AHHHHHHH CONGRATS TO EVERYONE!!!!!
This was so awesome to be apart of and be able scroll through all the spectacular submissions and see just how AMAZINGLY talented and skilled everyone was, and I’m so honored to have been among them
Bless u Whery, for ur masterful storytelling, wit, care, and overall charm. May ur infectious joy continue to spread onto every person u come in contact with, and never leave u 🫶🏻🌷
I think next time, it may be in my best interest to only have the challenge go for one month…
@princyvish, @whitewyrmings, @fahrenflame, @cavernofstars, @random-moth, @glucosegaurdian-art-writings, @aidakhar, @ikebanaka, @otaku553, @revolutiionarys , @chronokepts , @quantumbluenautilus , @izzybuggs , @radrogues , @fadingspyhandswagon , @uncannyjj , @piratespencilart , @kobycetacean , @matty-the-bathroom-mat , @rainnartt , @gloomins , @xxnotinmylobbyxx , @latelierderiot , @ace-of--the-spades, @artistic-fool , @sleepynoodleart , @sleepyendymion , @theparticlegraviton , @peachfrogdraws , @smuggonifico-lmao , @swimming-karyss , @the-obsessed-runaway , @dhirondelleetdepainfrais ,
@onepiece-treasurecove , @ghurei-pike, @ahomosexualsimp , @madbunsy , @secretuncle , @majestick-posts-op , @emotionallyconstipatedturtle , @theprettygirl23 , @arinadepan , @adigitalsky , @mega-ringsandthings-world , @eatinmabiscuits ,
@immortal-raine, @skialdi, @onenotedragon, @monocub, @12leafclover,
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This story was SO precious, I love the exploration of a softer side of Zoro that we don’t see as often 🥹🌷
Mean-Mugging
Summary: You always joke that Zoro is your "big and scary boyfriend," but after you and some of the crew are turned into children, your words become a bit literal.
Zoro x gn!reader, established relationship, silly fluff
A/N: I'm about to be head-down in requests for a bit, so enjoy this silly scene from my drafts. It was meant to be part of a longer story but didn't quite get there.
Zoro is at his wit's end.
For three days now, Robin, Usopp, Brook, and you have been stuck as children thanks to an incident with a cursed spring. As near as anyone could tell, you all were somewhere between 5 and 7 years old, with none of your adult memories.
It goes without saying that convincing four kids to get on a boat with (in your minds) total strangers had been difficult, but Zoro and the others managed.
The Marines charging in and firing at everyone had helped.
After some sleep and food, you all seem to be adjusting. Luffy and Chopper quickly become the favorite playmates, with Nami and Franky landing the roles of adoptive parents. Sanji makes the food and keeps handing out sweets, so he also quickly found himself in your tiny good graces.
Zoro, however, seems to terrify you.
Any time he enters the room, takes a seat on the deck, or sits at the table, his presence sends the four of you scurrying as from him as possible.
He doesn't know what he's done to deserve it. Sure, he’d snapped at Usopp and Brook when they tried to mess with his swords. And he could have been a bit more gentle when grabbing you and Robin to get you safely back on the Sunny.
He knows he isn't the warmest person on the crew either, but still, he isn’t a monster.
He could live with Brook, Usopp and Robin’s fear, but seeing the terror on your tiny face—he has to admit—stings a little.
"Have you seen yourself?" Nami asks when he finally brings it up. "You've literally cleared street corners."
"Doesn't help you always look like you want to punch someone," Franky adds.
"And that your face is stuck in a permanent scowl," says Sanji.
"Don't forget your cool scar and missing eye!" Luffy cheers.
"Thank you for all your unwanted opinions about my appearance," Zoro says tightly.
"Um, Zoro? I have a suggestion," Chopper says shakily.
The swordsman raises an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
"Well,” Chopper begins, “I remember being terrified of humans after I first changed. They were so big and strong and strange looking."
