#cyborg's writing

[selfox]

Guess who watched some clips from favorite tv detective show?

*cracks knuckles* bear with the writing

In a world where James Possible got his marbles together and understood how he and his friends were unfair in their "teasing" of Drew and he manned up and apologized setting events differently. James and Drew grew closer becoming true friends. Thick as thieves. Rather mischievous imps. Becoming rather impressive scientists. Drew even got to be a best man on James' wedding!

And when daughter was born, little Kimmie, Drew came not just favorite uncle Drew, but also he became a godfather.

And all were well until accident occurred that took lives of James and Ann, leaving everyone distraught and broken.

Drew never abandoned Kim and adopted her as his own. Even if not everything was sunshine and rainbows in the beginning, they became true family. (Yes, she calls him dad, sue me).

Occasional uncle Ed-pocalypce "Seriously, cuz, you need life and foxie needs to see some REAL ACTION" (he taught her how to drive a monster truck) and grandmama Lipsky visits with not gentle jabs at finding Kimmie a mom

They were happy.

One day at Drew's work (I believe he became college professor with his own lab and got occasional side jobs) some murder happened and the police was called. And who was the detective you ask? Miss Sheila Go, who got fed up with her brothers to work with them, but she wasn't driven to the edge so she went for villainy, Nono. She is still that adrenaline seeking junkie with a nick of fighting crimes.

So, at first she was suspecting him, all was leading to him. But something didn't make sense. Until he got a clue that proved his innocence. He was far too involved in this and, much to Sheila's annoyance, he got on the case as temporary advisor (somehow, I'm not dictated by logic rn).

He annoyed her to bits and he was too of her at first. But the sparks did fly between those two. Bets between both of their colleagues were made ☝🏼 from very beginning, mind you. Kimmie, Eddy and grandmama Lipsky were on it too!

They were on the case for a while but they solved it together. And when the time came to say goodbye to their partnership. They felt distraught. Until some scheming from familiar party made Drew more permanent fixture in the team.

Leading to the mystery cases and most annoying slow burn.

[cy-cyborg]

This is just a not-so friendly reminder to non-disabled people, especially authors, people in fandoms or in media analysis circles: Cripple/crippled is not just a fancy way of faying "badly injured". it's not an adjective you can just throw in to spice up your sentence because you used "injured" or "disabled" too many times in that paragraph, or because you feel like it gives your writing some extra "oomph".

Cripple is a slur.

A slur the physically disabled community has been asking people not to use for DECADES, since at least the 1970's (50 years). It's a slur with centuries of abuse behind it, centuries of being used to justify physically disabled people as less-than, centuries of demonisation, mistreatment, ostracization, and murder.

Some people within the physical disability community are reclaiming it, that's where movements like cripplepunk (also known as crip-punk or C-punk) come from. That's fine, I'm not talking about that. I love the cripplepunk movement and everything it stands for: being unapologetic about our disabilities and not changing ourselves for the comfort or convenience of able-bodied folks. But the people who use it in that context understand the history of the word, they know how it was used to hurt us, and they understand that not everyone in the physically disabled community is comfortable with the use of the word, especially those who were around when someone being labelled as "crippled" was seen as a valid reason to treat them as less than human. They understand the impact of the word.

But If you, as an able bodied person, casually uses "cripple" in your work, at best you are showing your disabled audience that you haven't been listening to us, at worst, you show you don't care about weather we feel safe in the spaces you have created.

And for able-bodied authors specifically, even if your character is physically disabled, I'd still recommend avoiding it unless you're prepared to do a LOT of sensitivity readings from multiple sensitivity readers. I've been physically disabled since I was 1 year old, I learned to walk for the first time in prosthetics and have been using a wheelchair since I was in school, I have no memory of life as an able-bodied person, and even I don't feel comfortable using the word cripple in my work.

It's a loaded word, with a lot of implications and a LOT of very dark, and for some people, very recent history. It's not a sentence enhancer to just throw in willy-nilly. Please.

[suguruslut]

Still not over how well characterized and balanced every character is portrayed in the Teen Titans 2003 series: every single Titan can be funny, dejected, serious, determined, silly, angry, optimistic, vulnerable and tough without major inconsistencies in their overall portrayals.

Huge props to the writers of that show who knew exactly how to give each Titan a realistic range of emotions without deviating away from their basic personalities--it's an extremely difficult feat to accomplish, depicting characters through many different phases and arcs while keeping them consistent, and they did it flawlessly.

[mintypsii]

sketchbook doodle reqs from twt (part 1)

[thedemises]

. . . SAVE A HORSE, GO ON A RIDE WITH THE COWBOY! featuring boothill!

notes! . . . y'know the phrase, “save a horse, ride the cowboy”? well, I decided to-do something about it with boothill... except it's sfw and more like “save a horse, ride with the cowboy” cuz i dont do nsfw here >:/. god give me acceptance for how boothill is so ooc here- 😭😭 idnk how to write his character properly, and does he even have a horse?? I don't remember seeing a horse when his character and banner got leaked, so let's just pretend he does have one for the sake of K'hailreigh for this plot. 💀

imagine returning the horse boothill had been searching for all day after it got the chance to escape through the tall fences the moment they were opened, his eyes widen at the sight of his companion with you guiding alongside it. normally, his horse wouldn't follow after someone else's orders other than him... and it behaves pretty feisty and rough with people who isn't him.

boothill is relieved to see that his trusty horse hadn't been injured, briefly thanking you as he goes over to fuss over his stallion. you can't help your gaze wandering and examining his figure, in awe of the metallic and cyborg parts of the cowboy in front of you. sure you might've seen people having artificial and metal parts attached to them, but this man right here just plainly looks like a robot if it weren't for his humanly head.

boothill notices you eyeing every inch of him, glancing from the lasso that hangs at his hips to the pistols to his arms and to his legs. he glares a wolfishly smile at you, baring the shark-like teeth that you gaze in short surprise at, and asks in a teasingly tone, “like what you see, darlin'?”, observing how you blink owlishly at him. but then, he's becomes sort of surprised when you nod your head and confirm that—yes, you like his appearance and how the color scheme matches altogether, while indirectly  commenting how he's a good-looking cowboy.

boothill, after his turn of blinking at you, grins and narrows his eyes with an intrigued look in them; amused by you and how you don't seem in the slightest.. nervous or terrified in his presence. you perked the cyborg's interest.

finishing the small talk with the man, you mention that you'll be needing to go somewhere for an errand and boothill takes the opportunity to offer a ride there on his horse—as a thanks for retrieving his horse, taking in your surprised expression with a grin as he ends the sentence with a “darlin'”. he insists, even if you refuse, so you decide that it'll be quicker to go in a horse ride with the cowboy than rather walking by foot as you were given no other choice.

with boothill's assistance, you were boosted onto the horse and instructed by him to hold on as he looks back at you, flashing a toothy grin and a finger tilting his hat just slightly for a short moment before you and him rode off towards where you were needed to be at with his horse. startled by the increasing speed his horse was going, you instinctively grasp onto the cyborg cowboy's built body in order to not fall off during the ride accidentally—boothill grins at your expression, his laughter going with the wind, “better hol' on tight for now, sweetheart. this'll be a rough ride! i'll get ya to where yer headin' in no time!”

© thedemises 2024. all rights reserved. please do not repost, copy, or claim as your own. ━━  word count: 508.

