Grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love. This is the last act of loving someone. And you realize that it will never end. You get to do this to translate this last act of love for the rest of your life.
Summary: You wake up from the infamous Baby Dream and are distraught. Jack has no idea what is going on. He tries his best to understand.
TW: Babies? Grief? It's a weird one, no actual babies just dream babies and that weird feeling of grief after you have The Baby Dream.
A/N: I saw a tiktok talking about this after I had a baby dream last night and I'm still getting that weird feeling off me. I am cursed with vivid dreams, so my Baby Dreams get detailed. It's so hard to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of that dream. Sound off, if you have had a Baby Dream and if you still think about them.
The house was quiet as the morning broke. The soft sounds of snoring and gentle breaths filled the room as the sun started to peek through the window. The air was warm and comforting. Jack had his arms wrapped around you, his body heat keeping you toasty.
The calm was broken as you jolted awake. It took you a moment to process that you were awake. Once the realization settled in, you couldn’t stop the sob that croaked from deep in your chest.
“Baby? Hey, what’s going on?” Jack sat up, groggy and confused.
“She was real! I held her!” You cried.
“What? Hey, breathe for me. Come on, Honey. Deep breath.” Jack rubbed circles on your back, trying to get you to calm down.
“I’ll never see her again! She was real!” You were consumed by a grief that was so unique it was almost impossible to put into words.
“Honey, I don’t understand what’s going on.” Jack sighed, feeling completely out of his depths.
“I…I had a dream. We had a baby.” You tried to take a breath, but it stuttered in your chest.
“In the dream? We had a baby in the dream?” Jack tried to put the pieces together.
“Yeah. Jack, I felt all of it. I was pregnant, I felt her kick and everything. I gave birth to her. I held her in my arms. I can still see her face. I smelled her little head. We named her Josephine, after my grandmother. Josephine Anne Abbot. You cried when she was born. We brought her home, I watched her grow and crawl and fed her. And now…she’s just gone.” You tried to get him to understand.
“Honey…I’m sorry, I don’t know how to help this.” Jack sighed.
“Do men not have the baby dream?” You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Is this a thing? I’ve never heard of it.” He shook his head.
“It’s a thing. It’s a terrible fucking thing.” You hiccupped as you climbed over him to get your phone from where it charged on his nightstand.
“What are you doing?” He watched as you jabbed at your phone like it had insulted you.
“I need…I need someone that understands.” You mumbled.
“I’m trying, Honey.” Jack reached out for you.
“I know. But you don’t.” You sighed as you hit McKay’s contact and hit the FaceTime button.
“Hey! Oh shit. You look like crap.” She said as she moved to a different room and closed the door.
“I had the baby dream.” You sobbed.
“Oh, Sweetie.” She cooed. “I’m sorry.”
“It was so real! Cassie, I can still smell her!” You were falling back into hysterics. Jack rubbed your back, watching you carefully.
“It’s the worst, Honey. It’s so hard to shake, I know.” Cassie said, the memory of her own baby dream played in her head.
“I…I don’t know how to just leave it behind. Like…am I supposed to just forget!?” You cried, desperate for a clear-cut answer.
“I don’t have the right answer, I’m afraid. I still remember mine. But it just becomes a weird memory of a memory. That isn’t helpful.” Cassie was upset with her own inability to help you.
“I don’t want to forget her! She was my baby!” You sobbed.
“Honey, take some deep breaths. Please.” Jack coached.
“Just relax. Take some deep breaths, give yourself some extra grace today. You have the day off, stay in bed and grieve. That’s the best advice I have.” Cassie wanted to reach through the phone and hug you.
“Okay…I feel crazy.” You rubbed at your sore eyes.
“I know, but you aren’t. It feels real because, to your brain, it was real for a while. So, let yourself grieve like it was real.” Cassie told her.
“Okay. Sorry, I cried at you.” You mumbled.
“Oh, stop that. You know I don’t care. I love ya, go back to sleep.” She winked and ended the call.
“Sorry, I scared you.” You shimmied down under the blankets again.
“You’re okay. I was just worried and confused as hell.” Jack smiled.
“Jack, it was so real.” The tears fell more slowly now, but the lump in your throat hadn’t gone away.
“I’m sure.” Jack pulled you close, your head on his chest. “Should we be having a bigger conversation?”
“I don’t know. Not right now, at least.” You sighed.
“Tell me about her.” He traced lazy patterns on your arm, his other hand entwined with yours.
“What?” You went rigid in his arms.
“It might help. Get it out of your system. Tell me about her. I didn’t get to see her.” Jack kissed your hair.
“Um…she had red hair, like your hair in your baby pictures. Curly like yours.” You smile at the memory.
“So, I cursed her with this mop.” Jack hummed.
“It was so cute. She got your nose, too. My eyes. She had big, chubby cheeks and the cutest smile.” Jack felt your tears hitting his chest.
