#sailor moon illumination eternal

[soleilnomoon]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･titled — “lady(bug) killer.”

9k words (shh i know i know), fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst city, there’s fluff somewhere somehow i think, smut obviously; shanks is a bully and an ass but that’s why we love him, reader has no self-preservation (when has she ever lbr); feat. cute stuff like making out, alcohol, some smoking, oral (f receiving), biting, reader being shameless; shanks is mean when he’s jealous and reader is equally as ridiculous, also benn beckman, yasopp, and lucky roux make a tiny cameo. anyway this was 1000% self-indulgent, but idc.

this is for @strawhatsoraya, and even though it’s *calculates* 7? months late ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ lmaooo i finished bb, a labor of love for u because i’m absurd and u enable me. don’t blame me for nothin, i did what i could!!! (if u see typos/grammatical errors no u didn’t.)

DELUSION X IS X INEVITABLE

the seas are not, and never have been, kind — nor are they patient. weakness is rarely tolerated, so to combat that, to give yourself some semblance of strength, you tell yourself stories in the hopes of extracting a bit of courage. there’s one in particular that you like to tell yourself when things get to be a little too much.

it’s about the impossible love between the sun and the moon — the two seemingly trapped in an endless cycle of cat and mouse, chasing one another across the skies for eternity.

golden-hued, dazzling, brilliant; a deity above all others with a kingdom as expansive as its reach — grand and all encompassing. the sun is a powerful, overwhelming force of nature, able to disrupt the earth as he sees fit, his heat infiltrating any crevice it can find with each new day. the stars serve as reluctant guides, leaving behind crumbs for the sun to follow. they’re much too quick, twinkle out of sight, and the moon is nowhere to be seen. she’s a shadow, a mirage, an entity that’s completely out of the sun’s reach no matter what he does.

the moon, in contrast, is serene when in rest, shimmering proudly in the dark sky — illuminating the seas for wayward sailors, dreams, and the like. calm, the epitome of grace, yet unyielding; forever dictating the tides as she sees fit. there’s a sharpness to her beauty; it’s cold and unapproachable — a single rare flower that blooms nightly in the sky, her spores a sweet poison that serves to ensnare unsuspecting stargazers, adding yet another devoted follower to her massive collection. a hopeless romantic deep down, admiring the blazing trail that the sun leaves behind. fear forces the moon to hesitate, never to embrace the sun’s brilliance and warmth.

despite being the biggest star hanging in the sky, the sun remains out of the moon’s reach; and despite priding herself on her uncanny ability to pluck the truth from anyone, she conveniently evades revealing her own dark truths.

the ocean is a reluctant playground, her mirror of truth; if the moon looks hard enough, she can see the golden light from the sun touching the water. if she hangs back, then maybe she might be able to grab onto some of that warmth. she’s always so cold. it’s evident in how she approaches life. her rage is frigid, hidden, forbidden from ever coming out; a stated beauty from afar, breathtaking and life changing up close.

everyone is too afraid to approach her; no one wants to risk her wrath — except the sun.

where the sun chases away his own shadows, the moon welcomes them. there’s poetry in the dance they do; a ballet in several parts — steps light and well-rehearsed, as the stars play a sweet, melancholic melody. it’s indescribable; a work of art fit to inspire the masses.

ascending along the expansive sky, the sun begins his rhythmic march, reveling in the sparkling remnants of light that moon has left behind. it’s always been said that the sun lusts after the moon, but it’s not quite as simple as that. the moon leads the dance — measured, practiced, perfect; while the sun clumsily follows along, sure-footed, and honest. a never-ending cycle of what ifs and maybes; a love affair that is in a deadly, hypnotic loop.

yours is a story about love, about life, and about losing bits of yourself in someone else.

shanks has always been fond of the sun, of its power, its size, and its impact on life; he’s always reached his arms out every morning, soaking up as much of the warmth and heat as he can, forever rejuvenated by its light. you have always favored the moon — its eerie silence, the way life seems to hold its breath for it, how you can gaze at it without consequence.

both of you are fueled by the whims of their love — the former a frenetic storm, hounding islands and ships, dangerous when provoked; the latter a frozen lake, one step and the ice cracks on the shallow surface, pulling bright-eyed victims deep under, freezing them from head to toe.

in stories of antiquity, the two never truly meet, but somehow in this story, you and shanks experience what may be considered the most difficult sort of love to bear. potentially ill-fated and destined to fail, you delude yourself into thinking that you can have the entirety of his heart and not suffer any consequences. there’s no greater love than the one you desperately want to attain and can’t; it’s an addicting cycle that neither of you want to break.

PASSION X NOT X PAIN

from your father you learn obstinance; it’s carefully woven into your daily routines, each stitch tighter than the last, the thread unbelievably strong even as it’s pulled taut underneath your skin. by the time it reaches your bones, you’re already well into adulthood, fragility and naivety carelessly discarded, the remains intentionally desiccated, crumbling underneath your feet as you navigate through life. a never-ending labyrinth of torment and desire, a hunger for the unknown gnawing continuously in the pit of your stomach.

from your mother you learn humility; a tradition, she tells you, but adds as an afterthought: an eternal obligation. it sits on your shoulders, weighing you down, making you question every decision and thought. you never say what you truly mean, never ask for the things you want; resentment lines the crevices of your teeth, dictating your tone and choice of words. your tongue a maestro, pushing out each phrase with purpose; every word pinpricks your skin — a dull, cumbersome pain chipping away at your sanity.

you become obsessed with spontaneity, rejecting routines, and deviating from the norm. they can never keep you indoors long enough; you’re usually climbing something, running somewhere — enticed by the possibility of adventure. you leave your hometown to travel across the grand line, staying on various islands for months at a time — to learn about regional dishes and cultivate your skills.

your heart, unfortunately, has always been a flighty thing — falling in and out of love, leading you down a treacherous path, one that leaves a deep scar you can’t seem to heal no matter what you do. still, you fortify yourself any way you can; it’s not permanent, but it does the job somewhat effectively.

like clockwork, you find yourself in the middle of a busy street, perusing the market. you look over a round, shiny apple before buying a few to take home. unbeknownst to you, your day will quickly derail, bringing about impossibly rash decisions on your part.

as usual, it takes forever to dock the ship; he doesn’t even bother yelling t the new recruits, because he’s trying to ignore the hangover that’s kicking his ass right now. yasopp is cackling off to his right, tears flowing freely as he recants drunken tales from last night. he’d love to join his friend in all that revelry, but there’s a pounding in his head that won’t quite go away.

shanks downs another cool glass of water before loudly announcing that they need to find provisions before heading to their next destination.

the island isn’t hard to navigate, so they wander until they reach the lively town. it’s when you’re fussing with a vendor over the outrageous price for a small bottle of seasoning, that shanks notices you for the first time. as someone who takes pride in swallowing a great deal of pain without complaint, he’s finding it very difficult to not rub his chest — to somehow calm down that foolish heart of his.

it’s doing things it’s never done before; beating much too loudly, making his thoughts scatter around — it’s bothersome and he doubts he has time to deal with it. he almost voices that very sentiment out loud, but is distracted by your smile, which makes him take another step forward. then you’re laughing, another ordeal for him to suffer through — your voice melodic and hypnotizing.

shanks rubs his eyes repeatedly, blinking away any residual fatigue; surely it’s the fault of the bourbon they drank, because he must be dreaming. it wouldn’t be the first time he’s mistaken a dream for reality, although this strangely feels real to him. he’s not sure if it’s the shape of your jaw, or the roundness of your cheeks, but there’s something wholly familiar about you. he frowns at that, brings his hand to his chest to rub the ache away. it’s beckman who catches up with him first, dark eyes landing on shanks for a moment before following his line of sight.

throat dry, head a little fuzzy, shanks asks, “do you see her?”

the question is absurd, but he has to know; and even though it takes a moment, beckman finally answers him. “yes,” he says, voice low but certain, “she’s real, captain.”

he has no need to shop for vegetables, but winds up at the same stall as you. if he wasn’t so damn obvious, you probably wouldn’t have said anything — except, he’s crowding your space a little too much; but when you turn to tell him off, you hesitate. there’s no reason for him to be that tall, no reason for his ruggedness to add to his overall attractiveness — enough to incite irritation, that makes your face burn and siphons all your logic. his voice is doubly offensive — deep, husky, and gravelly, touching parts of you that you don’t want to think about.

what starts as a friendly conversation — of him asking about local cuisine, of you giving him recommendations on dishes to try — somehow morphs into shanks teasing you as if he’s known you for much longer than ten minutes. you’re not normally this social, preferring to keep to your own so that you won’t be bothered by people in general. the townspeople are more than friendly, and a little too overwhelming to be around; yet you don’t mind talking to him and find that it’s nearly impossible to pull yourself away.

fear — of vulnerability and intimacy — threads itself around your fingers, makes your hands shake as you hold onto your bags.

eventually, you give in and grace him with your name. he says it a few times, mostly to himself and you dislike the way you stand there, listening to him — caught in a thick net, completely unaware that the fortress you’ve built over the years has completely fallen apart. a terrifying feat, you think; one that makes you want to run until your legs give out. intrigued by your stubbornness and insatiable curiosity, shanks decides to stay on the island a little longer. his crew doesn’t mind, they like the break. yasopp tries to pry for more information, but shanks simply says he wants to relax for a bit.

it doesn’t take long for them to chisel away at your reluctance, a friendship that buds and transforms quickly. against your better judgment, you grow fond of them — with their rowdiness and frank manner of speech, with their crude jokes and ability to turn any gathering into a large party. adventurers and treasure fiends, a group with monstrous strength, not the sort of people your parents would’ve expected you to hang around.

and maybe that’s why you hardly resist their charm — or, his charm, you should say. because that’s what it really is, much to your disapproval.

you offer to cook for them one night, and after the first bite shanks asks you to join his crew. your initial refusal is met with a frown on his part; he insists that you join them — one can never have too many chefs on board, and lucky roux has already taken a liking to you. still, you refuse; and when shanks asks you the following morning, you refuse again.

there’s no real reason why you keep saying no. it’s mostly because you like seeing how frustrated he gets, where he huffs about it all damn day, claiming you’ve broken his heart for the fiftieth time that week. the best part is how his crew mates make fun of him for being rejected by you again.

he takes it all in stride, though — laughing along with everyone else, ordering another round of drinks. as wary as the townspeople were by shanks’ presence initially, they’ve come to appreciate his generous patronage. it’s not often that pirates settle in a specific area for longer than a few days, but shanks is determined not to leave without you. he’s not exactly sure why he feels compelled to take you along, and while a few of his crew mates have some sound theories as to why that is, he ignores them completely.

it's beckman who manages to convince you after eating a third lemon square; he’s impressed by your talent for creating delicate and delicious pastries, even more so by the fact that shanks to enjoy eating them more than he should.