[2kmps]

BOUNTY

hot outlaw x engineer!reader | 2.8k

story summary; shortly following the death of your mother, you come to learn that you're the illegitimate offspring of a railroad tycoon with insurmountable wealth and power meant to inherit it all. after a hasty departure from home to begin your journey across the continent of san-am, your train is stopped and boarded by a mysterious man in black tatters who claims to be there kill you.

story warnings; mentions of death, mention of bodily fluids and excrement, heavy worldbuilding, mentions of conspiracy to murder, kidnapping, neo-western setting, old-west slang used, usage of unique slang, not really proofread or edited, concept piece for a much larger project.

if you enjoyed, please interact & reblog this post!! ❣️

Mother died a week before the lawyer showed up on your doorstep with an inheritance letter and half-hearted condolences for your absentee father’s poor prognosis. A day after that, your life was stowed into a pair of suitcases and a heavier hard case that you barely justified bringing aboard the train. In three weeks and three layovers, you would be across the continent in St. Corpus, the industrial heart of San-Am, where your father awaited you on his deathbed.

Horace Grissom had fathered a new age of industry and outward expansion in lands once believed to be sprawling metropolises centuries long gone. They had been left behind as skeletons of steel and rust from a time of global war, reclaimed in totality by the roots of elder trees, the decay of salt and sea, the precarious will of mountains, and the great sinkholes and corrosion of sand and time.

Traces of that old world had survived thanks in part to the rigorous efforts of archaeologists and conservationists at the University of San-Am in Grimerise. With each new discovery, opportunistic vultures like your father blotted their pens to their tongues to their pocketbooks and readied themselves to own the patent of it like history had a price and could only belong to them. Indeed, anything could be bought, because with those fragments of history, he built the San-Am Continental Railroad which crossed through each of the five territories and was considered the premier way to travel. 

You were never allowed to ask questions about Horace under Mother’s roof as the very mention of his name would set her ablaze in some pettish, garrulous tantrum that, oftentimes, ended with you going to bed before dusk without dinner until the next day. She loved that bitterness up until the very moment she died, clawing your clothes, your skin, her nightgown, her own throat because she couldn't breathe and there was nothing you could do to save her from succumbing.

“Go in peace, Mother.” you said, kissing the back of her sun-speckled hand even as she tried digging her nails into your face. “I love you.”

She did not waste peacefully, nor did she end by staring up rapturously at the ceiling as though something else waited for her beyond it. Mother passed in blood, vomit, excrement, and all her hatred while you bade her farewell and considered who was best to call to have her body carted away to burn with all the others that had also succumbed that day. You made sure to label that as the cause of death on the official paperwork.

After that, you had made quick work of piling all of her things into boxes to be incinerated as well, certified the house was safe and in a liveable state (besides her old mattress, which was the first thing you disposed of because of the smell) for another family to move into. 

Once all of that had been finished and you gained the time to rest, you got a knock at your door, a bald, sinewy man with a round hat claiming to be Joseph Whitwald—estate planning lawyer, he made sure to specify more than once—and that you needed to leave post haste to your father's estate in St. Corpus before he perished.

“You have significant placement in his will, illegitimate or not. This is what he wanted, this is what shall be done,” said Whitwald assuredly as he rooted through the pockets of his pants and white suit vest for something. He found it and made a sound and a flourish, revealing to you a red ticket. “Take this. It's for one of the elite cabins in first class. Your father wanted you to have the best amenities that the San-Am Continental has to offer.”

Even with such luxuries available to you with the sound of a bell on string, you eventually found yourself exchanging tickets with a young woman traveling solo for the first time. She went red in the eyes, asserted her appreciation, and scooped you into a hug before taking the ticket and her belongings to the first car. 

The passenger car was considerably noisier with children running amok, drunks and musicians belting tunes while dancing in the center aisle—doing poorly to keep their balance as the train navigated the terrain beneath the rails, and ladies in bustles and fashionable blouses screaming like hens over fresh gossip. The stewards were frustrated that they couldn't get their trolleys through all the bodies, whereas some passengers let their stomachs roar through their mouths as they assailed anyone nearby (especially the poor lads just trying to deliver food) with complaints.

You liked everything happening around you; it was a good distraction from the way life had twisted your arm behind your back. The cacophony of laughter and anger felt like home, a comfortable companion to sit there with you on the empty, thinly padded benches while you stared uselessly at the inheritance papers—uncomprehending.

A gasp shot up your throat and made you bite your tongue as you were launched forward onto the adjacent bench (also empty) when the train suddenly began to slow—brakes engaged with such quickness that the wood beams under your feet vibrated up through your soles into your bones and teeth and skull until you became lightheaded and collapsed back into your seat. 

The squeal and grind of steel worsened your confusion, turned the fuzz in your head into dull drumming—aches that pulsed to a beat you couldn't figure out, but it deadened the screams all around you and bodies hitting the floorboards in thunderous heaps. 

And then, there was silence. 

The other passengers kept their voices low as they climbed back into their seats, children were smothered deep into their mother’s bosoms as they wept, and no one dared to investigate what had brought the train to such a violent stop.

“Mummy, what's happening?” asked a girl from the benches behind you. She couldn't have been older than ten, from the sound of her. “Mummy, why—”

“Lottie!” the mother hissed at her daughter, “Shhh! Say nothing else, child.”  

From a few seats away, closer to the front, you recognized the gruff, muddled voice from one of the drunkards who had been dancing in the aisle a while ago. Now, he had a bloody nose and a nasty knot growing on his forehead.

“What the hell is the big idea of them scarin’ the piss outta us like this? Do you see my face? They gonna do somethin’ to fix it?” he complained, then swigged liquor from a flask he had smuggled on. “I should go up there and give ‘em a piece of my mind. Bastards.”

“Peace, friend,” soothed a musician with an unfamiliar accent and stringed instrument. “Don't be hasty. I'm sure there’s a good reason why they had to stop. Let them find a solution, we’re just here for the ride.”

Just as the chatter was rising up again, commotion from the first class car stifled it hard, prompting some folks to abandon their seats near the door separating the cars to crowd into the rear. You were tempted to flee with them, join their pack so if they were going to find a way off the train, you'd be mixed up in their stampede and have a better chance to get away.

Except, you simply packed away your inheritance paperwork and sat there with your chin tucked to the collarbone, the visor of your baseball cap pulled lower over your sunglasses to seem as nondescript as possible. Meanwhile, the sounds from first class grew intense; glass shattered, passengers screamed and shuffled around, something you knew to be true because you felt the floor rumble under your feet again.

And then, the passenger car door slid open without the ferocity you had expected. The door scraped along its metal rail, allowing the body to pass through in heavy, languid steps. You paced your breaths to hear it all; the boots and clinking spurs striking wood with dull thuds, a baritone hum that you were convinced you could feel reverberate in your own chest as it came closer, the scuff of thick fabric and creaking leather. 

You waited for it all to pass, to move on like a slow-moving rain cloud amidst a humid summer day, but it stopped at you instead. The tips of the man's boots were within view, as were slithers of tattered, black fabric from a long duster that fell short of his shins. 

And then, there was the barrel of a gun. The breaths you had been holding shivered out of you, cold dread sank deep into your stomach and bones as the gun flicked upward a few times.

You obeyed and raised your head up to look at the man—tall, broad-shouldered, a rugged face with dark features mostly obscured by the shadow of his wide rim. 

He tilted his head, gun higher as he flicked it down and you understood that to mean to take off your sunglasses. When you did so, offering him a full view of your face, his lips lifted crookedly into a half-smile.

“Well then,” he took the bench adjacent to you before holding something up to your head, seemingly a piece of paper, and shifted his gaze between you and it just twice. “Aren't you something special? Found you, darlin’.”

“What?” you frowned. “Found me?”

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. You're definitely his kid. It's all in the eyes, really.” He said, turning the paper around to reveal a photograph of a man who you did share an eerie likeness to. It was the sameness in the eyes—the color and shape and emotion they evoked through a simple still image. “Horace Grissom had an illegitimate kid a long time ago. Turns out, not everyone is so pleased for that to become public knowledge. Turns out, someone wants you to bite the ground.”