“I bet she was perfect.” Jack could almost see her as you spoke.
“She was so little in your arms. It was so cute it made my chest hurt. She had that smell, that baby smell. You looked at her like she was the most important person in the world.” You started to calm down little by little.
“She was.” Jack felt himself getting emotional.
“We should absolutely not make a decision right now, but I’m going to have your baby one day.” You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him.
“You let me know when you’re ready. I’m ready.” Jack smiles at the determination on your face.
“Okay. Good.” You fall back into his arms. “I don’t want to do a single thing today.”
“Takeout and movies it is.” He brought your hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “Josephine. It’s a good name.”
One Piece Men + reacting to grieving!reader (short fics)
- ❝the loss of a loved one finds you once more, riddling you in a state of grief; how will your s/o react to that?❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Comfort, grief, SFW. Reader with vauge past of losing a loved one. Reader is she/her. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 1.2 k for each separate fic.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ Personal note: to my three little boys; i still think about you. I still love you.🤍❞
Rob Lucci
It’s that time of the year.
You told Rob you’re heading to bed early, waving it off as exhaustion, but your head have been on the pillow since evening. It’s three in the morning now. Not once catching sleep.
You were thinking about them.
Tried to recall their scent, the clang of their laughter but all you can feel, all you can hear — is a buzzing almost fading sound.
Your ear twitched.
That’s not right.
That’s not what they were like.
You try again, but their expression is not aligned, their face shifting and turning. You can’t remember them and that notion makes you sick in the stomach.
You hear Rob coming back home from work, light spilling through the bedroom floor.
He slithered inside. No sound. No steps. Almost like a shadow, a blade. He spots you awake, stopping in his tracks.
And you blinked.
Not knowing what expression to make.
“… you’re awake.” He gives you a brow, “I thought you’d be asleep considering how insistent you were going to bed at six.” He slides off his hat and undo his shirt but then—he catches the shape of you.
Your eyes are swollen.
There are small dots scattered across your face as if you've cried so hard, tiny blood vessels must have popped.
He drops immediately his undressing and strides over to you in bed.
“You've been crying.” An observation, not a question. His voice sharp, curt, straight to the point. He looms over you, tilting his head. His expression flat but there is something in his gaze, something dark. Focused. As if to catch what has broken you in your expression alone — and strangle it to death.
A cold thumb comes rubbing your cheek.
“Why.”
Rob is an agent, an assassin and a killer.
Death to him is a passionate Monday's work. He’s close to it, works with it—wields it. He feels it in ways that it becomes casual for him.
And he does not know of them.
Or the colour of their hair, and how they liked their morning tea.
He knows nothing.
They’re gone, and like a fading echo of their presence—you’ve already forgotten how they used to smile.
And it’s been so long since you last heard their name. If they were to leave your mouth now—you’re sure your voice would crack.
How do you explain that? How do you explain them? To him?
You only shake your head. Chin low. Not meeting his focused gaze.
“Rob.”
He does not bend or lean in, he just reaches for your face. Bigger hands placing on your cheek. Wiping a tear.
“I’m listening.” Tone flat, monotone. But his touch is soft, faint. That’s always how he did it — an affection not heard, but shown. It makes you sink into his touch.
“Can you just hold me? For tonight? Please?”
His brows pulls at that, face growing tense. withdrawing his warmth from you.
“Did someone hurt you?” His voice is controlled, unbearably so; a tone that only a Massacre Weapon of the World Government can carry as he tenderly takes a hold on your hand. Rubbing your fingers and knuckles. “Give me names; I’ll deal with them.”
Your chin drops lower. You shake your head and just pull back his hand to your cheek. “Please.”
And he clenches his jaw, scowling but… he obeys.
A deep inwardly sigh leaves from his chest, a rumble almost—sliding into the sheets with you.
He wraps his arms around you. Pulling you close. And you hum, burying your face into his chest, feel his fingers slither through your hair.
Taking in his scent, and warmth.
“… Your exhaustion. Was it truly just from work?”
Your shoulders tense up, and that’s all the answer he needs.
He looks down at you from his chest.
You’re not crying, or sobbing or hiccuping. But your eyes are glassy, distant—reminiscing the past.
Corner of his lip jerk, for once, not knowing what to say.
So he does the only thing he knows how.
He brings you close, let you hide your face under his chin. Nudging the top of your hair with his cheek, nose. Caressing circles on your spine. Faintly, gently. Nails grazing. You shudder.
“Tell me.” His voice is not lazy, flat or cruel but low, dark and soft. His version of soft. The kind that is restrained, quiet. A blade’s dulled edge pulled back into its sheath. And it cleaves at your heart yet again.
Perhaps, you’ll manage to find the words to describe them. Without your voice cracking.
