scubatankfilledwithfarts: (yes this was needed)
[personal profile] scubatankfilledwithfarts

“You haven’t changed, Franky!”

It goes without saying how unimpressed he was by her comment, but he would never hold it against her. Franky took it in stride as she knew he would, rushing to fill the silence punctuated by bubbles with a [surprisingly, but always awe inspiring] brief spiel to chide lightly, all romantic masculinity this and beyond human that.

Upon setting eyes on him it’s immediately apparent just how much he’s changed and refitted and formatted and upgraded [all for the owner of that irreplaceable laugh as brilliant as rays of sun breaking through dense blackness, just as much as it’s for himself]. The very second Franky’s booming voice reached her, curled into her ears and seeped into the very marrow of her bones, warmth that staves off even the most bitter cold, she didn’t have to take in the view, old and new, to know Franky was Franky.

Just as strong as an ox [a motorized one with beams for nipples], a softie to the core of all the steel and bolts, heart ready to embrace everyone’s individual stories and parts. Ready to cry for them when they cannot just yet. A self-made man who hides nothing. And later, much later, when everyone’s been lulled to sleep with good company and food and drink resting in their bellies and new songs in their hearts, they’ll rediscover each other.

Robin will miss the languid drag of her nails down Franky’s spine, hot and wrought with purpose [not enough to tear him open to see what’s inside, to understand it, because it matches, she knows this by now; so what spills out in HD sound, pure and low, is what she gets]. That’s what she thinks when she has him holed away in her quarters, his hands appreciating the round of her ass while she explores the new, firm bulk of those shoulders of his, curious fingers trace every curve and bolt, every sanded and serrated edge.

But Franky, above all else, does magnificent work he puts his entire soul into, tears, cola and sweat. He never lets them forget it, not his thoughtfulness and clever observation, not in action and certainly not within bragging rights. Synthetic skin is everything he made it to be, crackling power and soft to the touch in all the right places [even behind the ears, makes him squirm and snort and “Robin, did you get an ear fetish when we were apart?! Naughty girl!” That earns him a pinch, though not unwelcome].

So she doesn’t have to miss how he trembles when she scores lines down his back, and the dip in his tailbone is still the perfect spot to find purchase, ankles locked and knees dug into his sides so she can grind up, chase the groan from his lips with her own smiling mouth [swallow the sound whole and good and hoard it like any other treasure], because, ultimately, he trembles anew.

When it’s over and everything, as usual, is still in one piece, he curls around her; she’d certainly missed that weight of him, chest against her back. The lub-dub sound of her heart coming down. Or maybe it never did.

“I suppose we would be loaded with splinters in awful places if this bed happened to break during our fun. I can't imagine wood to be kind within your blood- ah, cola stream,” she muses.

"Oi, there's no way a bed I made would break! I specifically fortified it for comfortable, wild moves and new adventures if you know what I mean. Why, I even-"

Robin cups his chin, turns his face till he quickly gets the hint and rolls over to face her, arms encircling her waist as natural as breathing.

"I know. We're so very proud you're our shipwright and nakama. You're our treasure, after all. We got you fair and square."
The synthetic skin work wonders, for Franky's cheeks tint pink, a wide grin splitting his face. His eyes look suspiciously bright in the dim splinters of light swaddling the room.

"Well damn, that's so super I could just..." And he really almost does start "just" when she practically sees the lightbulb spark above his head. A lecherous grin replaces the trembling lip.

"I figured you cherished my two suuuuper treasures too, Nico Robin. That was hardly fair. I'm still reeling from the shock, a lady like yourself going through such means!" His fingers skitter across her belly and down, down, where she folds nearly in half to get more.

Robin almost succeeds in keeping her voice steady. "Two years plus of trauma? I wonder if there's anything I can do. Surely I made up for it by now."

His laughter rumbles through her, sends zigzag signals up her spine to remind her of this man’s power: to cherish.

"That's debatable. I don't think our trial run has expired just yet. Could use some more upgrades."

"I agree. We haven't soared nearly high enough, not without flying into the sun and burning up in an instant."

"You're just like those artifacts you read, Robin."

That gives her pause. Her eyebrows tick up. "Outdated, vaguely taught in school and ancient?"

He kisses the corner of her mouth, then the other, the tip of his nose cold, but not unwelcome, against her own feverish skin. Finally his lips press the tenderest of ones to her eyelid. [they tremble under the weight of time-- of the future]

"No. Mysterious, amazing, the start of something more, the missing piece to a puzzle."

She hugs him close, then, right against her soaring heart, and doesn’t let him go for a very long time.