“I've done nothing wrong!” you bristled.

He settled on the bench and hiked an arm up across the back of it. “That's usually how it goes, hun. Puttin’ holes in types like you really ain't my favorite thing to do. You'd be surprised how many people get put in your exact situation. Well, eh, not quite. ‘Cause not everyone is Horace Grissom’s kid.”

“Who hired you?” you demanded. 

His lopsided smile remained. “Can't tell you that, darlin’. Confidentiality an’ all that.”

“So, then, you're a bounty hunter?” At this point, you weren't sure if you were trying to stave off an inevitability, or he had just riled you up that badly. “How much are you getting?”

“Enough to live the high-life for quite a while, I'd say.” He continued, “but I ain't no bounty hunter. Them folks gotta play by rulebooks an’ a bunch of codes and whatever. Not my thing.” 

“A criminal, then,” you said. “An outlaw.”

He shifted the rim of his hat away from his eyes and leaned towards a pillar of golden, midmorning sunlight that came in through the window. “Sure, if that's what'll make you feel better about this entire thing.”

You could actually see him now—the contrast between the ambery hue in his rich complexion and pale green of his eyes. His skin had some weather to it, enough to prove that he had seen the worst of every season for years on end without it wearing him thin, along with thoroughly kempt hair on his face and loose waves that draped slightly beyond his shoulders. 

“I…” the longer he stared at you, the less you were able to think. That was ridiculous considering you had survived the soul-crushing burden of engineering school and all of the personalities therein. “I can offer you something better than what you were hired for.”

He did a fast sweep of the colossal heaps of fabric hanging from your frame, a style you preferred to keep eyes off of you on the best and worst of days. It didn't do much to deter him as it did others. 

“Oh, yeah? Whaddya got, hun?” 

You lifted your shoulders and stacked your bones right. “I've got a vast inheritance that I'm not interested in. Horace is dying and I’m in his will to receive half his properties, along with his shares in the San-Am Continental Railway and Subsidiaries. If you can get me to St. Corpus, you can have the inheritance—every last gris.”

A shrill whistle echoed around your head, tuneful and mocking. The sound of it whittled your confidence back down to nothing, filling the space of your throat with a vise that you couldn't seem to swallow around. That same great unease you had felt before weaseled around in your chest, coiled your ribs and then plunged straight down into your gut. 

“Good offer, but it ain't on the table.” The way he spoke was easy and slow, a thick drawl that suited every bit of him up to even now. He acted as though he weren't essentially holding a gun to your head, threatening your life in the name of money—or something else. “Gris is always good to have lyin’ around, but, honey, it don't really mean a lot to a man like me. Why, then, d’ya think I take on work like this? Why do ya think I trek halfway across the five territories time and time again? What really keeps a man goin’ out here in this godforsaken place?”

You felt yourself shrink in your seat as he leaned forward over his thighs, coming closer still like he had a secret to keep. “It's for the thrill. The hunt. The challenge of it all. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't actively seek out men to shoot or… nice types like you, but part of the fun is trackin’ down, the other part is just havin’ a chat—just like this.”

Then, he had the picture of Horace held out to you between two fingers. “Tell ya what, I see that hard case you brought aboard. I know what it is, but I want you to offer me somethin’ more interesting than a bunch of gris.”

You scrunched the photograph against your palm once you had it, hoping the sweat off your skin would ruin his face and make the ink run, but looked to the aforementioned hard case instead. 

It was made of a hard plastic shell with strips of rubber outlining the odd shape of the thing. Inside was your handheld welding gun—one of many—that you had decided to bring along for little reason besides thinking it could be of use at some point during your time away. It wouldn't be enough to handle larger jobs such as the ones you were accustomed to in the workshop back in Grimerise, but it could fix a wagon or two, glue some pipes together, and do some damage if need be.

“C’mon, darlin’, sell yourself to me.” he pressed, gesturing his impatience with winding fingers. “What do you do for a living, huh?”

“I'm an engineer,” you continued hastily, “I-I can solder, weld, braze, cut, and saw. I can do anything if I have the right equipment.”

In turn, he asked, “Does that mean you can cut open a safe?”  

“If you give me what I need, I can do anything.” you said. 

A new sort of look overcame his features, one of great fondness and admiration that made the green of his eyes take on the milky luster of jade. You had the hope that this unique softness would gain you freedom from a shallow, empty death; a chance to go forward to seize the assets sworn to you by a man you'd never known.

His hands came forward to take your wrists, the weight of them first heavy and then cold as a pair of handcuffs were locked around you, knocking bone when you lunged back into your seat and fought against them. 

“I've got myself quite boon!” In the next moment, he had hauled you up across his shoulder, retrieved both your suitcases, and called one of the stewards to carry your welding gun after him. “Time to go. Gotta introduce you to the crew and get ya settled in.”

“Wait, I don't even know your name!” you shouted and thrashed from shoulder.

He grinned. “Jericho, darlin’.”

a/n: so, this is a concept piece to a very large neo-western project I'm currently in the process of outlining and fleshing out. most things mentioned in this little oneshot will not be present in the final piece, the quality will, of course, be substantially better.

jericho is an outlaw with an extremely complex background story and will definitely be one of the more interesting characters I've ever written. he's not necessarily the sort of man you want entangled in your life, but he's loyal to a fault once you have his trust. his personality tends to revolve around "taking things as they come", which is a great nuisance to those around him. he likes a good challenge, strong liquor, and good medicine.

here's a brief glossary if you're interested:

san-am: the continent where events take place. no one knows what it used to be called because most historical documents have been lost. it's divided into five territories with a "capital".

grimerise: the central hub of commerce, home of the governing bodies. it's a large city dead center of the other four territories. mc was born and raised there. the university of san-am is also here.

st. corpus: the industrial heart of san-am, found down south near the seaboard. mc's father lives there.

"gris": currency in this world. its components are coins and bank notes. it is a relatively new thing to come about because the bartering system is still the preferred method of trading.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Good Rich Earth: A Science Fiction Retelling of "The Secret Garden"

Ever since Mary had become an orphan, all adults did was tell each other about her story.

"Raised practically by robots, the poor thing. On one of those military space stations. She's never stepped foot on a planet!"

They talked over her just as if she wasn't there. Mary hated it. But then, she'd gotten used to hating things. Earth had so many things to hate.

She hated the outside air that got too hot or too cold or too humid and couldn't be changed by flipping a switch. She hated the sky with its constantly-changing light levels. She hated the gray clouds that always seemed to hang low over the big stone house where she was supposed to live with her uncle. She hated the vast, barren lands with the short scrubby plants that were all that had managed to grow since the Disasters.

But she hated the echoing darkness of that big house most of all, and so she spent most of her days in the hateful outdoors, looking for something to do. Ben let her tag along sometimes as he tended to the grounds. He called himself a gardener, so naturally Mary asked what a garden was.

"Its where we grow plants on purpose," Ben said.

"Like hydroponics?"

Ben sneered. "Hydroponics!" He lifted a handful of dirt from the ground. "In good rich earth! None of those weak, wispy water-plants with no more nutrition in them than a wet rag!"

Mary couldn't get another word out of him after that--he was too busy muttering to himself about space stations and their unholy, unnatural ways.

But she kept wondering about gardens. She liked the word, liked the idea--having seen nothing similar in any space station.

"If only you'd been here when the mistress was alive," Martha said. "You'd have seen gardens enough then. Always tending to her plants, she was. Trying to bring back flowers what was lost in the Disasters."

But when the mistress was lost, so were her gardens--locked away and left to decay by the husband who couldn't bear to see the site of his wife's death. It seemed unfair to Mary--the one interesting thing on this planet had been abandoned, and now there was nothing left for her.