And Rob will listen. He might not be able to truly empathise but… He’ll hold you. Console you.
Not because he’s adoring but because this is what you need. What your heart needs. He’s practical, pragmatic but with you—there is a hidden softness in his cynical demeanour. One that takes the shape of warmer hands, softer touches, slower motions.
You tell him all of them — the colour of their hair, their favourite cake flavour and how they always left their socks in the living room.
You do not cry, not really — you simply talk. Speak. Let your love for them bloom once more, and even though Rob Lucci might never understand; he knows, if he were to lose you, the last untouched parts of his so called 'heart' will shatter into pieces.
Freezing over and returning to machine once more.
He tenses at the thought of that.
And unconsciously his hold on you grows a little bit harder, a little more firmer.
Summary: After peeling each layer back and letting your heart grieve once more, he lets you rest. By morning and the next few to come, he’ll fix you breakfast. Coffee. Hattori will deliver you a satchel of flower seeds. And it’s not just any flowers, but their favourites. And you’ll press down a smile. Rob is a killer, an assassin and the best agent for the World Government but with you—he’s Rob. Your Rob. The loving one, the understanding one; the domestic, human one.
Sir Crocodile
You were assorting a pot of flowers. Clipping, tending, fixing it nutrients. Adjusting so the soil does not run spoiled.
And meanwhilst, you've faded into your mind. It was around this time they…
You clipped some dead leaves.
Straightening a stem.
You remember how they always asked you to water their plants. Back then, you always grumbled, annoyed and cranky and took it as a chore.
But now, you pressed down a smile when an inside joke you had with them resurfaces.
Crocodile spots you smiling to yourself. He was leaning against the door frame watching you. Arms crossed and face grumpy.
Your smile wasn’t the usual, beaming and happy one. There was a tone of silence in it—as if missing something, or someone. And he wasn’t far off.
“Whatever is making you smile like that; best not be about another man.”
You looked to him then, blinking, before returning a half-smile. “I was just remembering something.”
“Is that so?” He unfolds his arms and closed the distance between you two.
His steps heavy, sure.
“What was it?” He sits down next to you.
Leaning against your working table.
You advert your gaze.
Returning your focus on your pot. But there is nothing more to adjust and tend to. So you only stare for a good minute.
The shape of their eyes, the sound of their laugh—you don’t remember. Not really.
Each vision is a blur, a false one. And it makes your stomach sink.
Before you let tears sting your vision—you set your scissors down and get up from your seat.
You look to him, “can we get take-out tonight? I don’t feel like cooking.”
He gives you a brow, tilting his jaw up. Smoke swirling off his cigar.
Gaze tense, focused. As if discerning a puzzle etched on your face — revealing the makings of your heart.
“… is that a no—?”
“You’re unhappy.” He cuts you off and your bones run cold.
Of course he’d figure it out.
He knows you, sees you.
You look away and that is an answer in itself. His gaze softens, shoulders slumping. He takes your hands, and guides you back down to your seat. His grip gentle, if not almost precious.
A rough hand landing on the side of your face. Rubbing your cheek. Wiping a tear.
“Sweet doll,” he hums. "Who's the idiot, tell me and i’ll fix this—”
“No.” You shake your head, almost frantically. “not like that.” Your voice is firm but there is a small, uncertain tremble in it. As if it’s taking everything in you not to break down there and then.
And maybe, it is that, that makes him incline his head. Looking you over as to find the answer in the very shape of your figure, the pattern in your eyes.
He takes a smoke, removing his cigar.
“Very well — do you want to talk about it?” He says at last and you press your lips. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say. No matter how trivial.”
And it’s true.
You know he would so you grab onto the pot, fixing a nonexistent issue.
You say their name.
The shape of their letters, the sound of their sobriquet leaving your mouth feels all too strange on your tongue. It comes out stiff, odd and jarring. They've become a stranger in your mouth — as if it’s been ages you’ve ever said their name.
You re-adjust the leaves, fix the stem and tilt the petals as you tell him about them. Who they were and what they meant to you.
And Sir Crocodile will listen.
The scar left across his face leaves a soft ache as he listens to you speak. Even though it’s healed and aged—it still has left its mark on him.
Just like 'yours' left a mark on your heart.
If you were to start crying, breaking—Crocodile won’t hold you. He’ll offer you a tissue, a resting palm on your hand but unless you ask for it—he won't hold you.
He’ll let you have this moment for yourself — so you can mourn, grieve, feel the love you had for them bloom once again. He’s an ex-warlord of the sea; he’s scum, filth, a pirate. He takes and he deceives but, he won’t steal this moment from you. Especially not from you, his darling, his pearl.
Sir Crocodile will ask you how they looked like, if they bore a resemblance to you. And you’ll tell him. Tell him all of them. How they liked their dinner plate, and their morning tea.