"I got it, I'm scary-looking," Zoro growls.
"W-what I mean is—try making yourself smaller. Sit on the ground. Find something they might like, maybe snacks or a toy. And don't approach them; let them come to you on their own terms."
The doctor clicks his hooves nervously.
"It's what worked for me when Dr. Hiruluk first took me in."
Zoro gives a half smile and pats the young doctor on the head, "Thanks, Chopper."
"At least one of you is actually helpful," he calls back to the others, leaving the galley.
Later, Zoro makes his way to Sunny's lawn. You and the others are playing some kind of game on one end, so he quietly heads to the other side and takes up a spot.
He's brought a book with him. It’s old, with a cracked spine and deep blue cover. The title has mostly worn off, and the pages are yellowed and dog-eared.
Well-loved is how Robin once described it.
"This had better work," he mumbles to himself, opening the book and flipping to a specific page.
He can hear the sounds of the game behind him—Usopp insisting he was allowed to do whatever he did while you, Robin and Brook argue with him.
Finding the page he was looking for, Zoro quietly began to read aloud.
"Long ago, on an island far from any known sea, there was the small village of Aurelia..."
It was your favorite story.
Years ago, when you were still fresh to the crew, you'd found the book at a small shop when resupplying. You'd said it was just like the one your grandmother read to you when you were little.
"...the boy said to the Sea King, 'If I could have just one scale, my village would be saved.'"
Zoro hears a small noise to his right. From the corner of his eye, he can just see the beginnings of tiny feet.
He keeps going.
"The sea king roared a great laugh. 'Who are you to ask a king for a scale? What makes you so worthy of such a grand prize?'"
You’re right behind his shoulder now, craning your neck to get a peek at the book in his lap.
"Is that...your book?" you ask softly.
"Sort of, I'm borrowing it," Zoro replies, keeping his eye on the page.
"That’s my favorite story," you tell him.
He risks a look. You’re staring at the ground, fidgeting nervously.
"Can you read it to me?" you practically whisper.
Zoro fights to contain his enthusiasm and remain neutral. After clearing his throat a time or two, he manages a soft smile and says, "Sure."
He expects you to sit next to him. Instead, you wriggle under his arm and into his lap.
"You can keep going now," you inform him once you’re settled.
Zoro resumes the tale and slowly, the other three drift over to listen. Anytime one of them tries to interrupt, you shush them harshly, like royalty overseeing their subjects. It’s a struggle for Zoro not to laugh.
After that, things are better. Chopper says the effects should wear off in a few more days. Until then, at least you’re running toward him instead of away from him.
Though he’s never going to live down the teasing from the rest of the crew.
Of course, you made him do the voices.
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Adrift
Summary: Brook doesn't expect to find a painting of his old West Blue stomping ground in the middle of the New World. He expected to see the old flame who painted it even less.
A/N: I might be processing some stuff with this one, so read at your own risk.
CW: Angst, hurt with no comfort, aging, dementia.
Brook looks at the painted door in front of him, comparing the address to the one scribbled on the scrap of paper in his hand. It was a match.
He knows that. He’s checked three times already. Now he is just stalling.
The address is written on the leaflet for a local art gallery. He’d been doing errands with Sanji and Chopper when he saw it — a landscape of a sleepy seaside town flanked by a bright red lighthouse.
He knew that town. Hell, he’d been to that town. A literal lifetime ago in West Blue, before he'd even joined the Rumbar Pirates.
Most of all, he remembered the woman who painted it. He recalled her slim hands and the way she stuck her tongue out when she made delicate strokes on the canvas, how she laughed at his jokes til tears came to her eyes, the taste of her lips on his.
Rosa.
He almost lost it when the curator told him that not only was the artist still alive, but she also lived on the island.
But now his nerves are getting the better of him.
What if she doesn’t remember him? It’s not like their tryst had been long or particularly deep. Brook knows that. But alone and adrift in the darkness of the Florian Triangle, the only source of comfort he’d had often came from looking into the past.