Or was there? The gardens weren't destroyed--just locked. And locks always had keys.

The search for that locked door became the sole pursuit that filled Mary's days. She searched every corner of the house, looked for cellars, searched among the outbuildings for anything that looked like the wall of a garden. As she searched, she found she noticed the wind and cold less--grew even to like it, as exercise kept her warm. She even found other things that, though they were not the door, proved to be worth finding. A stubby little plant with purple flowers that opened overnight. A stream of clear water from snowmelt. And--best of all--the robin.

He became a companion on her hunt, the little bird--a cheerful voice that flitted about and checked on her progress before returning to his little labors.

It was while following him one day that Mary found the garden. The robin, in his daily fluttering, perched atop a building that she'd passed by a thousand times, sitting on the very edge of the eaves. Then the robin twittered, stepped back--and disappeared, seeming to fall straight through the solid roof.

"Hologram," Ben explained later. "A protective field. Keeps the temperature beneath a bit more stable, lets in rain and birds for water and pest control, and keeps prying eyes from seeing what's inside. Mistress used it to protect her work--plenty of folks who'd steal a cutting and give it to the corporations."

At last! The lost garden!

But still no door. Mary spent days prowling around the walls, searching for an opening, and found nothing but solid brick.

Until one sunny day, when the robin landed on the ground at the base of the wall. As he folded his wings, one of them brushed the bricks, and Mary saw the faintest shimmer of light ripple across a section of the wall.

This, Mary recognized--EtherDoors were a fact of space station life. With the right key, the wall could become permeable enough to let a person through--no need for the extra space or machinery a door required.

The robin fluttered toward a short shrub and sang a cheerful song. As Mary's eyes followed him, she saw a patch of dirt beneath the branches--and suddenly realized that the rock she had seen there a thousand times was no rock at all.

Mary lifted the shining, convex piece of black metal--a simple piece hiding complicated electronics. She pressed it to the center of where the EtherDoor stood--and her hand went through the wall. With two more steps, the rest of Mary followed.

She found herself in paradise.

She had never seen so much green. It covered the ground, climbed the walls, twisted around posts. There were trees with flowers on their branches. Bushes with tiny lacy leaves. Rubbery green stems with silky red and yellow cup-shaped blossoms on top. Thousands of plants, tangled, matted and twisted together, but all alive, drawing food from the earth and reaching up, up, up toward the sun.

For the first time, Mary was truly on Earth, as it was supposed to be.

And she saw that it was magical.

[transhuman-priestess]

Sometimes the struggles we go through to be ourselves can be as rewarding as the end result.

A pretty breezy one here. Only content notes are surgery mention and needle mention. No gore to be found, no sex neither. Just good ol' fashioned yearning.

This is definitely a bit of a right angle to my usual stuff. There's no horror, it's light on dialogue, but its in a very similar space to a lot of the other stuff, just a different way of going at it.

Daughter of Elysium

I scheduled the surgery without telling my parents. They wouldn’t understand.

When I came out as trans they were supportive, in perhaps the slightly awkward way that cis people tend to be when they want to be accepting of things they don’t understand. This was different though.

I sat in the waiting room of the clinic in Montevideo, lined with faux wood paneling and sleek glass. Peak 2010s architecture. An older building, but the clinic’s reputation spoke for itself. There was no way I was going to get this procedure done in North America. Too expensive, too niche.

Too many hoops to jump through, too. Go see this doctor, talk to this therapist. Walk with these crutches. Practice with this fake charger for a year. Bullshit, all of it. I just wanted to be me.

So I saved money where I could. I slept in the heat of the Californian summers, kept the lights off early in the winter, rode the train to work, ate cheap meals, canceled all my subscriptions, lived in a 300 sq foot apartment in Watsonville.

3 years and $100,000 Californian Dollars later, I got on a train in Santa Cruz for a 3-day journey to Uruguay.

It was late June, a few days before the solstice. This far south of the equator that meant the sun rose late and set early. It was early morning, a quarter to 7, and 5 hours ahead of California time. I was used to being awake at night, but that only made the early sunrise more disorienting.

“Lewis, Kara,” a thrill of adrenaline rushed through me as the receptionist called my name. After reciting my birthday to confirm my identity, I was taken back to preop. I changed into a surgical gown and then lay down on a gurney while a nurse ran an IV to my arm and started saline. I thought about asking what happened once the arm was removed, but I figured it wasn’t worth the explanation.

For the next 10 minutes I stared at the clock. I hadn’t brought anyone with me. This was something to do for me, by myself. No partner, no friends. I had brought a bag with one change of clothes, my passport, and my phone. I thought about calling my friend Cory, but decided against it. No sense in getting anyone worried. As far as the outside world was concerned, I was on vacation.

I guess that wasn’t too far from the truth.

At 7 sharp, a couple of orderlies came in, checked my name and date of birth, and released the brakes on the gurney. They wheeled me out into the chilled hallway, and through the double doors into the operating room.

Inside the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, and several techs were waiting. A nurse placed a mask on my face and told me to count backwards from ten. A sweet, chemical smell filled my nostrils, and the world faded out.

* * *

It wasn’t the first time I’d had surgery, so the novelty of coming up from the anesthesia surprised me. Rather than the slow, heavy feeling I’d expected, it was like waking up from a nap. Disorienting, but in a cozy way. Nothing hurt. I hadn’t expected that. Probably the painkillers were still feeding in.

I tried to open my eyes, but my lids only twitched slightly. I heard one of the nurses say “You’re awake! The doctor will be in to see you soon. Everything went well, congratulations.”

I tried to reply, but my jaw moved jerkily and I had trouble forming words. The result was a disjointed grunt emerging from my mouth. But I could tell that I had a mouth, which was good.

The nurse left. I could hear his shoes squeaking off into the distance. As they faded, the thrum of the HVAC replaced it, and an occasional mechanical whirring near me. My eyes were still closed, and for the first time I noticed the green letters in the corner of my vision. Instinctively, I tried to look at them, but they moved with my eyes. After a time I was able to make them stay put long enough to look at them.

ARLINGTON ROBOTICS SYSTEMS

BANGOR, WASHINGTON, CASCADE REPUBLIC

I managed to open my eyes after a few minutes. At first it was all much too bright, everything blown to white, but after a few seconds my vision dimmed to a comfortable level. I focused on a tiny hole in the floating ceiling above. After a moment, I managed to zoom my vision in.

I marveled for a time at the detail in the ceiling. This mass-produced object, fiberglass and paper, contained so much beauty. How many times had I stared a ceiling like this without noticing?

The doctor came in and reaffirmed that everything had gone well. She told me that rehab would start in a few days, once my new body’s systems stabilized and adjusted to neural commands. I tried to smile but couldn’t manage to get my face to move right.

The doctor chuckled and plugged a display into a port on the back of my new neck. She held it up to me, and I watched as the words “What is this for?” appeared on it. She explained that until my vocal rehab started to kick in, this display would help me communicate.

She told me to raise my arms out to my sides. I struggled with this task for a moment before finally managing to do so. For the first time I got a look at the body I’d picked out from the inside.

Gray plating, seams that slid over each other, an unapologetically mechanical body. I’d wanted that. They’re getting good at synthetic skin these days, but I wanted to distance myself from humanity. There was nothing wrong with humanity, but it never spoke to me. I’d always been somewhat apart.

* * *

I slept most of that first day. The next day they let me eat. The bioprocessor seemed to be working, the staff said, but I should keep it light, and stick to carbs rather than fat and protein until the new tract could build up a sufficient biome to support those.

Odd as it sounds, it was 36 hours post-op before I realized I hadn’t peed. The charging station that I hooked into took care of filtration and detox of what little biomass I had left. I felt suddenly elated. I actually tried to get up out of bed, and promptly tripped over my own foot, smashing my face against a wall.