You say all that you can think of, shed all the tears you've held, moments already passing and by then, after all that’s been said—a small smile has made its way to your face.
He’ll reach a hand to you. Rub your cheek with his thumb. You lean in.
His palm rough, calloused but indelibely warm. You hum, almost as if soothed.
“Hungry?”
You hold in a smile, “Yes. Very.”
“Then, let’s not dally. I’ll take you out for shopping afterwards.”
You give him a sly smile, “You made fun of me last night because I have way too many clothes.”
“Did I?” He fixes his tie, “Such nonsense. My lady deserves all and more. We’ll have to get you a new dress for dinner, don’t you agree?”
And you laugh, taking his offered arm.
Summary: The flower pot is left by the windowsill, curtains fluttering with the breeze and as you sit there with him at the restaurant—he’ll pass you the better cut steak, fix you a finer aged wine. And if you want to speak about them again, he’ll be there. Listening and listening. Not once losing patience, or interest. And between the jewels and the dresses and the heels — that is all that truly makes you smile.
Trafalgar D. Water Law
It’s been days since the crew landed at Zou, and you were just exploring the island on your own. Coming across a field of flowers.
The colours are vibrant, flushed with all kinds of herbs and blooms.
The wind rustled through the green, and the scent of grass and nature filled your senses.
Across the field; it was just you, the breeze and the field of wild flowers.
You dropped your bag and belonging, and set to making your own few bouquets to bring back to the polar tang.
As you were assorting the flowers, your mind drifted.
It was around this time of the year they…
You didn’t even get the chance to tell them you loved them before they left you.
"Ouch—” Your thumb pricked at a torn and you click your tongue. Bringing the wound to your mouth. Sucking off the blood. Frowning.
You should have given them a hug when you still had the chance. Should of told them you liked their cooking and how you shouldn’t have yelled at them that one time.
Should have... should have… should have.
The words burn on your tongue like venom.
…
You feel selfish, mean and suddenly, the bouquets of flowers become an eye sore. You toss them to the side, feeling a headache form.
You decide to just watch the clouds pass the blue skies.
But as you watch, they won’t leave your mind.
You want them back.
More than you have wanted anything else.
The clang of their laugh, the way their nose would scrunch when they smiled and joked. You’ve forgotten it all. You want to see them again. Hear them again. Talk to them again.
Your chest starts to ache, twisting and turning as you know, you’ve always known, they’ll never come back. And it’s that fact alone, that makes everything always hurt so much more.
You pull your knees to your chest. Burying your face between them.
You want to cry, want to feel tears sting your eyes—but no matter how hard you try and squeeze them out, nothing comes, and you feel so terribly helpless.
You want someone to find you here in the meadows.
See your slumped state and take pity on you.
Perhaps even hold you, take care of you—feel a hand pressed on your cheek.
Is that selfish of you to think, to feel? Maybe, but... it’s nothing but a fantasy, a harmless one.
Besides, no one is going to find you here.
Or so you thought, until you feel a hand placed on your shoulder, and you flinch. Looking up.
Your eyes widen, and breath leaves you.
“Law!?”
“There you are; I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
You immediately go to your feet, petals and leaves rustling as you crash him down into the grass with you.
You don’t know if you should laugh or cry seeing him again after such a long time apart. God you missed his smell, his skin, his warmth and his pretty, handsome, dork of a face. You rub and bury your own into his neck and he lets you.
He won’t let you see it, but he’s smirking. Proud. Smug.
“It’s been so long,” Your face hovers above him as you let him go from your killer-embrace. “When did you get here?”
“Just now.” He slides a lock of hair behind your ear. He takes a moment looking at you. Tired eyes growing softer, tender.
You’re pretty.
“How have you been?” He says at last and you grin. “I’m better now that you’re here.”
“Yeah? As much as I love having you above me, feeling a stick jabbing my spine does little for chatter so er—”
You immediately sit up, feeling flustered. “Oh right, sorry.”
He sits up too, groaning, pulling that stick aside.
But he blinks when he sees the said stick being your arrangement of flowers.
“Flowers?” He pulls it into view. The petals and the stems have been crushed and tossed and bent. “Did you make these? Didn’t exactly mean to crush them; sorry—.”
You wave it off, “Don’t worry. They were no good anyways.”
Law looks them over, before looking back at you.
You’ve adverted your gaze, your face hard. Tense. As if thinking about something.
You see him put the wilted flowers inside his bag and you frown. “They’re ruined, why would you want to keep them?”
“Cause’ you made them.” That’s all he says before turning to you again.
“What were you doing out here?”
You look away. Fixing your hair from the breeze. “Nothing, just exploring.”
He spots your thumb glinting red. Law reaches out, grabbing your hand.
He looks to your pricked finger, then to your assorted flowers, and then back to you.
Your expression is guarded, rigid but beneath them, there is also a faint trace of sadness.