It had taken a long time to start looking forward again.
Maybe he shouldn’t be here at all.
But that there is even the slightest chance that someone who had known him in his first life is within his reach — it's too tempting.
With a steadying breath, he raises his fist and raps on the door. After a moment, there is rustling on the other side and the click of a lock as it peeks open.
And closes almost as fast.
“Wait, please don’t!” he shouts, sticking his arm through before he can think.
He yowls in pain as the woman behind it slams the door on his arm repeatedly, trying to force him back through.
What kind of cruel trick was it to be nothing but bone and still feel lots and lots of pain?
“P-please! I promise I’m not here to hurt you! I just came to see Rosa!”
The door stops slamming.
“What did you say?”
He looks up to see a young woman with dark hair and darker eyes staring at him wide-eyed, her hand still firmly on the door’s edge.
“I’m here to see Rosa Clemente,” he repeats, rubbing his freshly cracked arm. “My name is Brook. We were…friends. A long time ago.”
He waits for the door to slam a final time. It wouldn’t be the first since he’d gotten this non-face. But it stays open, though the woman still guarded the entrance carefully.
When he finally gets a good look at her, Brook has to stop himself from pulling her into a full-on hug. She looks exactly as Rosa did when he’d last seen her: the same eyes, hair, even her hands look like Rosa’s. But the smile isn’t the same.
The Rosa he’d known had never met a stranger. She’d been kind and trusting and open. The woman who stands in front of him is weary and aloof. Though that was probably in part because of the skeleton thing.
“Where did you meet?” she asks.
Brook is surprised by the question, not expecting to get this far and scrambles for the answer. “A bar in West Blue — Figaro’s. I’m a musician. I used to play there sometimes. She was working as a waitress. She used to draw me sketches on napkins.”
It's more than she had asked for, but the details of their time together are practically branded into his skill. Regardless, the answer seems to satisfy her. She steps back from the door.
“Would you like some tea or something to eat?” she asks, leading him to a small sitting room. “Oh—I’m sorry, is that…insensitive?”
Brook chuckles, “No, no, it’s not. Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”
He takes a seat as she heads into the kitchen. The room's walls are covered in paintings of all sizes and subjects. There are more landscapes like the one he spotted in the market, some portraits, several ships at sea, and even a few of children playing in the front yard.
And there, on the far wall, tucked in the corner, is a painting of a cramped stage with shitty overhead lighting and a familiar figure playing the violin. It's darker than the others, almost hazy looking, like looking through smoke. Pretty close to what the real Figaro's had been like, to be honest.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” the woman asks, as she catches him staring when she returns with the tea.
“I haven’t aged a day, have I?” he teases.
She tries and fails to hide her small laugh as she sets down the tray and takes the seat across from him.
“My name is Anya,” she says, introducing herself. “Rosa is my grandmother.”
“You look exactly like her. It’s like I’m looking back in time,” Brook replies with a slight bow of his head.
Anya’s expression dims a bit as she picks up her cup.
“Mr. Brook, you should know…my grandmother isn’t doing very well.”
Brook finds a sudden interest in his own cup.
“I’m…sorry to hear that,” he replies. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at her age. Our age. How bad is it?”
“Physically, she’s fine. She’s slow, and she gets tired, but she gets around well enough. But, mentally…she has good days and bad days. The bad days are getting more and more frequent. It can be hard to tell where she is or when.”
"That is a feeling I'm familiar with," he replies, staring into his cup.
“I just…want you to be prepared. In case she doesn’t remember you,” Anya explains.
“I understand. Thank you for telling me. And for letting me try.”
Anya leads Brook upstairs to a cozy back bedroom. The afternoon sunlight pours in through the window, casting light on even more paintings adorning the space. In the center of it all is a bed, thick with quilts and blankets, where a frail old woman reads peacefully.