The nurses rushed in, worry on their faces, but I couldn’t stop laughing, and that’s when I heard my voice.

It wasn’t like my old voice. It wasn’t cold and computerized, but warm, and rich, like an old Roland Jupiter, full of dense harmonics, singing highs, and comforting, enveloping lows.

Soon I was sitting on the floor, sobbing. My eyes didn’t water anymore, but I still went through the motions. I held my gray plastic hands to my face, and touched them to my cheeks. I felt the subtle vibrations as motors moved my eyes around. I had never felt so happy, so myself. So real.

* * *

After a week I was able to clumsily walk around the hospital room, and they moved me to the recovery house. I met a few other converts there. There was a girl named Morgan from Seattle, a guy named Case from Kansas City, a few others. I mostly kept to myself.

I started speech therapy shortly after the move. Lots of reading convoluted sentences, but also singing, reading poetry, even some play-acting. I grew to love my voice. It was obviously synthetic, but that only made it feel more like a part of me.

Motor therapy was interesting. They asked me if I played any instruments. I told them I played bass. The therapist walked to a closet and returned with a bass made entirely out of carbon fiber. I asked why they made it from that, the therapist told me I’d see shortly, and handed me the Bass.

I immediately gripped the neck with far more force than I’d intended, denting the frets and the strings. I said I understood now.

Time flew. The solstice came and went, and by August I could speak clearly, play “Highway Star,” and wash my own chassis without damaging it. I could dress myself. I could walk without tripping over my feet.

On an evening in early August, I bade farewell to my fellow converts at the recovery house, and made my way to the train station. I could have taken a cab, or the bus, but I opted to walk. It was 8 miles and took all night, but I enjoyed every moment of it. Never tiring, stopping for food to recharge myself here and there at convenience stores and night markets.

I settled into my roomette for the trip back to Santa Cruz, looking out at Montevideo Bay. I saw my reflection in the window of my train, and for the first time, really took it in, with eyes that were my own.

[rounderhouse]

taking care of a cyborg who’s gone obsolete. technology moves fast, and their components that were once cutting-edge are now glitchy, out-of-date, haven’t been supported by the manufacturer for years. they might’ve been a laborer or a combat model — now, they can barely walk on their twitching servos without you supporting them. everyone suggests you just get rid of them and upgrade to a new model, and it would be the smart thing to do — but no. you keep scavenging tech-landfills for replacements when one of their parts fails and laboring over their exposed wiring through the night to install it. the next morning, they chirp happily through the new vocal synthesizer, and you know you’ll keep them working even if it takes the rest of your life.

[deepwaterwritingprompts]

Text: In the Upper City, they do illicit trade of cyborg servants over the legal human percentage limit. I steal them, which is to say I save them, whether they want to be saved or not.

[whereserpentswalk]

Reblog to curse your followers and mutuals.

[cy-cyborg]

Tips for writing and drawing Wheelchair using characters: Your character's wheelchair can tell us a lot about them

When you first start learning character design, you'll often be told something to the effect of "use your character's outfit to tell us more about them" - and this same principles can be applied to a disabled character's mobility aids.

Mobility aids like wheelchairs, to many disabled people, are a part of us. They can be an extension to a person's body and chances are, if you're going to be using this piece of equipment every day for the foreseeable future (or at least for a good amount of time for the foreseeable future), it's going to start reflecting some aspects of your personality, your interests, your passions, especially when you remember, a lot of people get their wheelchairs custom built for them.

You can use your character's wheelchair to tell us a lot about them without ever needing to show/describe them directly.

Let me show you two examples:

Take a look at these two wheelchairs. they're similar in shape and build, but still pretty different to each other. Can you make some guesses about their users based only on what's shown here?

intended answers below:

Please note, the following points are all generalisations and the real world is rarely this simple. This is to demonstrate how to use disability aids to contribute to your character's design, not how to make assumptions about real people in real life.

So here are some similarities between the chairs:

Both wheelchairs have ridged frames, this means the wheelchair can't be folded in any way. These kinds of chairs can imply a few different things depending on the person. They are typically lighter, sturdier and more durable, and indicate the person probably will be using the wheelchair for a long time and/or has the money to get something built to last (or lives in a place where cost not an issue due to universal/subsidised access to healthcare). They are also typically better to travel with when flying, as they are less likely to be broken by airport security/staff.

Both wheelchairs also lack anti-tip wheels, which are a third set of wheels that extend from the back of the chair. Them not being present could indicate the person is likely pretty confident in their ability to use the chair without worrying about tipping out. It could also indicate they are in an environment where the anti-tips could be more of a hazard than a help, such as on rough terrain.

So lets look at some specifics for the green wheelchair:

Take a look at the wheels. The front wheels are pretty small and appear to be solid, while the back wheels appear to be quite narrow (compared to the orange chair anyway). This indicates the user likely lives somewhere with decent accessibility like a (well funded) city where they are unlikely to encounter unpaved/dirt roads/grass. Small front wheels and thin back wheels are good for manoeuvrability and a smooth ride over even terrain, but they will get stuck as soon as bumps appear, so this probably isn't an issue for this person.

While its a bit hard to tell unless you have seen other similar wheelchairs, this wheelchair is very long in the front, meaning the footplate and front wheels are further away from the seat than most. There could be a few reasons for this. One either indicates the person has very long legs, or a lack of motion in their knees, making it harder to bend their legs. This is moves the chair's centre of gravity forward by a decent amount, making it harder to tip back, which could indicate the person's legs are very light. You tend to see this most often in the wheelchairs of bilateral leg amputees, who are at a greater risk of tipping backwards due to a lack of weight at the front of the chair (even if they wear their prosthetics).

The colour of the chair is bright. This could simply be the character's favourite colour, or maybe this colour has some significance to them?

There are stickers on the side of the chair relating to the Paralympics. This could indicate the person is a fan, or perhaps had some involvement in the games?

The wheelchair has handles on the back, but they are able to be folded down. This is a popular feature for people who are independent enough to go out on their own, but still want to have the option for some help. folding down the handles also deters random strangers from grabbing at you (an unfortunately common experience for wheelchair users).

There is some mild paint scratching to the front of the wheelchair, but nothing too noticable. This is typical of older chairs and people who are a little rough on their chairs. Maybe they've had a few stacks and falls throughout the years, probably going a decent speed.

Ok, now let's look at the orange chair

This wheelchair has very large, inflatable front wheels, and very thick back wheels. This will make the chair slower and less manoeuvrable on flat/even surfaces, but much, much easier to push on rough terrain. This is supported by the amount of mud on the wheelchair.

The seat on this wheelchair tilts upwards slightly. This is called a bucket (or according to an old basketball teammate of mine, a dump-truck lol). This is a feature you typically see in wheelchairs made for people with spinal injuries who are unable to move their legs and engage their lower bodies or core to help keep them stable.

The back of this chair is very low, indicating that if this wheelchair user has a spinal injury, it's probably pretty low on their spine, likely fairly close to the hips, making the person a low-level paraplegic. Higher-level paraplegics and quadriplegics usually need a higher back to help support them and keep them from flopping over, since all the muscles below their place where their spine broke either doesn't work, or is significantly weaker. Higher backs though can get in the way of pushing and reduce mobility, so people who need less support will likely opt for a lower back rest.

This wheelchair has no handles, which indicates the user is probably very independent and doesn't need a lot of help getting around.

The paint on this wheelchair is very scratched up, showing the person is very tough on their wheelchair and doesn't care to get the paint touched up.

