Hi, could you write a fanfiction set in one piece when Brook was still a human instead of a skeleton? they would be cute together with the S/O from his old crew
𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤 & 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
I loved this request! Please don’t be nervous to Sen more guys! It ended up being very sad 😭 I’m so sorry if you wanted a fluffy piece, I just couldn’t help it. Tragedy just comes so much more naturally lmao.
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Brook used to sleep poorly.
Not because of nightmares, those came later, but because the ship never truly rested. The groan of wood, and the rhythm of the waves pressing against the hull. He would lie awake with his violin resting against his chest, listening to the world.
You were always awake with him.
You sat on the deck at night, legs pulled close, hair loose in the salt air, tracing invisible patterns on the goosebumps of your skin. You were part of the Rumbar Pirates, you weren’t as loud as Yorki, not as theatrical as Brook, but essential to the group. Like a harmony of a bass.
Brook liked to pretend he didn’t watch you.
But he did.
He watched the way you smiled when music drifted from below deck, the way your shoulders relaxed when he played. He watched the way you leaned closer without realizing it, like he was your opposing charge.
“You’re staring,” you once said without looking at him.
Brook nearly dropped his violin.
“I-I was merely observing the stars!” he laughed, dramatic as always, one hand to his forehead. “They remind me of you after all.”
You finally turned, unimpressed. “That’s the worst line you’ve ever used.”
“But it worked,” he said softly.
It had. You were smiling.
—
Brook had never planned to fall in love.
He had planned to be a knight, once. Then a musician. Then a pirate. Life kept shifting keys, and like a true musician Brook followed, trusting the melody to carry him.
Loving you came without fanfare.
It came in small moments. The way you would clean his violin when the calluses on his hands would rip, or the way you listened when he spoke about dreams he didn’t dare voice aloud.
You knew him before his jokes.
Before laughter became apart of him.
One night, after too much rum and too many songs, the crew slept in scattered heaps across the deck. The moon was full, and Brook played quietly, a melody meant for only two ears.
You sat beside him, knees touching.
“This song,” you murmured, “it’s sad.”
“It’s unfinished,” Brook replied. “Sadness is just longing without an ending.” He lifted his arms holding his violin in a triumphant pose.
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
“Then don’t stop playing,” you said. “Not yet.”
Brook’s fingers trembled.
If he stopped, the moment would end. If he continued, it might last forever.
He kept playing.
—
He never told you he loved you.
Not properly at least.
He said it in glances, and in his music. He said it by tuning your voice to his when you sang together, by promising that no matter where the sea carried you, he and the crew would follow.
But pirates do not get gentle endings.
The poison crept through the crew like a thief. Laughter that lit the dim deck thinned. Yorki left with the healthy ones.
You stayed.
So did Brook.
On the final night, the air was heavy with farewell. The crew gathered for one last performance. Brook’s violin sang through his shaking hands.
You stood across from him.
Your eyes never left his.
When the song ended, the world felt unbearably quiet.
Later, when the others slept, or pretended to, you sat with Brook at the edge of the ship. The sea glowed a faint greenish blue, like it was mourning too.
“Brook,” you said, voice soft, “promise me something.”
“Anything,” he replied instantly.
“Live,” you said. “No matter what happens next. Live enough for both of us.”
His throat closed.
“I don’t want a world without you,” he whispered.
You smiled, sad and gentle. “Then carry me with you.”
You leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow, and reverent, like the songs Brook would play for the elderly on islands they’d visit. It felt like a memory.
Brook held your face like it might vanish.
And soon after, despite his efforts.
It did.
—
Much later, years, decades, a lifetime of loneliness later. Brook would wake to bones and echoes and a body that no longer held flesh.
But he could still feel the music pulsing in him.
And sometimes, when he played alone under a moon that felt too familiar, he swore he could feel you beside him. Listening.
Waiting for the song to finish.
And he played on and on.
For you.