“he doesn’t really care for sweets,” beckman says carefully, sipping his tea slowly, enjoying the warmth wafting from the hot drink.

you know better than to ask, but the question rolls off your tongue anyway. “who doesn’t?” you feign ignorance, fuss with a stray curl, tugging and playing with it while he eyes you critically.

the vice-captain reminds you that you can only travel so far along the grand line alone; and he’s right, you came to terms with that a while ago. it’s an opportunity for adventure, and a chance to hone your skills.

“fine,” you say, while crossing your arms, leaning forward on your chair. “how much?” not that you really care about the money, but they’re pirates — notorious ones, at that — you won’t risk your life sailing with them if the reward isn’t worth it.

a small smile works its way onto his lips as he motions for you to scoot closer. you oblige without hesitation but end up hopping out of your seat when he whispers the amount in your ear.

“that’s a lot of fucking money.” you almost don’t believe it, but beckman isn’t the childish sort, nor does he lie for the sake of lying. you swallow hard and don’t bother acting coy. “when do we leave?” it’s not exactly the sort of job you’d place on a resume, but you can’t say you aren’t excited to traverse across the ocean.

shanks offers more gold than necessary, but you’re not one to complain, nor do you care about bleeding a pirate dry of his stolen treasure. he decides to spend one final night on the island, so naturally his crew throws a large feast in celebration. you doubt you’ll ever get tired of their impromptu parties, or the raucous way they laugh and sing, voices carrying out into the sleepy streets. the energy is addictive and hard to escape; you soak it all up, allow it to loosen your bones. you laugh and drink with the others but keep your distance from a certain red-haired captain. you’re not sure how to be around him, especially now that you’ve accepted his invitation after fighting him for so long about it.

it’s completely by chance that you spot shanks near the bonfire; you think you’re being subtle when you watch him from afar, admiring the way his throat bobs when he tilts his head back to down a full glass of liquor. the fire emits a deep glow, one that extracts a memory from the back of your mind — oranges and yellows draping over him, an enigma that will always remain out of your reach no matter how hard you try.

the truth of it sits on your tongue — raw and distressing — so you down a shot of whiskey and maneuver through the crowd of people to find a place to sit and rest.

yassop and lucky roux tease shanks mercilessly throughout the day, so much that he ends up smoking more than he means to. a light haze clouds his rationality, and he mumbles under his breath, which only makes them laugh louder, pointing out his plight for all to hear. no matter how much he denies it, or how much he tells them that they’re full of shit, the story remains the same: boss has fallen in love. it’s annoying, to say the least. just because he feels calmer whenever you’re around, and just because his heart continues to beat louder — heavy, relentless, and unsettling — doesn’t mean that he’s fallen in love with you.

if anything, it means he needs to get off this damn island quickly. “it’s probably something in the water,” he tells himself. no need to stay long enough to carry it with him elsewhere.

a few hours later, nearly everyone is passed out, either from drinking or eating or both — and shanks, unfortunately, can’t seem to sleep. neither can you. he finds you walking alone on the beach, sandals in hand, humming something soft and familiar. before he can even make his presence known, you look over at him and a smile tugs on your lips. you’re not sure what compels you, but the sight of him standing there, watching you like you’re some sight to behold — and if anyone asked him at that exact moment, he would say that yes, you are — invites a small warmth to circle around your chest. an irresistible flame that grows hotter the closer he gets.

OBSESSED X & X IRRITABLE

what starts as subtle flirting rife with teasing jokes and lingering touches, turns into something frighteningly intense. shanks routinely teases you in front of everyone, and while you’re embarrassed by it sometimes, you actually like it. there’s a push and pull, where you also have him backed into a corner that he can’t escape from with his sanity intact.

shanks starts being more bold when he touches you, kissing you randomly in hallways when no one’s looking, his hand roaming down to your ass and squeezing it playfully. the rush makes everything worth it; he likes the way you push him away, and you like the way he chases you. if he knew that you’d fallen in love some time ago, he’d never let you live it down. his touches make your skin hot and your head fuzzy, leaving you light-headed and wanting for more. after a few months, though, he’s still given you no indication on whether this is a casual thing or something more.

you��re too afraid to ask at this point, always losing your nerve when he sweet talks you late at night. you swallow back your questions, but they pile up eventually, until you can’t take it anymore. after that stunt he pulled in that pub, he drunkenly tells yasopp to make up a shirt for you that says “angry when wet” on the front. your face burns, both in anger and in embarrassment when you receive the gift, and shanks laughs loudly when you throw the shirt at his face. he confesses that he forgot he even asked for yasopp to do that, which only makes him laugh harder.

in a fit of fury, you tell shanks that you refuse to have sex with him and that he has to keep his hands to himself. for a month, at least. he figures you’re all talk and only agrees to it because you’re so determined and cute when you’re angry like that. when the others find out about the ban, they ridicule their captain mercilessly. he tries to act unaffected, but something about the way you insist on seeing this ban through rubs him the wrong way.

it’s been twenty-two — no, twenty-three — days, and you’re barely keeping it together. shanks thinks it’s hilarious that you believe he’ll cave before you do; and you’re determined to make him suffer. now granted, you are to blame for the predicament you found yourself in just a month prior — even now, you still suffer from that embarrassment — when shanks fucked you in the back of that dingy pub.

they’ve all taken to calling you ladybug — bug, for short; something shanks thought up in the moment, spurned by yasopp’s laughter at the matter. and despite fighting against it initially, the nickname grows on you. shanks appears every bit as unaffected as he always does, still flirting with you whenever he can, but respecting your wishes all the same. regardless of that, he still finds ways to get under your skin. it’s your hope that holding out will make shanks realize that he wants you in a deeper way than just physical intimacy.

you should just let him go and move on, but you can’t. he always pulls you back, always finds a way to make you smile — the warmth from his presence is enough to burn you alive most days — and you find yourself wrapped up in him without realizing. incidentally, shanks also can’t let you go, and never intends to anyway. he’s a selfish creature by nature, not cognizant enough to recognize his own role in that.

on a sleepy morning, you take your time and carefully bake pastries for the crew. last night you promised them something tasty and sweet — your specialty, really — and they’ve given you room to work without interruption. as a chef for the red-hair pirates, you take pride in your work; in feeding the crew, in ensuring that they eat well-balanced meals that give them strength and energy. shanks has always been in awe of your talent — your hands are delicate and exact, skilled laborers that make brilliant works of art whenever you’re in the kitchen.

you’re humming a nameless tune to yourself, cutting up strawberries neatly, as another person silently invades your small sanctuary. while you wash your hands in the sink, shanks approaches you and a sudden awareness makes you freeze. his body barely touches yours, but he reaches over you to crab a cup out of the cabinet above your head. given the difference in your height, it always seems like he’s crowding you without trying. although in this instance, he’s intentionally doing so.

a groan rolls out of your mouth, frustration eating away at the remainder of your patience. you’ve been giving him short answers lately, barely looking at him — although, that isn’t exactly true; you’ve stolen more glances than you can count over the past month — so whenever he can, he finds ways to tease you mercilessly.

“oops,” his hand lowers so he can rinse out the cup, “didn’t mean to interrupt you, doll.”

teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you count to ten, breathe out of your nose and smile tightly. “uh huh,” his body is still much too close for your liking, “just make it fast.”

a sly grin, one that you can’t see, drifts onto his lips. “you know i can never turn down a quick fuck.”

you slap his hand, make him drop the cup into the sink, and spin around to face him. your face burns painfully, the flush a permanent fixture now that he’s moved on from light teasing, to full out being insufferable around you. “shanks, enough.” you shove his chest, much to his amusement, his eyes gleaming with mischief, but you can’t exactly look at him properly, can you? and when you manage to get over a bit of your embarrassment, manage to look up at him through your thick, dark lashes, you struck by his stupidly handsome face. despite his rugged exterior, you know there’s a gentleness that periodically comes out when the two of you are together.

an unexpected ache plagues your chest and you ignore it; but you miss touching his scars, miss kissing him and being kissed by him. he already smells like smoke and bourbon, a scent that you’ve come to covet over the past few weeks.

belatedly, shanks realizes that he miscalculated; your beauty still takes his breath away, especially when you’re this close to him. his eyes drift along your soft, round features, linger on your plump lips — where he’s suddenly overcome with the desire to trace your cupid’s bow with his fingers — and stare a little too hard at your neck that’s been blemish free for a while. a shame, really, as he likes when your neck shows proof of his affection for you. if he’s not careful, he’ll get sucked back into your orbit; as always, your brown eyes — intense, unyielding, a fusion of dulce de leche and tree bark — keep him rooted in place. your dark, curly hair continues to remind him of a storm that he desperately wants to navigate alone.

caught in a daze, he almost forgets that you’re mad at him, until you roll your eyes and push past him. he watches you languidly, completely smitten with you all over again, eyes transfixed on your retreating form — round ass and thick, curvy hips captivating him entirely.

you stomp away and leave the pastries to their own devices, reeling over the fact that shanks had the audacity to say that to you. but as you keep walking, the brisk morning air whipping around you, you realize you’re not upset because he said it. you’re upset because he didn’t actually try to fuck you in the kitchen.

a shame, you know, but you can’t help the thought.

it’s becoming more and more apparent now that you might be the only one suffering from this ban. you decide you need a better plan, one that is strong enough to withstand shanks’ careless attitude, one that might just push him to the edge.

a childish impulse strikes you, and you opt to give him the silent treatment, which only further amuses him. he watches you lazily, grinning each time you turn your nose up and stomp past him. you make it so easy he doesn’t even have to try riling you up. you ignoring him isn’t much of a big deal — so he tells himself — but when he sees just how friendly the crew is with you, something sinister builds inside the pit of his abdomen and works its way up to his chest. when you head back to finish working in the kitchen, he tells his crew that he’s implementing a new rule.

“no one,” he says, after gathering everyone else, surveying his crew mates critically, eyes particularly landing on yasopp and benn beckman, “touches ladybug. understood?”

they all agree, although beckman, lucky roux, and yasopp pull him aside to ask what this new rule is all about. shanks being shanks, playfully waves them off and starts drinking instead. beckman exchanges wary glances with the others, but they don’t push the issue. every time you try to get closer to someone — whether it’s a crew mate, or an overly friendly resident of a sea faring town — he finds a way to sabotage, laughing as you eye him angrily, hands balled into small fists, which only makes him laugh more.