“You sure it was only exploring?”
“Law, you just got back—how was your time with the Strawhats?”
He pulls his brows. You’re avoiding the topic. You cannot blame him for being curious, and for worrying. He skims your knuckle with his thumb, “You must’ve put a lot of work into that bouquet. Was it for something… or for someone special?”
You pull your hand away. Shaking your head. Almost frantically.
“It doesn’t matter anymore—”
“I’ll listen.”
At that, you snap your gaze to him.
His words came fast, no hesitation, no question. And your brows pull.
He lays back down onto the grass. Hands under his head. Expression at ease as he closes his eyes, the sun catching his skin and the warmth edging across his face.
When you just sit there and stare, he looks to you. And points a finger next to him. “There’s a free spot here if you want.”
Yes, there is. And you soften.
Laying down next to him.
The scent of summer and grass filling your senses—for a moment all you can hear are the rustling of flowers, leaves, bushes and nature. Waddling bumblebees and drifting clouds. It’s peaceful. Calm. Bringing you courage. However faint.
Maybe you’ll tell him.
Maybe you’ll say their name and tell him who they were to you.
Maybe, you will lay there under the blue skies with him and let him know of their pancake recipe. And maybe, he’ll look to you, as your eyes are fixed onto the clouds above. Glinting, reminiscing. A bright, almost a dreamy look in your gaze as you talk about them.
For one split second—his sister’s face comes into view. Rounder cheeks, smaller nose. Ice cream all over her grinning face. Lami. Soft, kind Lami.
And he’ll blink, before sliding a flower into your hair.
Letting you yap till your hearts content.
Summary: He’ll walk you back to the polar tang, in both of your hands, there are flowers for you to bring back with. And if you want to talk about them again, he’ll listen, and be near you all the same.
Donquixote Doflamingo
It was in the dead of the night.
Sitting at the edge of the bed with your face in your hands.
Doffy was snoozing right next to you as you held back your tears with a frown.
The burst of panic, the wave of longing, the sudden replay of all the memories—snatched you by the neck before you had the chance to breathe.
It’s been so long, and you've been trying to lay your head down but you keep turning and shifting and it's now three A.M.
You squeeze your face into your hands.
Shuddering. Shivering.
You want to go back home.
The home before him — the home where you would taste their cooking and catch glimpse of their back by the living room. You want to see them again.
Their hands and their smile.
It hurts, everything just hurts. From your chest down to your feet, everything aches and twists — and despite this, you can't bring yourself to cry.
You clutched onto your chest, your breathing going undone, and no matter where you place your hands—they won't stop shaking.
You hold in your whines, your mewls, your tears. A head ache forming from keeping it all in.
And suddenly, you feel strong arms envelop you, hands pulling you into his chest from behind as he buries his face into your neck.
Voice laced with sleep.
“What’s the matter dove? Can’t sleep? Need me to beat up your pillow?”
You can't answer, breath shuddering. Only then does he snap himself fully awake and see the state you’re in.
You’re crying. Sobbing. Breaking.
He tries to catch your expression from behind but your posture is slumped, hands clutching onto your chest as you try and hold onto your sobs.
“Hey, what happened? Bad dreams—?”
You shake your head and he narrows his eyes.
“Did someone mess with you?” His grip on your shoulders goes hard, tight, a scowl already forming on his face and you wince. Feeling overwhelmed.
“No. No one has done anything.” You try breathing, “I just… Doffy, can you just hold me?”
His brows pulls. Softening at the sensitive tone of your voice.
But of course he can.
He brings you into his lap, into his arms. Let your head rest on his chest.
His warmth slithers into you, his scent, his strong arms holding you by the back—like always, it forces your walls down.
All the grief, the memories and pain all come at once. And you break.
You cry into his shoulder. You sob until your chest tears apart and your eyes stings with so much crying you swear they’ll swell and pop.
Snoot, drool and whimpers coating his shoulder as you continue.
And Doflamingo does not grow impatient of you. Does not flick you away and find you a nuisance.
No.
His hand cups your head, press you deeper into his skin—let’s you unravel without so much a fuss.
All he says in between your crying is:
“Shhh… I'm here.” Voice soft, almost tender.
Adding a kiss to the side of your face. “My sweet girl. I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.”
He’ll keep humming, shushing, but not once telling you to quieten.
He lets you weep. Mourn. In all the ways you need.
And under the pale moon watch, between the silk curtains and the quiet of the night; your heart will be to his. Thumping with longing, dying with need. When your sobs slows, and you can blink without tearing up, only then will you shift your head.
“Doffy. Can I ask you for something?”
“Of course, anything for you my darling.” He answers almost immediately, for he means it. He’ll give you anything—from a crown on your head to your own lush garden, anything and anyone, just ask him and it’ll be yours; he’ll give you anything.
“I want to go back home.”
