey's back.