THREE’S X A X CROWD

part of your duties is to accompany the crew as they go into town to scope out any local fruits and vegetables that you want to try. you like talking with the townspeople, like getting their insight on their regional dishes. you just live for the thrill of creating new, exciting meals and want your crew mates to feel the love that you pour into everything you make for them.

on a particular island, the ship is docked far enough away to not attract too much attention. there aren’t any major navy bases nearby, but one can’t be too careful in the new world, can they? there’s a festival in town, one that they keep advertising for. you catch wind and want to go, but shanks decrees that only a portion of the crew is allowed to disembark, while the others stand by on the ship. too many pirates traversing through the island will set off alarms; thankfully, the island is partial to the patronage of pirates, so they aren’t too upset that shanks’ crew has docked there.

somehow, you’re part of the group designated to stay on the ship, much to your annoyance. you try to plead with beckman, even go as far as pouting your lips, but he doesn’t budge. “captain’s orders,” which seems to be the norm these days. and when he sees the way your shoulders drop, he says, a little quietly, “sorry bug.” you know they’re just going to drink and act foolish on land, so you wait and take your time dressing up.  you have an actual reason for wanting to go into town; you need ingredients and don’t trust the others to shop properly for you, so you take matters into your own hands.

no one dares to stop you as you make your way off the ship; you tell the others you’ll be right back, and of course they believe you — why would you lie to them?

and you’re not lying, per se, you do want to get ingredients — although that isn’t your primary focus at the moment.

the festival is loud and seemingly merry with alcohol and food everywhere. thankfully the music makes the shitty alcohol taste better. shanks sits at a large table with the others, drinking, smoking, laughing as various people fawn over him and feed him cut up pieces of fruit. flirtatious by nature, he doesn’t even blink when they allow their delicate fingers to linger on his lips, or when they whisper things in his ear, or when they take turns to perch themselves on his lap.

for some reason, despite knowing that he should, he isn’t exactly stopping their advances.

guilt eats away at his crew mates at the sight of shanks on his usual path of self-destruction; yasopp tries to get him to see reason, beckman too, but he waves them off, saying he can do as he pleases. which only tells him that he’s still annoyed about you not talking to him properly these days. and, despite him not openly saying it, he’s suffering too.

you have fun watching the fireworks for a while, mesmerized by the loud explosions of color decorating the sky; before long, you find yourself in the middle of all the festivities, humming to yourself as you scope out the stalls. you get swept up into a small crowd of people and get turned around when you slip away. as you try to catch your bearings, you hear a familiar laugh and, on instinct, follow the sound of his voice.

while standing off to the side, you watch shanks and the others, heart beating far too loud for comfort. your hands ball into fists all over again, and you sink your nails into your palms when another woman drapes herself over shanks, giddy and tipsy, blushing every time he smiles her way. you know he’s just doing this because he’s pissed off at you, and rather than get sad, you decide to head to the pub and drink.

three drinks later, you saunter back out into the night and join the festival. you enjoy the way the music thrums underneath your skin, the beat thumping in your veins; a cool breeze travels nearby, making you feel light-headed. you forgot how freeing it is to be on your own — without a group of people to worry about, and a selfish captain who tramples over your heart and feelings repeatedly with his blasé attitude. maybe it would be better to just leave? but, the more you think about it, the more your head hurts, so you decide you’d rather enjoy yourself for a bit before heading back to the ship.

the alcohol makes you bolder than usual, and you’re all smiles with flushed cheeks when the vice-captain runs into you on his way to get more food. an incredibly foolish, petty idea crawls into your mind — it barely sits long enough before you act impulsively again.

“what are you doing here, bug?”

you simply shrug, as if you’ve embarked on an innocent expedition and didn’t expect to see him. beckman doesn’t buy the act one bit and pulls you into a nearby alley to talk with you privately. sighing loudly, he fixes you with a steely glare. “you’re suppose to be on the ship,” he says carefully, “d’you know how much trouble you’ll be in if shanks sees you here?” there’s no reason for him to tell you that, but you can’t fault him for trying to be nice. still, the idea of shanks thinking he can just dictate how you live your life, pushes you closer to the edge with your sanity barely intact.

and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “i am not a child,” you say angrily; your annoyance has reached the point of no return, so you let the irritation flow freely and allow it to fuel your pettiness. beckman pauses for a moment before chuckling darkly, shaking his head at your antics. from the determination on your face, and the way you don’t seem to want to budge on the issue, he can understand why shanks is so smitten with you — in fact, everyone on their crew understands — so he relents.

“fine, i’ll accompany you, then.”

you hadn’t expected him to offer, and you feel the tension leave your body slowly. maybe you were overreacting a bit, and maybe you just need to relax and enjoy the night like everyone else. you visit several stalls and shop around for a bit; you like the vice-captain’s company as he doesn’t say much, nor does he complain when you make him try various sweets to see which ones you should recreate. and while you might not intend to, you can’t help but flirt with him a little — touching his arm, laughing at his dry humor, standing much closer than necessary. beckman knows what you’re doing, but he doesn’t stop you; maybe shanks will get his act together if he thinks he has competition. you doubt he will, but it’s always worth a try, right?

DIAMOND X IN THE X ROUGH

after a while, the merriment feels stale; shanks’ laughter is hollow, forced, and unbecoming. and while on the surface it looks like he’s soaking up all the attention that’s being given to him, he’s not happy about it at all. a small frown works its way onto his lips as he tries to work out the cause of his unhappiness, completely ignoring his role in all of this. he’s not sure what’s missing — or, rather, he’s sure, but he just doesn’t want to say it out loud. that would make it real, and while he doesn’t want to make a habit out of it, shanks has been lying to himself for some time now. he knows that if he’d let you come with them, he’d be having much more fun — that thought alone makes him reconsider how he’s handled everything between you two.

the universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor. as his thoughts continue to berate him, he spots you walking with beckman. he narrows his eyes at you both but offers a smile — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — once you approach the table.

jaw clenched, shanks manages to greet you without fail. “hey there, lovebug.” there’s tension in his shoulders, and that amiable demeanor of his is shed, which makes the women near him a little reluctant as they squirm awkwardly in their seats. “thought i told you to stay on the ship,” he says lightly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. beckman sighs, knowing that shanks will most likely read into the situation incorrectly; but before he can explain himself, he sits back down in his seat and pours himself a drink.

“you don’t own me,” you say with a slight huff, glancing over at shanks from the corners of your eyes, “i’m allowed to go where i please.”

shanks almost laughs at that, but keeps it inside; he wants to tell you that you’re wrong, but he knows that this isn’t the right time or place for that sort of discussion. lucky roux offers to make some room for you, but you smile sweetly and announce that there’s no need. they all look at you, confused and a little intrigued, and before lucky roux insists again, you say, “i have a seat already.”

without warning, you gently perch your round ass on top of beckman’s lap, effectively silencing the group around you. it suddenly feels as if time has slowed down for shanks, who shifts in his chair as he watches you and beckman.

the vice-captain sighs again and playfully pinches your side, a move that does not go unnoticed by shanks, of course. you let out a small shriek, cheeks burning, and swat his hand before scooting up higher on his lap. the move alone nearly sends shanks and beckman into an early grave, for different reasons, obviously. meanwhile you’re smiling like a cat — mischievous and proud, as if you’ve cornered your prey and you’re ready to pounce.

you look so damn smug and shanks wants to fuck your mouth for all of that insolence.

beckman holds onto your hip as you cross your legs, revealing the deep slit in your skirt. your legs are on display, catching the eyes of everyone at the table and the random party goers passing by. shanks clenches his jaw so tightly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked his teeth. he knows that you’re provoking him into acting out, and while he doesn’t want to feed into it, his jealousy knows no bounds right now. especially since he knows you’re not wearing any panties — it’s why you chose that particular skirt.

you really only wanted to tease shanks a little, so you’re on cloud-nine when you notice how bothered he is over your little act.

it takes an inordinate amount of strength, on shanks’ part, to not split beckman’s face in two for his complicit behavior. he’s being unfair, he knows that — but he doesn’t really care. yasopp and lucky roux try to diffuse the situation with lighthearted banter and jokes — they also tell their guests to leave, because knowing shanks this might not end well.

beckman leans forward, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear, making your body warmer than necessary. “settle down, bug, we don’t want to cause a scene, do we?” you shake your head at that and swallow back whatever complaints you want to say when you see the hardened look on shanks’ face. you’ve only ever seen him that serious when his anger reaches a certain point — so you know you’ve fucked up pretty badly. you have the decency to act ashamed as you slide off beckman’s lap and grab your bags. you should probably say something to shanks, but you don’t bother looking back at him and instead head back to the ship.

you’re absolutely furious right now and so is shanks.

beckman rubs the back of his neck before leaning forward. “i told you, captain,” he keeps his tone friendly, yet firm, “if you’re not careful, one of us will take bug away.” at that, shanks casts a sharp glance at the other crew members seated at the table — the intensity behind his gaze forces them to turn away and look at other things. shanks motions for one of them to slide the bottle of vodka his way, and beckman groans audibly.

“not again, shanks, let—”

as shanks isn’t in a negotiating mood, he cuts his first mate off quickly — maliciously, even — with  venom sifting along his tongue, the layer thick enough he almost chokes on it. his voice is much too hoarse, but he spits out, “drink.”

it’s not a game that the red-hair pirates ever like to play with shanks, and he knows it; which is why he keeps insisting, and why his best friend keeps refusing. shanks’ anger reaches a tipping point; it transforms into a fire that steadily burns along the back of his neck, hot enough to make impulsive thoughts gather around him. the idea of extinguishing it never crosses his mind, although he knows that eventually he’ll need to face it head-on. and as he grips the bottle of alcohol tightly, a sharp moment of clarity hits him.

it’s by chance that he swallows it back, not wanting to make this even messier than it already is.

beckman shifts in his seat, a disapproving frown settling comfortably on his face. “it won’t be fair, i’m practically drunk already.”

“spare me the bullshit,” shanks says with a smile that serves as a small warning; he places a glass in front of beckman. “drink.” beckman pinches the space bridge of his nose and exhales a bit of his irritation. but when he picks up the glass, he recoils from the strong scent.

“this is practically rubbing alcohol.”

shanks only hums while shrugging lazily, before knocking back the drink; the burn revitalizes him, the pain reminds him that he’s alive. in a game of endurance, shanks always comes out on top. so it’s no wonder that beckman taps out after two shots.

“i value my liver, unlike you.”

this time, shanks’ laughter is genuine; he hops out of his chair and claps a hand on beckman’s back. “you’re forgiven,” he says when he leans down. as an afterthought, he adds, “this time.”

you’ve done a good job derailing his night — not that he can really blame you, he was being absolutely shameless in the worse way — so he’s decided he’s had enough. somehow, he’s rationalized that you’re the only childish and ridiculous person in this situation because he intends on stamping that attitude out.

SUN X STARS X MOON

you peruse shanks’ room while sipping from the bottle of rum you found. although you count tonight as a small victory against shanks, you didn’t think he’d get that mad. was all the teasing worth it, in the end? you leave the rum on the nightstand before climbing onto his bed and enjoy the softness of the mattress. maybe you overreacted, or maybe it’s all his fault. the guilt sits with you, until shanks enters his room.