He almost flinches.
“… Home? Is this a trick question because I don’t find it musing,” He tries a smile to hide his nerves, “Your home is here. In Dressrosa, with me—”
“Yes. It is. But… I had one before you. Before Dressrosa, before—”
“Before me?” He says it almost as if it’s a joke. A bad one. He withdraws his embrace and makes you face him. A grin on his face, one depraved of patience. Fingers digging into your shoulders as if to anchor you back to him. “Don’t be ridiculous, why would you need to go back there for? Aren’t you happy here? Are you unhappy? Why? Was it something after all—”
“Doffy.” You seethe, tears coming back up as all of his questions and statements and conclusions overwhelms you. “I just want to see their grave again. That’s all. Please.”
Hearing how your voice is shaking, trembling—he snaps out of his need to control, to adjust and possess.
Grave…?
… Ah.
Now it makes sense.
He blinks a few times. Not all that skilled when it comes to these sort of things.
For one flashing moment, his brother’s face appears—followed up with his mother.
Blonde hair, slender hands… her voice… what did it sound like again?
And the shape of her eyes… he can’t recall them. It’s just a blur. A dizzy one. It makes him sick.
He clicks his tongue and shrugs the sudden wave of discomfort off his shoulders, and focuses instead on wiping your nose.
“… I see. Of course we can, darling. Of course we can go visit your home island.”
You look to him, not sure if you can believe him. “... Really? You’re fine with that?”
He takes your hand and kisses it. “I would like to see where you spent your childhood days, why not. We can have a small vacation during the visit, no?”
A smile was making its way to your face but the idea of Doffy seeing your humble hometown didn’t exactly excite you.
Your chin drops, nodding. “Yes… I suppose. I wasn’t thinking of staying there for too long.”
“Then, we don’t have to. But I’ll come with you, I want to,” He takes your hand and places it on his cheek. Giving you a sly smile. “will you let me?”
At that—you press down a smile. Giggling. “You wouldn’t take a ‘no’ for an answer.”
And he grins back, giving your hand a kiss again. You’re right, he wouldn’t.
He brings you both down into the sheets. Hand resting on your cheek and you feel your face bristling with warmth, relief.
“What was their name?” He asks you, voice strangely kind — but you’ll tell him.
You’ll tell him all about them, this time, without tears. The colour of their hair, and how they scolded you for bringing mud in the halls. You’ll laugh when he says they sounded like a jerk, and as the night goes on, once you’ve said all that you have wanted to say — a comfortable silence will linger between you two.
The panic you felt, the burst of memories are now but a melancholic moment settling into your chest as something fond, something warm. And Doffy will place his hand on your cheek. His touch oft, and his gaze even softer.
“You’ll stay with me — even in death.”
You’ll press down a smile. “You’re so romantic, aren’t you?” You tease him.
And he’ll hum, a small incredulous smirk goes on his lips as he kisses your temples. “Only for you.”
Summary: He’ll bring you to your home island and though you worry he’d be annoyed of its rural character—he seems rather unbothered by it. Sure, he’ll make a snarky comment about the rundown lounging but other than that; he seems unaffected, unbothered. This is where you came from, and he won’t belittle you for it. Not openly at least. You’ll bring him to the local flower shop, point out their favourites, and he’ll fix them for you. At the grave sight, there isn’t much to be said. He’ll hold your hand, rub a finger over your knuckle, skim a glance to your quiet figure. Holding to his promise that he’ll listen, and be there right by your side. Even in death.
Roronoa Zoro
Zoro was steady, unrelenting.
You were anything but that.
Wavering, fidgety — emotional.
Especially tonight.
You found something in your drawer.
A letter, an old wrapped caramel, a twenty berri note or maybe even something as silly as a hair tie.
Whatever it was—it was from them.
And you haven’t had the heart to throw it out.
You didn't expect to find it; it’s been years since they left you but the wound remains the same.
A knife turns in your stomach, writhing it over and under, guttering all up to your insides, tasting nausea at the back of your throat as it finally squeezes.
You haven’t thought about them in months, haven’t heard their name in years and yet now—you can’t breathe, as if they left you just now. Just today. Just tonight. Just this hour.
You want to scream or throw something against the wall but all you can do is clutch your chest and frown in discomfort as tears presses out your eyes.
It hurts. It hurts so much you think you’re going to vomit.
“Hey,” Someone says, their voice grounding you and you glance.
It’s Zoro.
"Everything alright?”
You immediately wipe your tears. Swallowing down a cry. Trying to keep your voice from breaking. “Yeah. I'm fine. Just a.. a headache.”
Zoro takes in the shape of you — spine hunched, eyes not meeting as your fingers fidgets at something. He blinks. Striding over. Looking at the object clutched into your hand.
You move it out of view.