This wheelchair has no breaks. This is very common on chairs with larger tiers as they don't tend to be as effective, but also on many outdoor wheelchairs, for two reasons. One is because they are made for rough terrain, so chances are, you aren't going to go far without a big push to get you moving. The second reason is that to get over large bumps and obsticals in a wheelchair, it can be helpful to do very large pushes using the top and front of the wheel. When pushing a normal chair, most people will only use the top section of the wheel to push since it's closest, but these big pushes that use the front of the wheel make it easier to push, since you can benefit from downwards momentum. However, this is also where the breaks are located on most wheelchairs, which can create a hazard. I've lost entire fingernails by them getting snagged on the breaks when pushing this way. So if you live somewhere where the breaks are not going to be helpful to you often, it makes sense to not get them.

And here are the characters who own these wheelchairs

The owner of the green wheelchair is an amalgamation of a few people I knew from when I played wheelchair basketball. They're a bilateral leg amputee, and judging by their outfit (The Official National Wheelchair Basketball uniform for Australia), they're an elite athlete. This wheelchair is not the one they play sport in, but it still needs to be durable enough to withstand the rough treatment of airport staff when traveling, as well as heavy day-to-day use that comes with being an active person. While it needs to be rough, the person also seemed to want to prioritise speed and manoeuvrability, and likely doesn't need to worry about rough terrain too much, so they probably live in a major city.

The owner of the orange chair was inspired by a family friend of mine. They live on a farm, and need a chair that can handle life in those conditions, rough terrain and all. This comes at the cost of speed and manoeuvrability on smoother terrain, but honestly, anyone who's lived in the country knows you won't find many of those around there anyway, so that's not too big of a sacrifice. They are paraplegic, are very confident in their ability to use their wheelchair, and probably doesn't need help too often, but still benefit from some extra stability support from the raised seat on their chair.

Conclusion

Once again, these are generalisations, and in real life there are always exceptions, but I hope this helped demonstrate what I meant when I said you can use your character's wheelchair to tell us more info about them if you're smart about it.

I originally planned to do a whole series of these, showing a wider variety of wheelchairs and the people who they belong to, but I guess I kind of forgot because they've been sitting, abandoned on my hard drive for the last 2 years 😅. If that's something you folks would be interested in seeing though, let me know, I'd happily revive the series lol.

[snakebites-and-ink]

Thinking about nonhuman whumpees where the whump doesn't come from being treated as other than human

A robot whumpee who could handle being used as a thing if they were a lovingly maintained one instead of tossed aside like trash…a cyborg who wouldn't mind being considered more machine than human if that weren't used to get away with abusing them…a creature whumpee who might be okay with being a pet but not a punching bag…a mer whumpee who could thrive and be happy in an aquarium if only it was a proper one instead of one that keeps them in poor conditions and/or forces them to perform too often…You get me?

[thus-spoke-lo]

A/N: takes place in Water 7, pre-timeskip/pre-Strawhats Franky CW: NSFW/18+; fem!reader; gendered pet names used for reader; reader wears makeup/dress; light angst; oral sex (reader receiving); unprotected vaginal intercourse WC: 3k

There’s a quiet rap at your front door, a little earlier than you expected—these knocks don’t usually come until the sky is dark and cold and quiet, but tonight, they come while the sun still glimpses at you from above the horizon.

“Just a minute!” you shout as you give yourself one last glance in the mirror by the front door. A swift swipe of lipstick, a quick pat to your hair, a tug at the damnable strap of your dress that doesn’t seem to want to stay on your shoulder, and you’re ready. You take a deep breath, somehow nervous like it’s the first time even though it’s well beyond any firsts with him, and swing the door open wide to glance up at the barrel-chested man that stands before you.

“Franky,” you purr, “you’re early.”

“And you’re gorgeous,” he quickly retorts with a smirk.

You give him a quick look up and down, before you chide, “Come on now. You couldn’t even put on pants for me? Not even once?”

He glances down at his swim briefs and back at you, offering you a sly grin. “Why bother? I’m just gonna be takin’ ‘em off in a little bit, right?”

“You’re not wrong.” You cross your arms over your chest and step back to let him in, a half-smile on your lips. “So why do I bother getting dressed up all nice for you, then? I put on this pretty dress when I could’ve just answered the door in my panties and you’d be happy, huh?”

“That sounds like the start of a good night to me, little lady.” He reaches down with one finger and tugs the disobedient strap of your dress back up your shoulder, before he leans down to plant a soft kiss on your bare skin. “But I sure don’t mind you putting a nice bow on such a pretty present.”

He kicks the door shut behind him and slides one hand to the back of your neck, holding you still, his other hand settling on the side of your face. Without a word, he presses his lips to yours, a soft rumble of pleasure vibrating in his chest; he engulfs you with urgent, voracious kisses until your lips are trembling and swollen, and your hands are grasping at his enormous forearms, trying to keep yourself aloft. It’s maddening how he makes you so weak so quickly, makes you fold like a piece of paper with just the touch of his hands, the feel of his mouth on yours.

When he finally lets you go, at last sees fit to let you come up for air, you take the opportunity to quickly blurt through panting breaths, “Franky, I gotta go finish making dinner if you want to eat at some point tonight.”

“Damn, well when you put it that way.” He kisses you on the forehead, on the tip of your nose, then one last, soft kiss on your delicate lips. “Only thing that can keep me from taking you right here and now is your cooking, you know.”

“Don’t I know it,” you sigh, unable to take your eyes off him. It always feels like the first time somehow, feels like that first night you brought him back here after god knows how many drinks and how many laughs, and you baked him a cake in the middle of the damn night, trying desperately to mix it correctly while he had you bent over your kitchen counter.

His large hand smacks your ass cheek as you walk away and you shoot him a look over your shoulder, one that you hope communicates your annoyance, but only seems to tell him to come hither as he follows you to the stove. He sets his wide hands on your shoulders, glancing over you as you give the pot of sauce a quick stir and take a quick peek into the oven.

Franky kisses the crown of your head, breathing in your scent as he does. “You’ll make somebody a damned fine wife one day, won’tcha?”

“Somebody?” You snort a laugh as he kisses the crook of your neck and you bend and twist to escape him. “Not you, huh?”

He wraps his bulky arms around you, keeping you from wriggling away. “Nah, you know I’m not the marrying type.”

Of course he isn’t, you think—at least, of course he says he isn’t. But the way you see him take care of his family whenever he lets you around them, the way he holds you tightly like you belong to him, the way he treats you like no one has ever treated you—it’s too bad he’s not the marrying type, you think, since he certainly seems like husband material.

“Well, that’s fine by me, I’m not the marrying kind either,” you lie through your teeth as you finally wrest yourself from his iron grip, and you scurry off to get the plates from the upper cabinet. “Matter of fact I’d pity the man who’d choose to spend his life with me.”

You hear him cluck his tongue at you in dismay as he walks away to set out the silverware. He disagrees with you, but he’ll never say it out loud.

As you sit together at your small table and enjoy the quiet of the evening, he takes note of a wobbly table leg and tells you he’ll fix it next time he comes by—maybe he’ll come by tomorrow, even, since he’d hate to see you go another day with a table that doesn’t sit right.

He’s too good to you, even if it’s only something fleeting, something never meant to last.

*****

You watch from the doorway as Franky stands in the kitchen, his oversized frame looking even more imposing in the small space. He’s whistling something upbeat, some song you only sort of know, something you think you heard that first night you met him in that shitty little tavern on the outskirts of town; he’s swinging hips a bit to the tune, while he dutifully scrubs the pots and pans that linger on the stove.

“Hey, handsome fella,” you murmur as you walk up behind him and place your hands on his waist. “Those’ll still be waiting for you later, you know.”

“Is that so?” He shuts off the faucet and dries his hands, and you hear him chuckle softly. “Not gonna get up and run off in the night, are they?”

“I sure wish they would,” you laugh as you press your forehead against his back. “But no, I don’t think so.”