“the hell are you doing back so soon?”

it’s not a proper greeting in the least, but you’re not exactly ready to deal with him just yet. but, since he’s already here, you might as well have it out. shanks closes the door and leans against it, partially obscured in the shadows as the moon bathes you in its light through the window.

“in case you’ve forgotten, this is my room and that’s my bed that you’re lounging comfortably on.”

he’s got you there. you roll your eyes in response, which draws out a chuckle from him once he pushes away from the door and goes to sit near you on the bed.

your emotions swell inside of you and become too heavy for you to keep hidden. “fine, whatever, i’ll leave.” you hop off the bed but then turn around. “you’re an asshole, you know that? you string me along for months and then anytime anyone else wants to talk to me you suddenly intervene.” the words tumble out of your mouth fluidly, you’re surprised your tongue could keep up. blinking back tears — because you refuse let him see you this vulnerable. “you piss me off so much, i… can’t do this anymore.”

it’s the first time that you’ve properly articulated how you’ve felt about this whole stupid situation. you feel a bit lighter but then sense of dread overcomes you, gnaws at your stomach — twisting and creating knots that make you want to run away forever. shanks takes a moment and mulls over your words, but his long silence is all the confirmation you need. you’re halfway to the door when he calls out to you.

“wait, come here.”

against your better judgment, you turn around and head back to his side. he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls you in between his legs, and warms an arm around you. “i hear you, bug, i really do.”

this is the first time he’s ever willingly said anything to make him vulnerable like that, so you relent, soften in his hold, allow your shattered heart to repair itself piece by piece. you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him softly. he’s normally much hastier with you — being a pirate captain, he barely has time to himself, so whenever he does get a moment to touch you, he’s always in a rush.

but tonight — the moon full and pink, hanging heavy in the sky, stars shimmering brilliantly around it — he opts to slow down. shanks takes his time memorizing the shape of your lips, tongue gently caressing yours as you sigh against his lips. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s afraid you’ll leave him if he doesn’t. you’re certainly in no hurry to finish anytime soon. by the time you’re done kissing, you’re a little breathless and can barely hold it together. shanks, unsurprisingly, is in a similar predicament, as his cock hasn’t given him a day of peace since your ban started.

but he decides to let go and mumbles, “thirty days is a long fucking time,” and you laugh, surprised at his words.

you climb onto the bed with him, laughing as he drops playful kisses along your neck, and straddle him once he lies down on his back. you rub your ass against his stiff length, forcing him to groan audibly. he’s always more vocal when he’s tipsy, and the rum has you feeling bolder as the minutes pass by. before you can do it again, shanks slaps your ass hard and you let out an involuntary shriek.

he laughs at you, laughs at the way you’re suddenly acting demure, as if you weren’t the one who started this. “i thought you didn’t want anyone to hear you?” he gives you a knowing look and a sly smile crawls onto his face. heat travels along your skin, making your cheeks burn in the worst way; you place a hand over his mouth on impulse.

“shut up, what is wrong with you?”

you hate the way you’re suddenly embarrassed about all of this. shanks, however, takes it all in stride, laughing behind your hand and mumbling something unintelligible against your palm. he knows he needs to act quickly before she makes him cum in his pants without trying. so when you pull your hand back, he says, “come on, put your pretty pussy on my mouth.” you stare at him wide-eyed, but he doesn’t relent. you mumble something about possibly being too heavy, which makes him laugh at your ridiculous excuse.

“how many times do i need to show you?” his strength, he means.

before he can do anything too rash, you pull your skirt up and position yourself over his face, pussy already slick with your arousal. shanks runs his tongue along your folds, slipping it inside to give you a firm lick; he takes his time to eat you out, his pace tortuous but electrifying. you can barely keep quiet and moan louder than you mean to as you shamelessly ride his face. holding onto the headboard, a whirlwind whips about inside of your lower abdomen as he slurps your pussy sloppily. he pulls you closer, and your arousal drips down his lips and onto his chin. your pussy is always so eager for him, so naturally he wants to treat her right.

you lose a bit of your sanity when his tongue slips inside your hole, thrusting in and out, your whimpers and moans circling around him — the best sort of lullaby he could ask for. he flicks his tongue against your clit and you buck your hips, feverishly grinding your pussy on his tongue. he likes it when you let go like this — when you’re uncaring and free. you place so many barriers in front of your own happiness, so he’s determined to knock them all down while he can. you know it’s reckless to give in to your inhibitions like this, to fly this closely to this personified version of the sun. although, you do feel a surge of power, seeing him underneath you like that, in between your thick thighs.

if shanks is apollo, then you are a nymph with ties to the moon and the sea.

it’s when shanks swirls his tongue around your clit, mercilessly stroking it, sending tiny jolts through your thighs, making you tremble above him. the orgasm is transformative — you have tears in your eyes as you whimper pathetically, your pussy puffy and sensitive; but he doesn’t care. he licks your arousal off his lips, thinking you look divine and goddess-like in the interim following your orgasm.

time slows for you both, and maybe you’re imaging it, but your heartbeat matches his once you climb off of him. of course, as usual, shanks is smug and proud of himself, but when you start taking off your clothes and tossing them onto the floor, he follows suit. pre-cum drips slowly from the tip of his cock, and when you rub your wet pussy up and down his length, you let out a breathy moan. shanks watches you with lowered eyes, inhaling sharply once you sink down onto his cock.

your pussy swallows his girth with a slow descent, and he’s losing whatever sliver of control he thinks he has over himself when it comes to you. when his cock hits a particular spot, you shudder and moan his name; he could cum from that alone, he realizes, and it shocks the hell out of him. in retaliation, shanks thrusts into you once, then twice, as you claw at his chest and cry out for more. your pace quickens as you bounce on his cock, thighs trembling as you try to keep strong; the orgasm weakened you, but rather than give in, you keep going, rolling your hips against him, hypnotizing him without completely meaning to. he won’t last much longer at this rate, which is completely your fault, he reasons.

you ride him as long as you can, before frowning and slowing down. shanks looks at you slyly, unable to stop teasing you. “need some help?”

it’s your pride that doesn’t want you to ask for help, but you know that if you don’t, shanks will edge you until you’re on your knees in tears. “please.” if he wasn’t already teetering on the edge, your desperation would make him tease you more. he rolls so that he’s on top of you and leans forward to place kisses along your jaw and neck, loving how smooth and soft your skin is. because he’s obnoxious, he sucks and bites, leaving behind bruising marks on your neck and chest. he’s burning you alive, but you want more.

you drape your leg over his shoulder, and he kisses the inside of your thigh before flicking his tongue against your skin, enjoying the way you squirm underneath him, your heart beating much too fast in your chest, making you think seemingly impossible things. shanks slips his cock back inside of you, burying it completely, letting out a shaky breath at the way your plush walls suffocate him. the angle makes you buck your hips off the bed; he laughs darkly at your enthusiasm, but doesn’t move. the frustration alone could kill you; you want him to fuck you hard enough to shake your doubts, to combat all the warmth that keeps sliding through the cracks around your heart.

he moves his hips at his own leisure, giving you broad, powerful strokes — hard enough, that his balls slap against you, pussy squelching as he powers into you repeatedly. you should be embarrassed from the sounds alone — your pussy is wet enough for him to drown, but thankfully he’s got enough stamina to handle it.

each time his cock sinks deeper into your pussy, he feels reborn; like the sea — tumultuous, dizzying, captivating, and greedy — you suck him back in each time he tries pulling out. eventually, you wrap your arms around your thighs and he feels like you’re squeezing the remnants of his soul out of him. shanks rocks his hips against yours, rough and determined, sweat gliding along his skin. when he moans your name, your heart expands faster than you thought it would. shanks keeps his hips closer to yours, giving you short, quick thrusts, fucking you to remind you that he has no intention of letting you go. his breath is warm against your skin and you kiss him again, giving him ardent, sloppy tongue kisses that do nothing to calm you down. he swallows your moans as another orgasm grips you by the throat and nearly claims your life.

your pussy clenches around him tightly, so he takes that as a challenge and fucks you harder, giving you brutal, punishing strokes — frenetic and dizzying, making your mind spin too fast for you to keep up.

“shanks, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

whatever else you say after that is lost on you, incoherent babbling that makes him laugh at you again. it’s out of adoration, you know it is, even if he won’t openly say it. shanks e works you through your orgasm, hips jerking against yours, before his own pushes him completely over the edge. after giving you a few lazy thrusts, he cums inside of you, messy but satisfying. shanks slows down and tries to catch his breath, as you push your curls away from your face. he doesn’t leave your side after he pulls out, instead he pulls you close to him, his hand rubbing up and down your back, his subsequent kisses intense and possessive.

you don’t exactly know what will happen tomorrow, but for now you’ll cherish this moment and commit it to memory. with everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want to see you in the arms of another, and you don’t want to keep pushing him away. you’re sure something’s shifted fundamentally between you two, especially when you lay on top of him and listen to the steady, powerful beats of his heart. you suppose you can give him a little leeway, but you won’t tell him that right away. there’s a warmth that cloaks itself all over you, keeping you moored to him for the rest of the night; he enjoys the silence that accompanies your presence, and decides that he’s going to keep you for as long as he can.

#it's finally done jfc #fic request #one piece imagine #one piece angst #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #shanks angst #shanks smut #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #*washes hands* #‘i can change him’ 🥴 #no tf i can’t!!! am i kidding?! #also… beckman… ur day will come don’t worry

[goodmusicfan86]

#Repost @mercurius.jpg with @repostsaveapp

・・・

"I'm so proud of you, Usako..." ❤️

- Sailor Moon Sailor Stars

(Episode 200: Usagi's Love: The Moonlight Illuminates the Galaxy)

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#sailormoon #sailormercury #sailormars #sailorjupiter #sailorvenus #naokotakeuchi #anime #sailoruranus #sailorneptune #sailorsaturn #sailorpluto #otaku #manga #sailormooneternal #usagitsukino #amimizuno #reihino #minakoaino #makotokino #sailorchibimoon #chibiusa #follow #tuxedokamen #geek #michirukaioh #setsunameioh #harukatenoh #hotarutomoe #セーラームーンEternal #美少女戦士セーラームーン

#sailor moon stars #prince endymion #princess serenity #eternal sailor moon #tuxedo mask #mamoru chiba #usagi tsukino #mamoru and usagi #mamoru x usagi #usagi x mamoru #usagi and mamoru #serenity and endymion #prince endymion and princess serenity #chibi chibi #sailor chibi chibi

[eliivie]

Echoes of the Ocean's Embrace: Captivating Twilight on Portugal's shores

Born of the Sea, I am, forever intertwined with its azure embrace. My summers unfurled as symphonies of sand and waves, the lullaby of tides serenading my soul. The allure of the ocean is an enigma that captivates my being, perhaps for the simple reason that without its cradle, life's tapestry would be but a whisper.