"Looks like it’s a lot more than just a headache. Y’know, you should leave the lying to Usopp.” He tugs his sleeve down and you step out of reach.
“Z-Zoro you’ll make it dirty—”
"I can wash it.” Is all he says, grabbing your face. Rubbing your tear stains away.
Once done, he looks you over. Tall frame looming over yours.
"You know you can talk to me, right? I’ll listen.”
And you pull your brows, looking away.
Fiddling with that object in your hand.
You know you can. You know that but… how do you talk about someone that no longer exist?
How do you say a name that now belongs to a ghost? To a memory no one cares about but yourself? One that you've already started to forget? Tears stings your vision.
Tucking their object back into the drawer.
You turn to him. “Zoro. I just want to you to hold me. That’s all.”
For a moment he takes in the shape of you.
Your chin low, eyes glassy and your posture rigid. As if you’re holding yourself from breaking apart — and that is all that needs to be said, to bring you into his arms.
Strong, powerful—holding you steady when you can not.
And he’ll stay there with you.
Letting you whine into his chest, letting you tug onto his shirt. Stain it with snoot, tears, and what not. He does not care.
He’ll only kiss your hairline when he hears you sob all too loud. And bring you closer to his waist.
"I gotchu. Always.”
And he does. He do.
He steers you both down onto the bed. And for tonight; he let’s you be.
Let’s you grieve. Let’s you mourn.
He won’t take this moment away from you, not after months if not years of not thinking about them. Feeling them.
The heart of your wound finally releases, searing itself open once more and Zoro will only hold you. Pat and be close to you. It’s calm, quiet.
His presence as steady and firm as the swordsman’s love for you. You let yourself sink into it. Let yourself unravel beneath it till all that is left are the memories of a long forgotten home; a name that does not sound real, not anymore. A face of someone who blurs and twists — a voice that echoes back into the dark. Not full, not whole, not them but a fragment of who they were.
And it seizes you at last.
You say their name. More breath than word. And Zoro looks down to you. Blinking before repeating their name. Hearing it from someone else, makes you tense, clutching your hands together.
You tell him of them. Who they were and what had belonged to them in that stupid drawer.
Zoro hums, understanding at last — looking to you as he grabs your hands. Bringing them into his palms, fondling them, rubbing them as he asked you how they left. And you tell him of that too. However strained, however odd. And when you do, he’ll squeeze your hands in his, warmth pressing into yours. Not hard, not crushing but present. Safe.
He’ll ask if they bore any resemblance to you. Where they came from and what they meant to you. He'll even ask what liquor they preferred and made a small joke of his alcoholism when you answered how they would abstain from drinking.
You had laughed at the end of it; and that look suited you far much more.
“Thank you, Zoro.” You say at last, looking down at your united hands as you speak and he gives you a brow. “For what?”
“For listening. You don’t know them but you still asked questions. It felt good. To pretend they weren’t just a ghost anymore.”
And Zoro’s gaze finds yours. “They’re not.” One calloused finger points to your heart. Nudging it. “Ghosts remain cold and forgotten. But they live on here, don’t they?”
And you’ll press down a smile. “Yes. Yes they do.”
Zoro comes close, catching your gaze, forehead pressing against yours.
Heat bristles between you two, his nose grazing yours as he sits only a breath away from kissing you.
“Wanna tell me more — then don’t hesitate. No more cryin’ in silence.”
“Zoro…”
“I mean it.” And like that, he kisses your cheek. Bringing you both down into bed. A playful gesture, not to hide the weight of his words but to seal its meaning into something sweet, kind and undeniably true. And when you both start play fighting, pillows thrown, laughter clanging into the air and light pushes are teased; there is nothing but relief easing your chest. And the object in the drawer does not remain unwanted but remembered.
In that — Zoro will hold to.
Summary: When you both exhaust yourself, and you’re cuddling with him into bed — a resting, almost soft calm has washed over you. Your cheek planted on his chest, his hand on your shoulder as he snores like an underwater earthquake. Feeling the way the Sunny rocks side to side. You’ll smile. Knowing they would be happy for you, forever and always.
I promise this is mostly fluff. But Queenie does die, and it does affect Kinger.
Also don’t ask me how the babies are conceived between 2 literal chess pieces. It’s up to your imagination and we’ll leave it at that. Thankyou 🙃
The year 2020 in this world saw the rise of a horrifying disease known as abstraction. Abstraction was a degenerative disease that attacked the nervous system. If you were to contract It, there is a high possibility it will never leave you. People did end up beating it and surviving but those were rare cases. It caused countless deaths. It was a plague on the population.