Franky turns to face you, and places his thumb and forefinger under your chin, lifting your head to meet his gaze. He raises an eyebrow and grins, and you know at once that you must look voracious. “You know, it sounds like you’re wantin’ somethin’ from me, little lady.”

“Oh very much so.” You slowly trail down his broad, muscled chest, letting your fingers graze the hard slab of his belly, until your hand comes to rest on the front of his swim briefs, feeling him already half-hard beneath your palm.

He bites his lip and lets out a low growl. “Have mercy.”

With one swift motion, he scoops you up in his powerful arms and carries you down the hall to your bedroom, his warm mouth hardly leaving yours the whole way, his tongue parting your lips with ease as you moan into his mouth. He sets you down on the edge of your mattress with a tenderness you’d come to expect from him, and he quickly kneels down and pushes your thighs apart with an almost desperate gesture. He pushes up the hem of your skirt, and lets out a gasp as he glances up at you. “No panties, huh? Don’t even have to make me work for it.”

You tilt your head and reach down to stroke the side of his face. “I’d just hate for there to be anything between you and this pussy.”

“You mean my pussy, don’t you, darlin’?” he growls as his fingers creep up your thigh and he slowly drags them through your slick-glistened lips.

“Mm, of course I do. All yours, Franky,” you sigh as you lay back on the bed, and he wastes no time in indulging himself in your cunt, kissing and sucking at your puffy lips, licking long, slow stripes up your slit again and again as you shiver and grip the sheets. Your back arches as the cool steel of his nose presses against your clit while he eagerly laps at your dripping hole, fucking you with his tongue until you start to squirm in place. He easily maneuvers your legs over his shoulders as he starts to push you up the bed, and he places each of his large hands on your hips, pinning you to the mattress even as you writhe under him.

“You can’t get away from me, missy,” he rasps against your aching cunt. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

His tongue makes firm circles over your swollen clit, and you feel that delicious tension that’s been building in your core start to snap. It’s not long before you cum on his tongue, ripples of ecstasy flooding through you as his name leaves your lips and echoes in your room—it’s like a melody to him, a song he’d listen to on repeat all day long if he could.

He gives your quaking thighs one last squeeze, and as you lay there in bliss, your eyes still closed and your lungs still burning from labored breaths, you feel the mattress shift underneath you. You open your eyes and tilt your head enough to see Franky sitting against your pillows, his hand wrapped around his long, thick cock, as he slowly strokes himself for you. A tremor runs through your body at the sight of him running his fingers over his shaft, and you see a bead of precum start to glisten at the tip; you can only imagine how hard he must have been as he hungrily devoured your pussy, how flushed the head must have been as he thrust against nothing while he devoted himself to your pleasure.

“So I cook you dinner and you’re gonna make me do all the work, huh?” you tease as you manage to sit up before moving between his thick thighs, moving his hand aside and licking a long, thick stripe up the underside of his cock, just to feel him twitch on your tongue.

“Have I ever?” he smiles as he clasps his fingers behind his head with a sigh, and you feel him throb as you take him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip a few times.

You pull yourself off the tip with a loud, wet pop. “Mm, nope.”

“Damned right.” He grins, as he moves his hand down to hold the base of his cock steady for you. “Now why don’t you come up here and kiss me with that pretty mouth instead of being smart with it?”

You gladly accept his invitation and move up towards him, letting him capture your lips with a fervent urgency as you straddle his lap and tease his cock a little, gliding your saliva-drenched cunt over his length as he plies you with long, drugging kisses. You align your hips with his and feel his pulsing tip start to press against your entrance, and you start to lower yourself into him.

“Nice and slow, baby, just how I like it—no reason to hurry,” he murmurs, holding onto your hips, keeping you from doing what he already know you want to do—to let him fill you in one swift motion, feel him buried to the hilt. Instead, with his guidance, you lower yourself down carefully, letting him into the heated core of you, relishing every inch of him until your bodies meet. You slowly start to roll your hips, and groans of pleasure fill the air between you as a quiet pleasure begins to seize you both.

“You enjoying the view?” you ask, biting your lip coyly at him as he drinks you in.

“Always do,” he says, the words tangled in a low groan as his hips buck up to meet yours in a regular, pulsing cadence. “Why do you think I keep coming back for more?”

You gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside you and you lean back, pressing your palms into his steely thighs, letting him stroke your walls with his cock until a warmth begins to spread through your lower half. “Fuck—I thought you came here for the homecooked meals.”

“Those certainly don’t hurt.”

He grips the meat of your hips to lift you up and bring you back down on him again and again, his powerful fullness stretching you with every movement. You lean forward and brace yourself against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest as he fucks himself with you, feeling every rumbling groan under your palms, feeling the way his heart thrums inside his chest as he drives himself up into you with a frantic intensity. It doesn’t take much longer inside the warm, soft heaven that is your cunt before his breathing changes—short, harsh gasps leave his lungs, quickly followed by a low, harsh groan of satisfaction as his thighs tense and his hips quake, and he spills himself into you, filling you with a familiar heat you’d come to crave.

Franky’s strong grasp on your hips relaxes, and you can almost feel the bruises forming already from where his fingertips had sunk into your tender skin. You slowly grind against him, pulling every last spasm from him as he leans his head back against the wall and his quick, shallow breaths finally begin to slow. He looks down at you, raising a hand to your cheek and stroking your heated skin with his calloused thumb; he blinks slowly at you as his gaze flits across your face. There’s something almost melancholy in his expression, something you can’t quite put your finger on; normally, in the moments after, he’d be nothing but wide grins and low, echoing laughs, telling you what a great time he had and how damned pretty you looked on top of him like that. But now, there’s a sadness that seems to have pooled in his eyes, a strange cloak of unease starting to wrap itself around you both.

“You look like something’s on your mind, loverboy,” you gently tease as your fingers make patterns across the muscled plane of his chest.

It’s as if you roused him from sort of deep and faraway thoughts, and he loudly clears his throat; he hesitates a moment, then gives you a gentle smile. “You uh, got anything for dessert?”

*****

The harsh light of early morning leaks through your curtains and rouses you from sleep, a golden glow settling in your small space as you open your eyes and see you’re alone, the other side of the bed straightened and made up properly, pillows fluffed and all. He’s nothing if not polite when he sneaks out before dawn, you think to yourself as you shut your eyes again and sink back under the covers.

A sudden loud clanging jolts you upright, your head snapping to the side to stare at your bedroom door as you freeze in place. Someone—or something—had made a home in your kitchen, it would seem.

“Franky?” you shout tentatively at the closed door. “You still here?”

You wait a beat, prepared to move out of the bed and do—well, you weren’t sure yet, since it wasn’t clear if your intruder was a human or just a hungry alley-cat—when your door starts to creak open. A loud sigh punches its way out of your lungs as Franky’s large frame fills the doorway, his blue hair as mussed as you’d ever seen it, his body clad only in a cooking apron that covered very, very little of his bulky, chiseled body. Despite the fact that your heart is pounding and your body is shaking from the unexpected rush of adrenaline, you can’t help but crack a smile as your eyes are drawn downwards to the head of his cock, just barely peeking out from below the hem of the apron, as if to greet you good morning.

“Oh hey, you’re awake,” he smiles at you, that damned smile that always makes your heart flutter a little in a way you don’t care for.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know,” you mutter as you try to calm your breathing, your body still ready to fight off a feral raccoon if needed.

“Aw, I’m sorry little lady, I was only trying to surprise you.” He points to a spot just past you. “I left you a little something there to get you goin’, but there’s a whole pot in here for you when you’re ready.”

You glance behind you to your bedside table and see a cup of coffee, a merciful gift for someone who almost felt their soul leave their body in fear just a moment ago. “Thanks, I could use it. So wait, are you…making food?”