Or perhaps it's the dance of science itself, the choreography of tides that pull and push the vast cerulean canvas, a celestial ballet orchestrated by the moon's elegant hand. Beneath its surface, I find solace too, lost in the whispers of liquid secrets.

A memory unfurls, a voyage with friends to the sun-kissed shores of Portugal. A journey that ignited a trail of precious moments, like pearls strung on the thread of time. After a day of wandering through Porto's labyrinthine streets, we board the vintage tram, its iron wheels clattering towards the edge of the world where ocean and land entwine.

And so we stand, weary yet alive, at the water's edge, the amber liquid of evening cascading around us. With chilled beer in hand, we bear witness to the sun's descent, a cosmic painter dipping its brush in hues of fire. As twilight brushes the world with its soft fingers, we watch as waves embrace the distant lighthouse, a beacon of welcome to the sailors on their homeward journey.

A February evening, the air crisp with the scent of salt, the wind, a boisterous companion on the open sea. The waves, they crash, a thunderous applause against the rugged cliffs, a grand symphony of liquid crescendos. Each collision, a burst of aqueous fireworks, ephemeral blooms of froth and spray.

Amidst this grand spectacle, the sun takes its bow, a timorous retreat beneath the watery horizon. Its golden rays, like gifts of remembrance, caress the vast expanse before me. In this moment, as the sun surrenders its fiery embrace to the ocean's cool touch, I find solace. It's a solitary communion, just me and the endless abyss, the serenade of waves against the rocks. And in that ephemeral eternity, I turn my gaze to those who stand beside me, kindred souls illuminated by the fading light, their smiles, galaxies of joy.

Life's beauty reveals itself in these intimate fragments, moments etched in the sands of time, like footprints left by wanderers on a limitless shore.

~Eli

#porto #portuguese #portugal #sea #horizon burning shores #coastline #sunset #short poem #poem #travel #beauty #sky #friends #atlantic ocean

[zukusuku]

🇺🇸 Explosions In The Sky - The Moon Is Down2. 🇮🇸 Sigur Rós - Sæglópur3. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Mogwai - Punk Rock4. 🇨🇦 Godspeed You! Black Emperor - Mladic5. 🇨🇦 A Silver Mt. Zion - 13 Angels Standing Guard 'round the Side of Your Bed6. 🇺🇸 This Will Destroy You - Thread7. 🇬🇧 65daysofstatic - Taipei8. 🇬🇧 Maybeshewill - He Films The Clouds Pt. 29. 🇯🇵 Mono - Pure As Snow (Trails Of The Winter Storm)10. 🇯🇵 Toe - Two Moons11. 🇸🇪 Lights & Motion - Anomaly12. 🇸🇪 Immanu El - Under Your Wings I'll Hide13. 🇪🇸 Exxasens - Science Will Save Us14. 🇮🇪 God Is An Astronaut - Forever Lost15. 🇬🇧 Slowdive - Crazy For You (Demo Version)16. 🇬🇧 Kyte - Boundaries17. 🇮🇸🇺🇸 Jónsi & Alex - Indian Summer18. 🇺🇸 Deafheaven - Dream House19. 🇫🇷 Alcest - Souvenirs d'Un Autre Monde20. 🇸🇪 Jeniferever - From Across The Sea21. 🇺🇸 American Football - The Summer Ends22. 🇺🇸 La Dispute - Such Small Hands23. 🇺🇸 The World Is A Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid To Die - January 10th, 201424. 🇺🇸 Prawn - Why You Always Leave A Note25. 🇺🇸 The Appleseed Cast - As The Little Things Go26. 🇯🇵 Envy - Further Ahead Of Warp27. 🇺🇸 If These Trees Could Talk - If These Trees Could Talk28. 🇺🇸 The Album Leaf - Twentytwofourteen29. 🇺🇸 Lowercase Noises - Silence In Siberia30. 🇬🇧 Jesu - Homesick31. 🇺🇸 Moving Mountains - Swing Set32. 🇺🇸 Sunnn O))) - It Took The Night To Believe33. 🇫🇷 M83 - Wait34. 🇩🇪 Frames - Don't Stay Here35. 🇯🇵 Boris - Farewell36. 🇺🇸 A Sunny Day In Glasgow - Autumn Again37. 🇬🇧 Clem Leek - Bless Those Tired Eyes38. 🇬🇧 Yndi Halda - Illuminate My Heart, Darling!39. 🇮🇸 Amiina - Perth40. 🇮🇸 Múm - We Have A Map Of The Piano41. 🇺🇸 Pianos Became The Teeth - Hiding42. 🇺🇸 Owel - Snowglobe43. 🇯🇵 Heaven In Her Arms - 光芒の明時44. 🇺🇸 Gates - The Thing That Would Save You45. 🇬🇧 The 1975 - Sex46. 🇺🇸 Cigarettes After Sex - Apocalypse47. 🇰🇷 Jambinai - Time Of Extinction48. 🇺🇸 Red Sparrowes - In An Illusion Of Order49. 🇺🇸 Russian Blood - Youngblood50. 🇦🇺 Sleepmakeswave - It's Dark, It's Cold, It's Winter51. 🇳🇿 Jakob - Blind Them With Science52. 🇩🇪 Daturah - Ghost Track53. 🇵🇱 Tides From Nebula - Dopamine54. 🇮🇹 Port-royal - Nights In Kiev55. 🇺🇸 Hammock - I Can Almost See You56. 🇺🇸 Lights Out Asia - They Disappear Into The Palms57. 🇬🇧🇫🇷 Stereolab - Diagonals58. 🇩🇰 Mew - Comforting Sounds59. 🇩🇰 Efterklang - Dreams - Today60. 🇺🇸 Inventions - Echo Tropism61. 🇺🇸 Unwed Sailor - Moon Coin62. 🇷🇺 Mooncake - Novorossiysk 196863. 🇺🇸 Joy Wants Eternity - Dark Heart of the King64. 🇬🇧 Epic45 - The Stars In Autumn65. 🇬🇧 July Skies - Festival Of Britain66. 🇺🇸 The American Dollar - Anything You Synthesize67. 🇸🇪 PG.Lost - Crystaline68. 🇸🇪 EF - Delusions of Grandeur69. 🇸🇪 September Malevolence - I Shut Doors and Windows70. 🇸🇪 Oh Hiroshima - Mirage71. 🇺🇸 Windsor Airlift - Something Lost72. 🇺🇸 Carinthia - Leaving73. 🇬🇧 Good Weather For An Airstrike - Good Night, Boogaloo74. 🇬🇧 The Echelon Effect - As the Lights Fade Away75. 🇸🇪 U137 - Adam Forever76. 🇳🇴 The Samuel Jackson Five - Never Ending Now77. 🇨🇦 Do Make Say Thing - Horripilation78. 🇺🇸 El Ten Eleven - Sorry About Your Irony79. 🇬🇧 And So I Watch You From Afar - Dying Giants80. 🇯🇵 Mass Of The Fermenting Dregs - Oneday81. 🇯🇵 Miaou - Hello World82. World's End Girlfriend - Smile83. 🇯🇵3nd - 夏終わる84. 🇮🇩 Under The Big Bright Yellow Sun - A Life In A Day85. 🇮🇩 TheMilo - Romantic Purple86. 🇮🇩 My Violainé Morning - Lost87. 🇮🇩 Autumn Ode - They Asked Me to Run, Follow the Sun88. 🇮🇩 L'AlphaAlpha - A Lot of Fireworks But I Still Have A Reason to Smile89. 🇮🇩 The Trees and The Wild - Empati Tamako90. 🇮🇩 Heals - Void91. 🇮🇩 Marché La Void - Serenity92. 🇮🇩 Tuan Tanah - A Farewell to Arms93. 🇮🇩 Echolight - Lethal Impression94. 🇮🇩 Senja Dalam Prosa - Niskala95. 🇮🇩 Elemental Gaze - Unperfect Sky96. 🇮🇩 Qibe - Adaptasi Diri97. 🇮🇩 Ghaust - At Sea (We Are Nothing)98. 🇸🇬 Paint the Sky Red - Amber99. 🇵🇭 As the City Sleeps - Goodbye100. 🇬🇧 Radiohead - Pyramid Song

[landofanimes]

Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon Illumination -Eternal-

- Sailor Guardian’s Planet Symbol Lift - Moon Castle - Legendary Silver Crystal - Elysion

Sagamiko Illumillion 2021-2022 at Sagamiko Resort Pleasure Forest - Sagamihara City, Kanagawa, Japan.

#sailor moon #sailor moon illumination eternal #silver millennium #sailor senshi #elysion #helios #pegasus #silver crystal #sailor moon eternal #Sagamiko Illumillion #bssm #they really put orange as pluto's garnet huh?? wth #that crystal though #THE MOON PALACE!!!!! ELYSION!!!!! #I---!!!!!

[animenostalgia]

Found this video of the Sailor Moon Eternal themed "illumination" (aka light display) currently going on in Kabegawa prefecture Japan! A fun video to get into the holiday spirit, for those of us who can't travel to see it in person.

#Sailor moon #sailor moon eternal #Illumination #Light display #Holiday event #Japan #Sailor Moonday #Video #Youtube

[sailormoon-gallery]

The second visual of the movie version "Sailor Moon Eternal" "Part 1" has been completed!

The super sailor moon, illuminated by the moonlight and full of determination, is a visual depicting two people who are the presence of light and darkness, staring at the queen of the new moon at the top of the dead moon with a cold look from the world of mirrors filled with darkness.

See the strong and beautiful Sailor Warrior as they battle the Dead Moon led by Neherenia to overcome their destiny and grow.

More! From 22:00 on Monday, November 30, 2020, every time night comes, something changes to the official website of the movie version...!?

See for yourself what's going to happen! Please look forward to the follow-up of the movie in the future.

The movie version "Sailor Moon Eternal" will be released in two consecutive parts on "Part 1" Friday, January 8, 2021 / "Part 2" on Thursday, February 11, 2021.

#sailormoon #prettyguardian #セーラームーン #sailor moon #bishoujosenshi #anime #pretty guardian sailor moon #sailormoon25thanniversary #sailormooneternalmovie #sailormooneternal

[not-close-to-straight]

Gold (Spideypool)(One)

A commission for @paranormalmoonlight5 and @pumpkin-spidey who wanted a reverse-ish Little Mermaid AU ft. Mer!Peter and Prince!Wade. I prefer my mer’s to be man eating and vicious, but I settled for sappy sweet, over the top dramatic, and soulmate-y this time around! 