Kinger was beyond terrified when his wife Queenie contracted it. They’d followed the rules to a tee, and still she was suffering. For almost 3 years she battled this horrible disease, with the fear of dying hanging over the family’s heads, she was determined to beat it. By her 4th pregnancy, she was Abstraction free. It was currently dormant in her system. They received the news that they were expecting twins, it was a higher risk than a single baby. They chose to continue the pregnancy and thankfully she delivered once again via C-section 2 healthy baby’s. Now with 5 kids, they were done. Until Queenie became pregnant for a 5th time. An accident, but not a completely unwanted accident. The both of them had always wanted a big family.
And then Queenie got sick after the Abstraction started attacking her system again, during her pregnancy. It was once again considered high risk, and they had a long chat about the options. Queenie was stubborn and determined to see things through. It didn’t feel right to terminate, she'd already survived one high risk and that was with twins. She convinced Kinger and they decided to continue. One of the high risks was the baby being born premature. They’d already gone through this with Gangle and were prepared if it were to happen again.
Everything was going pretty smoothly all things considered. The family was preparing for the new addition, the girls were ecstatic, Jax didn’t want a new baby to take all the attention.
It was a quiet day, Kinger was at work, and the contractions started. Queenie was shocked and terrified because she was almost 10 weeks short of her due date. She called kinger and he hurried home. They got Kinger’s brother Scratch to look after the kids.
They headed to the hospital in a panic. Queenie was admitted and taken for a C-section. Their baby boy was delivered and taken to the NICU. Kinger waited patiently to see Queenie.
She didn’t come out. The doctor pulled him aside and told him that she hadn’t made it. Queenie was gone.
The hospital cared for the baby and gave Kinger therapy options. He had a chance to say goodbye to her and broke down sobbing. The baby would have to stay in the NICU for almost 2 months and Kinger would go home. Alone. To his 5 children. To explain that their mum was gone. That their mum wasn’t coming back.
For the moment, Kinger pushed his grief aside to care for his children, explain to them and plan the funeral. Not giving himself this crucial time to grieve led him to experience a breakdown when the baby was discharged. His days felt repetitive and empty. Take Ragatha and Gangle to School. Take Pomni to kindergarten. Care for the twins and the new born. The new born who hadn’t received a name yet. A name was supposed to be decided by both of them, at the hospital while Queenie would be doing skin-to-skin contact. But that didn’t happen and Kinger didn’t know how to move forward with his newborn son.
There was a part of Kinger that blamed Queenie’s death on his son. A tiny part that he pushed away. It was getting harder to function. Neglecting his own needs to tend to his children. This cycle continued. Just him going through the motions. Doing the bare minimum. He fed them, took them to school and put them to bed. It was neglectful to only cater to their needs for survival. He was so tired. Maybe he could just go to sleep and never wake up. So he laid down on his double bed and drifted, he dreamed of his wife.
Time moved and his children were left to fend for Ragatha tried her best, but she was only 8 and was supposed to be at school. The normally quiet baby cried and screamed. No one came. Jax was left to his own devices and decided to climb a tree, too thin a branch and the wrong footing and he fell. His knee bulged and any movement made him scream. Ragatha ran around looking for Scratch’s phone number. She called him on the old phone in the kitchen. He rushed over, grabbed the five kids and the baby and rushed to the hospital. Jax ended up needing surgery to repair his knee. Scratch signed off on it after explaining the situation. He returned back to Kinger’s place and spent the rest of the day caring for the hungry, scared kids.
after everyone was tucked in bed or a crib (Jax needed to stay at the hospital) Scratch confronted Kinger. All the buildup over the months caused Kinger to completely breakdown. With the new revelation on Kinger’s fractured mind and his deteriorating physical state, Scratch decided to step in and help Kinger find a place to receive care. Kinger needed up explaining to the children that he was going away for awhile to get some help. Of course the kids immediately thought he was going away forever like mum had. He hurriedly shut that idea down. He kissed them all goodbye, promised he’d call every day and drove away. (He made a quick stop to explain to Jax what was happening)
It took several months, but Kinger did return. He was grieving, but in a much healthier way. He rejoined his family and was determined to make amends. The first step toward acceptance was finally coming up with a name for his son. He named him Caine, and held him close.
Scratch came around more often to help out on particularly heavy grief days. Those became less and less and Kinger was once again finding joy in the little moments.
if you have any questions, send me an ask or write a comment. I’ve got lots to talk about for this AU :D
(Just a PSA. If you would like to take one of these AU’s and add on to them, please do and tag me so that i can see. I am unable to focus on any enough to become fully fledged, my brain just doesn't work like that. So please i give anyone permission to use these ideas and make it your own. You just have to promise to tag me so i can see it :3
Many people told us that "Motherly Vibes" is an intensely relatable comic, and not only to transgender women. Many of us internalized that our value as a human being, at least partially, depends on the ability to have children. And that means we are bound to have very difficult feelings - of loss, of grief, of anger and frustration - and, perhaps, worthlessness.
If we had more support on Patreon, we could actually post more than two new chapters a year. That would've been awesome, right?