“Well yeah,” he shrugs. “If I was gonna wash the dishes, figure might as well dirty a few more first.”

You shake your head and smile softly at him. “Sound logic.”

“Take your time getting dressed, it’ll still be a few.” Franky beams and laughs as he disappears from view again, and you crane your head to watch his ass flex as he walks away.

The mug is still warm when you pick it up and lift it to your lips, and you wince as the coffee hits your tongue—it’s a little too bitter, and a little too strong. But you know he’ll never do it that way again as soon as you tell him it’s not to your liking, and if he stays for breakfast again, he’ll insist on improving the coffee until he gets it right. He doesn’t even drink the damned stuff, but you know the obsessive in him won’t allow it to be done wrong when he could make it perfect, just like in everything else he does.

He’ll make somebody a damned fine husband one day.

[redriotinggg]

You know what I need? Strawhats raising a child, could be shippy or not, but I need them finding a baby and Luffy being like "I WANNA KEEP IT! How hard can it be to raise a child?" (Famous last words) This is less about wanting to be a father and more about thinking about this as another great adventure and experience for Luffy (besides if its a situation like finding a baby in a treasure chest they cant exactly leave it... tho I imagine Nami seeing Luffy with a baby in arms and being like "wtf, where did you get that???" Luffy: "I found it in a treasure chest :)" Nami: "WELL PUT IT BACK ITS NOT YOURS!")

Of course raising a baby in a pirate ship is bound to be dangerous, so most of the crew is like "lets find it a good family in the next island" so maybe it's more of a Tokyo Godfathers situation.

Who are the better parents? Who absolutely suck at parenting but want to help regardless? Are any of them like "I absolutely don't want any part in this" but end up being roped in regardless and end up getting attached to the child? Does the child end up being raised by Strawhats or they get them to a nice family somewhere safe?

If you know of any fanfics that are like this (if they're gen/Nakamaship the better) please reccomend them to me I'm in desperate need to see that, child raised by a village trope my beloved

Pffttt a baby should definitely NOT be aboard the Sunny but if it happened I can imagine that yes, Luffy found a baby in a treasure chest and by the time they realized what happened, they were already on the open water headed to the next island.

However, the first thought that came to my head was that Zoro was sleeping while guarding the ship and someone managed to dump the baby onboard. He wakes up and there’s a baby—just under a year old—sitting across from him, fist in their mouth and a note on their forehead that says, “YOUR PROBLEM NOW”. There’s nothing left for him to do other than wait and pray that the kid doesn't start crying or pooping.

The rest of the crew comes back like Uhhhh Zoro???? When did you give birth????? To which he yells that he didn't, you idiots!

Now they don't know what to do because they can't bring a baby on the seas in the New World, but the island they're docked at wasn't very welcoming and likely wouldn't care about an orphaned child.

Luffy makes the decision easily--they'll bring the baby with them and they'll be an honourary Straw Hat! If they get their adventure started now, the baby will be at a huge advantage when they become a pirate when they grow up. Raising a baby must be easy if so many people do it! But it doesn't take long for the others to convince him that keeping a baby abroad for an extended period isn't a good idea, so they decide to keep the baby until they can find them a good home.

Luffy is not so surprisingly great with the kid, although he's not allowed to be left alone with them. The crew freaked out when they found him and the baby asleep on the head of the Sunny. It would've been a sweet scene if they both weren't at risk of falling and drowning to death. If the baby starts crying and Luffy can't get them to stop in 2 seconds, he dumps them off to the nearest crewmate--he usually deals with crying kids by beating them up, but the baby's too young for that. Plus, the noise really hurts his ears!

Nami canonically loves kids and babies!! She doesn’t mind taking care of the baby until they can find somewhere safe for them. Except this baby is getting on her damn nerves because, for some reason, they don’t like Nami. At all. Every time she tries to hold them, they cry bloody murder. To add insult to injury, the baby absolutely loves Zoro, who still wants nothing to do with the baby. But she is nothing if not stubborn, and eventually, she and the baby are thick as thieves.

The baby loves Usopp because he’s so silly! He makes the baby laugh by playing peekaboo and he even whips up little toys for them to play with. He flails dramatically when the baby grabs his nose or pulls his hair, both of them laughing without a care in the world.

The baby is too young to be scared of Brook, so they just laugh as he dances and sings nursery rhymes from all over the four seas. His lullabies are very effective in calming the baby's crying fits or getting them to sleep.

Sanji prefers dealing with children when they’re old enough to speak, but he’s not immune to the effects of an adorable baby. If it’s a girl she gets the absolute princess treatment, complete with baby talk and compliments of how cute she is. A boy baby gets his hair gently ruffled. Either way, Sanji happily admires Robin sitting with a baby in her lap before he’s off to puree some fruits and veggies.

Chopper loves babies and thinks this one is so cute!! But he’s embarrassed by how jealous he is of all the attention the baby is getting. He can’t help it! He’s used to being the one taking naps in Zoro’s lap and being fawned over by Robin. He’s happy to have the baby with them, but he wishes he got some more attention, too.

Jimbei and Franky don’t dislike babies per se, but they’re just so small and fragile compared to them. They mostly watch the other crewmates interact with the baby from the sidelines.

Franky’s nerves aren’t helped as Robin keeps coming up to him while holding the baby and talking about how cute they are and how parenthood is such a privilege, don't you think, Franky? She manages to convince Franky to hold the baby and when he does, he bursts into tears. Overwhelmed, he passes the baby off to the closest person, who happens to be Jimbei, whose eyes also fill with happy tears when the baby snuggles up to him. Both of them stop keeping their distance after that.

Robin reads the baby bedtime stories! But the crew have also walked by and overheard her reading books about death, disease, and war. She speaks to the baby in all of the languages she knows and tells them all the secrets she's learned. It's too bad the baby is too young to retain all that knowledge, but she's more than happy to share anyway.

Zoro doesn't like kids in general, but kids love him, including this baby. The rest of the crew find it hilarious how awkward he is with the baby. You'd think he'd be used to holding a small being considering how often he carries Chopper around, but no, he's hopeless. Zoro is teased relentlessly for the way he talks to the baby. He talks to them like a grown adult and it's both endearing and ridiculous.

Absolutely nobody wants to change dirty diapers. There are physical altercations, manipulation tactics, and an abundance of tricks used as each Straw Hat tries to avoid diaper duty. (Usopp uses dirty diapers as canon fodder and ammo when they run into trouble on the water.)

Most, if not all, of the Straw Hats have mommy and/or daddy issues, so raising this baby gives them all a chance to heal, whether they realize it or not. It also gives the crew an excuse for group cuddles, not that they ever needed it.

The crew have all grown very attached to the baby by the time they reach a safe place with people they trust to raise them. A few crewmates (Usopp, Nami, Robin, Brook) want to keep the baby around--it's too cruel to leave them, now! But Luffy has made his decision. It's too dangerous for the baby out on the seas of the New World. But once they've found the One Piece they'll be back to visit.

Usopp made the baby a teddy bear and dressed it as Luffy, complete with a straw hat. Sewn to the red fabric of the hat is a note written by the crew, a photo of them all, and a piece of Luffy's vivre card. If the baby grows up and ever wants to come sailing with them, all they have to do is ask.

--

AAAHHH this was so fun omg!! I love babies sm and there'd be so many antics if a baby was on the Sunny. I doubt I'd ever write a fic myself though, but I'd be happy to think up more hcs in another ask :)

I don't know of any nakamaship fics like this, so if anyone does please link it in the comments. But! KazimaKuwabara has this FANTASTIC fic feat. the Straw Hats taking care of their de-aged nakama. I've read it so many times, it's great.

Thank you for the ask! Keep em coming y'all, I live for this.