Applicable warnings: Wade almost drowns, there is mentions of eating people (honestly what do you expect from my mermaids?) and an attempt at nekkidness. 

PART TWO

******************

Three months the Prince had been gone from his home.

It was a sea journey of ten days to visit a neighboring territory with the intent of striking an alliance and quieting the murmurs of unrest and war between the people. The negotiations had stretched weeks, fruitless and ultimately pointless, going round and round with the same arguments and senseless disagreements, neither side willing to budge but both demanding the other yield. 

War had crept closer with every disjointed summit, despair had tinged the last of the conditions and pleas and when all was said and done, the Prince was returning home having failed to secure a truce, and needing to ready his men for the coming conflict. 

King Thomas would not be pleased, but Wade didn’t care much about his father’s wishes. The younger Prince Francis should have been sent to find a truce, it was well known that Wade was a warrior not a politician, a fighter not a peace seeker, a Prince better suited to life outside the castle walls than one spent inside with finery and fawning dignitaries and the search for a husband or wife to sit beside him on the throne. 

But the King’s wishes couldn’t be ignored, so for three months Wade had given up his swords and armor to sit through negotiations and wagers for peace. Three months of endless banal pleasantries and asinine small talk, suffering the attentions of ladies-and-men in waiting who vied for his attention, for his bed, for his desire. Put upon manners to impress strangers and politely but firmly worded rejections of whispered offers. 

Insufferable, all of it.

Wade wanted nothing to do with court affairs that were laughter and kisses at dusk, then anger and drama at dawn. The Prince had no one waiting at home for him, nor a lover at one of the oft visited ports, and Wade considered himself lucky to be missing the trouble. 

Though handsome, the Prince had never been one to take casual lovers, and though his blue eyes and blond hair brought to mind Adonis, he had never attempted to pursue a more permanent relationship. There was no one who caught Wade’s eye or stirred his lust, and after the desire and experimentation of youth, those urges had mostly fallen away all together. 

Not for lack of want, but for lack of interest. If Wade could find someone that woke his heart, perhaps then desire would spark but until then he slept alone, went through his days alone, and in the quietest moments before dawn, when the world was still and there was nothing but the sound of the ocean beyond his windows, the Prince’s soul ached for something he couldn’t quite understand. 

The weeks and months away had only amplified Wade’s misery, and the misery had turned to abject loneliness. The days stuffed into ridiculous clothing and forced to attend society events under the guise of courting favor with an ally. The hours spent doing nothing while men who would never understand war talked of soldier’s lives and the cost of ruined countryside. The letters from King Thomas demanding updates and encouraging specific action. The quiet sneers from those gathered who knew Wade was sent to do a job out of his depth, the mocking disdain from others who saw a soldier and not a Royal, a pretty face and empty, disinterested eyes. 

And Wade was both empty and disinterested, which is why with three months gone and no peace achieved, he now stood at the railing of the ship Sister Margaret and stared up into a blackening, stormy sky and wondered if the gods would grant him reprieve enough to cause them to be lost. 

Perhaps he and the sailors could wander to a distant shore, wind up somewhere different than where his life was headed. Wade’s soul ached with the need to run, to escape, to throw himself from the ship and strike out on his own because every shift in the wind that steered him home felt like the snap of a manacle tightening round his wrist. 

The Prince stood at the railing and silently begged the skies to change the course of his fate, and as the night darkened and the moon hid behind roiling clouds, the skies listened. 

The first of many winter storms chose tonight to unleash it’s fury, bearing down on the Sister Margaret with all the force of a hurricane, tearing the ships sails to tatters and battering the hull to and fro in ever rising waves. A crewman was lost over the edge as the Sister Margaret heaved dangerously in the surf, another taken with a scream when a main beam cracked and split and after a terrifying moment fell and swept the deck with it’s length before crashing into the sea. 

Lightning cut jagged through the sky and thunder pitched low and furious, shaking the men to their very bones and rattling the teeth in their heads. Those whose fright outweighed their common sense ran below for dubious shelter from the sideways rains, those who had sailed through storms before tied themselves to the remaining masts with quick release knots in case the ship started to go under. 

Wade held onto the railing until his knuckles were white, eyes wide as he searched the lightning lit seas for rocks, for land, for anything that could be their savior or something else that would be their certain doom. He’d prayed for a different course and wished for a change in the winds but he’d only meant for a respite from his responsibilities and the shackles of a royal life. Not this, not a storm, not the durability of his ship and the fate of his men held at the mercy of a furious sea, not death as an escape, not the horrors of drowning and the agony of being crushed by the depths. 

No, the Prince had only wanted some time to find the answer to what was clawing at his soul, he had never wanted--

-- “Rocks of the starboard side! To port! To port! Brace yourself!”--

--the Sister Margaret shredded herself on the jagged peaks of jutting rocks, her sides splitting and the water roaring as it rushed to fill her hull. The screams of men huddled below were lost beneath the pitch of thunder, the scramble of footsteps as sailors ran for the other side of the ship rang dully in Wade’s ears as he watched the sails rend from the mast rings and fall to the deck as a death shroud. 

The entire ship heaved, twisted and thrown by an errant wave and Wade’s grasp at the railing slipped and failed, his body tossed into the air as if it were no consequence, the surface of the sea like glass where it burned and bruised as he hit the water and then slid under and in just those few seconds, Wade’s wish for his fates to be altered was effectively, brutally, granted. 

I don’t want to die. 

The water was shockingly cold and inky black. Lightning cut across the sky and illuminated the Sister Margaret as her holds splintered and the ocean took her apart. It flashed in the eyes of desperate sailors as they swam for the rocks, for the shore, for anything that wasn’t death. The wind howled and muted Wade’s hoarse shout as his heavy coat dragged him under the surf and boots filled with frigid water, dragging him down and down and down. 

The rocks meant they were close enough to shore to almost be home, to almost be safe, so close yet so far, near enough to be tempting, far enough to be damning and Wade was sinking. 

I don’t want to die.

It wasn’t easy for him to admit to being afraid, not easy for a Prince and a soldier to admit to being scared but as the dark clouds spilt rain like ice and the sea stormed, Wade sank and he was frightened to his very core. 

I don’t want to die. 

His brain was screaming for oxygen, his lungs fighting the urge to breathe and Wade clawed towards the surface-- towards what he thought was the surface-- as another wave crashed over his head and sent him spinning, another piece of debris from the ship cut into his midsection and made him wheeze, another wash of water pummeled him and Wade tasted salt water on his tongue, down his throat, burning into his stomach and seizing up his airways. 

I don’t want to die.

The water was glacial and the Prince’s body was leaden, sluggish as he drifted down, eyes blurred as he stared through the dark to find the last lights from the Sister Margaret as she staggered to stay upright but couldn’t stop from sliding under. 

I’m going to die. 

It was a moment of near delirium as Wade clung to the last shreds of self control to keep from breathing the briny wash, it was a jolt of sheer panic as the Prince found one last dreg of strength to kick up up, it was a blink of his spirit hovering between death and life and in that one eternal second, Wade thought he saw eyes looking back at him. 

Eyes bright golden in the fathomless depths. A flash of sharp teeth behind dark red lips. A dust of glitter on bare skin and webbed fingers reaching reaching, claws scraping scraping and dragging him down. 

And in the swirling currents before darkness rushed in and ended his life, the Prince swore he heard a song, haunting and sweet and hypnotic and his own soul soul shifted and yearned, burned bright and tried to answer--

--above the surface the last piece of the Sister Margaret slipped below the waves into the empty beneath--

--and the Prince saw nothing more, heard nothing more, became nothing more as the sea took him as its own. 

************

************

“Wake up, sailor.” The voice was coaxing and melodic, the brush of fingers at Wade’s cheek somehow both feather soft and razor sharp all at the same time. “The afternoon sun will bake you dry and it would be such a pity to ruin your lovely skin.” 

Music. Wade still tasted ocean at the back of his throat and clogging fear low in his stomach but all he could think about was music, a haunting melody swirling round his ears and settling in his heart and lighting behind his eyes like sunshine. Music. 

“P--pretty--” the Prince croaked, lips chapped and tongue thick from dehydration, limbs unresponsive and eyes crusted shut from the ocean spray. “G-gold--”

“Yes, I’m very pretty.” Came a teasing answer. “And my eyes turn very gold, but you couldn’t possibly know that unless you open your eyes, so why don’t you wake up all the way and see me?” 

“Open….” Wade was still lost, his body adrift as if he was still spinning in the waves, his lungs burning like he was still drowning but he sucked in a painful breath all the same, forced his mouth to open and pull in oxygen sweet oxygen to bring his too raw senses back to coherence one by one. 

First there was pain-- scrapes and cuts stinging from salt water, a pattern of bruises no doubt blooming purple and blue along his back and side. Dimly, only dimly Wade remembered being thrown from the Sister Margaret and dropping into the stormy sea and the abrupt hit explained the way it hurt to breathe. He'd most likely broken a rib hitting the water so hard, or it might have been a bruised rib that cracked when a piece of the Sister Margaret had slammed into him in the melee.

Either way he hurt, Wade hurt from the bottom of his bootless feet clear to the migraine pounding behind his eyes and after the initial pain came a wash of panic, of fear. What had happened to his men? To the rest of the ship? What of King Thomas who was expecting him home, what of the failed negotiations and the potentially impending war? How far from home was he, and had anyone survived the ship sinking?

...had Wade survived the ship sinking? He heard music through his mind and yet everything hurt. Was this an illusion? A hallucination? Was the Prince wavering in some moment between living and death and this was something of a purgatory?

“I can almost hear you thinking.” Another touch at Wade's temple that was both infinitely soft and wholly dangerous, the fine edge of what felt like a claw down Wade's jawline and calloused fingertips at his cheek. “What is on your mind, my love?”

“...my—my--”

“I pulled you from the waves.” The voice was closer now, sunshine and warmth and music on the Prince's scattered thought process. “Most of your men survived clinging to the debris from the ship. Some succumbed to my sisters, others were left to the sharks, but I saved you.”

Wade tried and tried and tried to open his eyes, forced the lagging lids to part and blinked into a too bright sun as he tried to see who or what was at his side. 

“If you were anyone else I would think about eating you.” Wade's savior giggled, and it was almost terrifying in it's beauty. “But you're far too good looking for that. It would be a shame to rid the world of someone so lovely because I wanted to bite you, and once I got closer and saw you, I couldn't do it.”

“B--Bite me?” Wade licked his lips and struggled to focus, his vision clearing enough to make out a hazy form leaning over him. “You-- you were going to bite me?” 

“I was going to devour you.” the creature corrected with a smile that glinted fanged and sharp and almost fond. “But then I heard you, truly heard you, and I had to know you instead.”