She's dressed in a plain nightgown, with her wispy silver hair tied in a simple braid. The years had added spots and wrinkles to her skin. There are scars Brook doesn't remember being there, a gold ring on her left hand that he doesn't recognize. But he'd know that face anywhere. The memory of it had kept him company for more than fifty years.
“Rosa,” he says softly, taking her in.
She turns her honey-brown gaze towards him, eyes narrowing a bit as she takes him in.
“Maria,” she says, glancing at Anya, “is this your new boyfriend? He’s so skinny!”
“No, Gran, he’s not my boyfriend,” Anya says patiently. “I think he’s a little too old for me.”
Rosa continues on, ignoring Anya’s words. “You’ve got to fatten him up! What kind of girlfriend lets a man starve like this? Look at him. He’s all skin and bones!”
Brook can’t help it; he bursts out laughing. It’s too hard not to. Between the stress of the situation, his nerves and seeing the shell of a woman he once might have loved, there’s nothing he can do but laugh.
Rosa stills and looks at him, eyes wide.
“That laugh…” she says, continuing to scrutinize him. She takes off the pair of reading glasses that are perched on her nose and continues to stare. “That hair…it can’t be…Brook?”
Even though he doesn’t have a heart, Brook can’t help but relish in the warmth that spreads through his chest at her words.
“Hello, Rosie,” he says, giving her a slight bow. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
Rosa lets out a loud cackle.
“Still quick to lay on the charm, I see,” she says, reaching a hand out toward him.
Brook glances at Anya, who gives him a cautious nod, before taking it gently. Rosa grips it hard and pulls him close.
"Maria! Maria, this is my musician!" she exclaims. "The one you used to ask me about in my paintings! This is Brook!"
She looks back toward Anya excitedly, but then her forehead crinkles in concern.
“You’re not Maria,” she says softly.
Anya gives her a half smile and smooths her grandmother’s hair.
“I’m Anya,” she tells her, “your granddaughter. Maria was my mother.”
“Yes…yes. You’re Anya. I'm sorry, dear. It must have slipped my mind.”
“It’s alright, Gran. I’ll let you two catch up, okay?” Anya says, giving her forehead a kiss. “Would you like some tea?”
Rosa nods, “Yes, please. And do get something to eat for Brook. He’s so skinny.”
“Coming right up, Gran,” Anya replies, making for the doorway. She pauses by Brook’s shoulder and says quietly, “She’s usually lucid for about a half hour or so.”
As Anya disappears, Rosa continues to smile at the doorway. “What a lovely young woman. She reminds me of my Maria.”
Brook can't help but notice how thin and frail Rosa's fingers look, even when laced alongside his bony ones.
He knows he's old. He feels old, but it occurs to him in that moment that, in many ways, he never aged. He'd never know the feeling of his body slowly failing him. He had no joints that would ache, no heart that would wear out, no brain that would dull with time. It was cruel, but he wasn't sure for whom.
“Brook?” Rosa’s voice calls, pulling him back from wherever he was.
“Hmm? I’m sorry, my dear, what did you say?” he asks.
“I asked why it took you so long to come and see me,” she says, wearing a mocking pout.
“I’m sorry, Rosie, I…got a little lost on the way,” he replies.
Rosa’s smile takes on a tinge of sadness as she says, “It’s alright. I get lost, too, sometimes. Probably more than I realize these days.”
“I saw your paintings in the town market,” Brook says after a moment. “And all the ones downstairs. They look beautiful, Rosie! Though, I’m still partial to your bar napkin period, myself.”
“Those were some of my best works. I remember I used to use the wine and beer stains as ‘inspiration,'" Rosa says with a chuckle.
“Don’t forget the peanut shell sculptures. I still say you were on to something there.”
“I’d forgotten about those!" she exclaims. "My friend Brook, he used to build me little art galleries out of glasses for me to put them on. Oh, he had the best sense of humor. The best laugh!”
She smiles.
“You remind me so much of him.”
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