“That’s-- that’s good.” Wade inhaled shakily, dragged the air in through salt burned lungs and grimaced when every molecule of oxygen stung. “That’s um-- I don’t want to be devoured.” 

“Are you what they call a Prince Charming?” The creature tilted his head and tapped a delicate claw along with the rhythm of Wade's heart beat. “I’ve heard them talk about ones like you. Handsome. Brave. Trying to conquer the world and sailing your ships through the sea as if you own it. A ridiculous idea, you don’t own the waves anymore than you own the wind but you like to think it, don’t you?” 

“You’ve heard who talk about it?” Wade leaned up onto his elbows, shifted sideways with a painful wheeze so the creature’s head was blocking out most of the sun and he could actually see. “What do you mean they call me a Prince Charming? Who are they?” 

“The humans, of course.” they answered, and then, “Let me help your eyes, my love. Hold still.”

My love?

Wade only had enough time to wonder why the creature kept calling him my love before a cold palm with oddly webbed fingers covered his eyes. It was suddenly warm and suddenly bright and the Prince gasped and flinched away partly in surprise, partly in fear, but the creature only laughed soft again and used the hand at Wade's chest to hold him still with near unbelievable strength.

“Just a moment, just a moment, just a moment, I know this burns.” they whispered. “I know this burns but I'll be gentle afterwards, I promise. My mate, I promise I'll be gentle, just a moment...”

My love, my mate, gentle. The words were blurry in Wade's mind, blurry like his vision and sluggish like the way his fingers still felt numb and his limbs felt so heavy and the Prince thought maybe he could sleep-- maybe he could drown-- if it weren't for the music wrapping low and soothing through his psyche and reverberating against the pressure of the creature's hands on his body.

My love, my mate, gentle--

--and then Wade could see.

“Oh.” he gasped and jerked up right to sitting when his vision suddenly cleared, the headache gone and the ache in his core easing. “Oh fu—fu--what did you did you? What did you do?”

“I healed you.” Came the simple answer. “Some of us can heal, others only harm but all of us can help our mates if needed. You needed me, so I helped you.”  

“You-- you helped me.” the Prince wiped at his mouth and shook his head until the last of the cobwebs cleared and he could see.

Wade could see and all he could see was otherworldly beauty-- sun bronzed skin and bare shoulders dusted with ethereal glitter, gold flecked eyes and hair tumbling in loose curls, temptingly pink lips and hooked fangs that glinted sunlight in a knowing smile. Claws and webbed fingers, strong arms and a distractingly defined abdomen that led to a narrow waist and lean hips and a-- a tail.

Mother of the gods, the creature had a tail. 

“You’re a mermaid.” Wade croaked. “You’re a mermaid-- mer-- merman. Mer--” 

 “I’m a mer, yes.” The water by Wade’s leg splashed beneath it’s tail and the creature wrinkled his nose teasingly when Wade's jaw dropped. “Some of your people call us mermen, others call us sirens or water nymphs.” 

A smile that was dangerous in its intent. “Those we eat call us monsters, but those cries and accusations never last long once the water turns bloody.” 

“No I--” Wade gripped at the rocky sand beneath his fingers anxiously. “No, I suppose they don’t. You-- you don’t want to eat me though. I’m all muscle, no fat. I’d be tough and stringy.” 

“All muscle?” the mer cocked a curious eyebrow then pressed those webbed fingers to feel along the Prince’s chest, down his abdomen and across the shifting muscles and down lower to drag a clawed finger along the dip at Wade’s hip bone. “Ah. I see. Mmmmmm.”

 The noise was almost hypnotic, sort of a moan and nearly a purr and despite his fatigue and near death experience, every line in Wade’s body tightened, surged, and he heard the echo of music in his soul all over again.

“God.” His nervousness was forgotten as his heart rate skyrocketed, a surge of arousal as much a relief as it was foreign. When was the last time he had wanted anyone, and why did this creature stir him so? “God, I think I’d let you bite me just to hear you make that noise again.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” The mer’s delighted laugh was like bells, like wind chimes and like the songs from the temples that echoed across the hills and it shook Wade to his core, made his next breath hitch like he was drunk as the mer inched closer, then closer again until their noses nearly met and the gold in it’s eyes gleamed. “I want to know you. Tell me your name, Prince Charming.” 

“My name is Wade.” They were close now, Wade sitting up on his elbows and the mer still leaning over him, close enough that Wade could see the swirls of color in the mer's eyes and count the fan of his lashes. “Prince Royal Wade Wilson of the Eastern Kingdom. I am King Thomas's first born and Lieutenant General of his troops, venturer onto the sea and apparently--”

Wade looked down at his body, at his missing boots and torn pants, shredded, sodden shirt and his feet and calves still dangling in the water. “--apparently someone who washes up nearly naked on the shore.”

The mer laughed again, eyes lighting brilliantly happy at Wade's sense of humour and the Prince cleared his throat a few times before asking, “What's your name?”

“You couldn't pronounce it.” he shrugged half heartedly, one slim shoulder rising and falling with the motion. “But the closest to your language would be Peter, so you can call me Peter.”

“Peter.” Wade repeated, and the mer actually shuddered over it, tail twitching and fingers flexing at Wade's abdomen. “...Pete?”

“Yes.” Pete sighed and settled a little tighter to Wade's frame. “Mmmm, hearing my name on your mouth is lovely. Say it again.”

Again. Wade cleared his throat. “P—Pete. Why did you save me?”

“Because I heard your soul.” Peter smoothed his palm down Wade's chest again, pink tongue slipping distractingly over his teeth. “We heard the screams of your men so my sisters and I came to see what could be salvaged from the wreck, but when you hit the water the very currents changed their direction and brought your song to me. I had to find you.”

And then softer, the beautiful features shuttering and falling sad. “I didn't expect to find a human floating beneath the waves, but I had to save you anyway.”

“You heard my soul? My song?” the Prince couldn't stop staring at the glint of the sharp fangs behind the mer's lips. “What-- what does that mean?”

“Your heart song.” Peter said again. “Your soul cried out for me when the ocean took you, so I came to save you.” 

The mer added softer, almost nervously, “You didn't hear mine when you fell? When the water came up over your ears, you didn't hear my song calling back to you?”

Wade thought back to the moments where he thought he was dying, how his boots had filled with water and his coat had dragged him down and then there'd been golden eyes and reaching fingers and--

--and music.

“The music in the storm.” he whispered. “That was you?”

“You heard it.” Peter smiled again, pleased and so beautiful it took Wade's breath away. “When I saw you were mortal, I was afraid you wouldn't hear the melody, but whether you did or not, I had to save you. I took your jacket and your boots so you wouldn't drown and brought you here where the wind is buffered by the rocks until you woke up. Safe.”

“You took care of me?”

“I just wanted to see you.” Peter touched Wade just lightly, pushed apart what was left of Wade's shirt and bared his skin to the late morning sky. “You were asleep for so long and I kept watch so the others wouldn't come and drag you back into the sea to tear you apart. I wanted to make sure you were safe and I thought I'd leave when you woke, but I—I couldn't.”

The mer seemed almost sad as he spread webbed fingers over Wade's navel and lowered his head to rest his forehead over Wade's heart. “I should go now. It must have been a fluke, a moment where your soul wasn't quite human and your heart song reached for me. A mer and a human cannot be together, so now that I know you're safe, I'll leave you be.”

Peter pushed away from Wade's body, pushed himself back into the water until he was submerged up to his chin, only his fingers hooked around Wade's ankle and holding fast.

“Go well, Prince Charming.” the mer whispered, then took a deep breath and opened his mouth to sing a siren song of forgetfulness--

– “Wait.” Wade lunged after Peter, scrambled towards the water and fell into up to his chest when his legs didn't want to quite work right. “Wait, Pete wait.”

“My love, don't make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” The water barely rippled when Peter moved, the mer so graceful even as he swam backwards that the sea surface remained glassy smooth. “This song will make you forget, and when you wake again you won't know me at all. You're safe and I should leave you--”

“What does it mean that I heard your song?!” Wade burst out, grabbing fruitlessly at the water, at Peter's form as the mer slid further away. “What does that mean? I can feel it right here.” he pushed at his own chest, at his heart. “Feel it in my soul, where I’ve never felt anything at all so what does it mean?”

Peter swallowed, gills on his neck flicking open once, twice, but he didn't answer and Wade persisted, “For years I've been searching for something to fill this gap right here in my soul. It’s like I’m empty but nothing fills it. I've never found love and I've never wanted to try searching for it. I wage war but not even the battle lust soothes me. I can't stay home alone with nothing and no one and no idea of what I'm looking for, it will drive me mad. Tell me what it means that I heard your heart song.”

Softer, almost pleading. “Tell me.”

The mer paused, waited and Wade reached his hands out desperately, wanting or needing or-- or something. “Please.”

And finally, “Put your hands on the water like this.” Peter took a deep breath and flattened his palms to the surface of the water. “Hold yourself still and wait for the music to come to you on the currents. We are soulmates, you and I. Hold yourself still and let the seas tell you the truth.” 

Wade copied the mer’s movements, spreading his fingers wide and setting them just gently on the barely there waves, holding his breath and waiting--

Melody filling Wade's ears and echoing in his mind, magical and mystical and spiraling home home home, wrapping around his body and washing over his soul, filtering through his heart and echoing through his mind and Wade was running, running for Peter before he could stop himself, stumbling through the waves and almost going under when his feet slipped on the rocks and scraped along the coral as he ran for his soulmate. 

“Don't leave me.” They met in a crash of lips, Peter's strength keeping them easily afloat when Wade fell into him, mouths meeting and breath gasping and hands holding tight lest the other one slip away. “Don't leave me.” Wade choked out. “God, I have to know you.”

“They say it's like this sometimes.” Peter scraped his nails down Wade's back and hooked his fingers into the Prince's hips to drag him in tight, beat his tail in the water to keep them steady so he could feel everything about his soulmate up against his body. “When a human soul slips between life and death, in that moment they are ours, our soulmate, but only in that moment. Never more. It isn't meant to be. You and I aren't meant to be and that's why I should have left you before now.”

Peter made a halfhearted attempt to move away, to extricate himself from Wade's grip though the mer was holding just as fast. “I should have left you before now, my love and I’m sorry I’m making this more difficult for you.” 

“Don't go.” Wade was starving, dehydrated, aching and the only thing that soothed him was the taste of soulmate on his mer's lips. “No no no, don't go. Pete, you're who I've been searching for my entire life. Soulmate. Kiss me. Kiss me.”

“Just once more.” Peter whispered. “Just once more then I must go.”

The kiss was drugging, heart crushing and soul stirring. On and on it went as Wade drifted further into the currents and Peter kept him buoyant, the sea lapping higher around their shoulders until it was till their necks, higher still until it brushed their chins and mixed salt water into their kisses. Peter shifted against his body and purred soft and sweet, the noise so close to heaven that Wade had to jerk away to take in a deep breath-- 

--and then he was drowning.

Wade went under, lungs full of water and body dragging down, mind rushing from the kiss, from the knowledge of his soulmate, skin tingling as fresh cuts were re-submerged and hands reaching always reaching for the one that had finally called him home.

I could drown. The Prince thought as black spots danced before his eyes. I could drown and find a place beside my soulmate forever.

I could drown. 

He was drowning. 

“Oh my love, I'm so sorry!” Peter cried out in alarm when Wade slipped below the surface and sank. The mer angled his body and dove down into the murky water until he could get his arms around his mate and bring the Prince back to air, cradling Wade carefully so his claws wouldn’t pierce the fragile skin and driving them both back towards the safety of sand and rock so Wade could breathe. 

“So sorry, my love.” Peter bent over Wade’s still form and pulled the water from the humans lungs with one quick breath, put his hand to the Prince’s stomach and coaxed the water out with one solid push. “I got carried away and you nearly drowned, so sorry. Please wake up. Please wake up.” 

Wade woke with a cough, jerked back from unconsciousness with a strangled sort of gasp, reached for Peter before he was even aware he was moving, grasping for his soulmate even though only a few minutes ago he hadn’t known soulmates existed. 

“Pete.” 

“I’m so sorry.” The mer’s eyes were shifting electric gold and the deepest, richest brown with sorrow and worry. “Wade, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to let you go. I wanted to swim with you but I forgot-- I’m sorry--”  

“No no don’t be sorry, just come back. Come back.” Wade surged up and wrapped his arms around Peter again, dragged the mer down on top of his body and kissed the cool lips until Peter was purring against his mouth and trilling in his ear, fangs catching on his bottom lip and claws dragging red lines in his skin. 

It was like the sweetest aphrodisia kissing Peter, like the honeyed mead Wade had drank along the islands pouring down his throat, like the smoke of the poppy plant when it burned heavy and thick in the air of the secret places in the city.

Drugging. 

Soulmates, and it was the answer to every question the Prince had ever had, every moment when he had felt out of place in the palace, trapped by his father's words and penned in by his duties, by his expectations, by the rules.

Soulmates and it was hard to care about which men might have survived the storm, about the Sister Margaret in pieces on the ocean floor, about whether he was dying from dehydration, or hovering on the cusp of some near death experience and tipping wildly towards unalive.

They were soulmates, and Wade would have taken dehydration and death over having to stop running eager hands over Peter's back and down to where flawless skin transformed into silk smooth scales. Peter's tail was gorgeous, layers of dark red shot through with royal blue webbing that went from his hips clear down to the nearly translucent tail that flipped against the water in a steady, meaningful pattern, beating a drummed in rhythm into Wade's heart that felt like-- felt like--

“My love.” Peter whispered, and there was a cut of fangs at Wade's earlobe before nimble fingers skated over the front of his trousers, working at the clasp and pushing them aside to track gently gently over the hard ridge of his cock.

“Oh.” Wade's head snapped back against the rocks but the mer caught him with a quiet laugh, cradled his head in one large palm and held him steady so he didn't hurt himself. “Oh-h-h Pete--”

Yes, that was what it felt like, what the constant shift and hit of Peter's red and blue tail sounded like, what the ripple of water and push push push and the way the mer's hips ground into Wade's side reminded him of. It felt like strokes and heated touches and purposefully slick slides against a willing, welcoming body and it felt like--

“Settle, soulmate.” Peter purred into his ear when Wade cursed and thrust up into the mer's palm. “Oh you're gorgeous, I knew you would be gorgeous.” He mouthed hungry kisses and near bites down Wade's throat, massaged firmer at his cock until it jerked and throbbed in his fingers, spilled milky white over his knuckles and made the next stroke easier. “I knew you would be perfect, so responsive for me, my Prince Charming.”

“Don't stop.” Wade had never wanted anyone so badly in his life, the Prince had maybe never wanted anyone in his life, not like this, not when it felt like his very center was trying to claw it's way out of his chest to mingle with his mer.

Not meant to be, Peter had whispered mournfully. I had to know you but we are not meant to be.

But no, Wade couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. It wasn't possible to need to know someone the way he needed to know Peter and they weren't meant to be?

It wasn't possible.

“I want you.” he rasped and Peter's tongue wound tempting and knowing along his collarbone, down Wade's chest until fangs pricked over his nipple in a dangerous, tempting spark. “God, Pete I want you.”

Peter shuddered again hearing his name on his soulmate's tongue. They weren't meant to be and he should have left before now but the mer was weak, he was weak for every inch of his Prince Charming, he was weak for the press of Wade's hands at his back and the way sparks lit bright behind his eyes when calloused fingers teased the junction of skin and scales, he was weak for the way Wade practically growled as he shifted and widened his knees so Peter could lay closer between his thighs.

His Prince was achingly hard, pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock as Peter stroked him slowly, almost idly, no real rush to the motion because just having his soulmate in his hand was enough. After years and years of wandering the ocean currents listening for the heart song that called to his entire being, it was enough to lick the sweetness from Wade's mouth, to lay chest to chest and feel his Prince's every breath hitch as they moved together, to tighten his fingers around the swollen cock and swallow the moans that spilled from his mate's lips.

“I want you too.” he whispered back. They weren't meant to be but perhaps he could just have this, just this moment before the sun set and Wade's soul found it's way all the way back to living and Peter had to sing a siren's song to wash the human's memory clean of their time together.

“I want you too.” he repeated and Wade curled up into a sharp kiss full of tongue and longing. “Touch me, Prince Charming, touch me here.” 

Peter took Wade’s hand and guided it down his stomach to the top of his tail, sucked in a quick, aching breath when his Prince’s fingers dipped into his navel before skating lower and the mer had to shift off to the side so he wouldn’t crush his love as Wade felt carefully, pointedly further along Peter’s scales until he came to the slight mound of the mer’s pouch, and then a scant inch lower, the scales that would shift aside and allow him entrance. 

“Peter.” Wade breathed shakily when he found the almost invisible part in the mer’s tail, when his fingers were along scales one second and then next dipping into silky soft warmth. “P--Pete--” 

“Yesssss.” the mer’s eyes went bright gold then very dark and heavy lidded as pleasure ran in a shiver up his spine, and Peter turned further onto his side to give Wade more room to feel him, balanced himself with his elbow in the sand and gripped rocks in his other hand so he wouldn’t cut his claws into the Prince’s side. “Yes my love, touch me.” 

Wade bit back a hungry moan when his fingers closed around the mer’s cock, heavy and thick as he stroked and coaxed it free of the pouch, ridged and textured in ways that made his mouth water and his core clench, and Peter purred softly, wantonly when Wade’s own cock jerked in response to the sight. 

“Closer.” The mer wriggled closer until they were side by side, face to face in the coarse sand, one of Wade’s legs thrown over his tail. “Closer, my love.” 

Carefully at the Prince’s side, making sure to keep his claws away because too tight a squeeze, too startled or enjoyable a moment and the mer could kill his mate and Peter didn’t even want to take the chance, didn’t want to try and risk it. 

“Like this.” Wade’s hand on his length was heaven, the steady stroke and curious play along the ridges and veins that marked his cock enough to make Peter’s eyes flicker in barely handled pleasure, and the mer whined brokenly at the loss of touch even as he coaxed his Prince’s touch lower still. “Right there, yes. Yes.” 

Wade groaned out loud when he found the entrance just below Peter’s cock, slick and nearly hot as it allowed his fingers in and Peter gasped high and needy, rocked forward into the tentative press and drove Wade deeper inside. 

Something shocked, blurted and breathless from the mer’s mouth, a language Wade could never hope to understand but rapture was the same across any tongue and he tasted it in their next kiss as Peter panted and sighed and nipped at Wade’s tongue as they tangled together. 

“You’d have me?” Wade whispered in hoarse disbelief as his mate pressed closer, twitched his tail and lifted his hips up eagerly. “Pete, you would allow me to have you like this?” 

“I’d allow you anything.” Fangs, drawing blood at Wade’s throat and the pain tore a shout from him, but there was nothing but blinding pleasure immediately after as the mer sealed his lips to the cut and drank the blood like he was starving. “My love, I’d allow you anything for the moments we have together, but you will have to have me like this.” 

Oooph. Wade’s back hit the sand harder than he’d been expecting, Peter was far stronger than the lean muscles and gorgeous curve of his body would suggest, but the Prince only marveled at his mate’s strength, one hand buried inside Peter’s body and the other stroking over the glitter on Peter’s shoulders, down to the dip of his waist, back up to skip over the rows of his abdomen. 

“You’re beautiful.” he managed as Peter lay over him, twisted his fingers inside the mer’s entrance and pulled a thready cry from gorgeous pink lips. “My love--” 

Peter’s eyes melted molten gold in happiness and Wade said it again, crooned it, “My love---” and their lips met in the slowest kiss yet, lingering over bite-tender marks and licking through the others mouth, sharing breath, sharing air, sharing their souls as the mer reached with one hand to lift Wade’s fingers free of his body, then closed his palm around Wade’s cock. 

“I’d allow you like this, my mate.” the mer whispered, and it was sheer insanity what they were doing. Pure madness for them to be kissing, to be moving together, for Peter to stroke his Prince to full hardness with a single pull and then with a slow roll of his hips, a flex of his tail and with claws scoring lines on the rocks as he fought for control, to take Wade clear into his body. 

“My mate.” he shuddered when the Prince slipped into him, cried something wordless and needy when Wade held him tight and thrust up helplessly and Peter quieted Wade’s answering shout with a messy kiss, swallowed down the Prince’s gasped curse with a low purr, held his mate still until they both could breathe again. 

“Peter.” 

“Let me.” Peter tried not to growl, but it might have been a growl anyway with the way Wade cursed into his ear, cock jerking inside him hard enough to make the mer’s eyes roll back. “No no my love, let me.” 

“Mate.” Wade caught Peter’s hips and held them tight when the mer shifted over him, scooted higher up over his chest and then dug into the sand and pushed back, engulfing Wade’s cock in pure rippling heat. 

“Mate.” Braced on his elbows now, Peter could bend down and tease Wade with soft kisses and the dangerous hint of fangs. He could use the leverage to ease himself down and then pull himself back up, down and up, down and up, clenching tight every time their hips met and his Prince ground up into him, moaning every time they parted and Wade’s cock slid nearly entirely from his body before driving deep again. 

“If you could swim with me, I’d take you to the depths.” Peter hissed when Wade’s teeth closed blunt over his pulse and pulled at him. “I'd show you how we are beneath the sea, I’d fit my cock into your most secret places--” 

“Shit--” Wade jolted and Peter laughed in knowing delight, lost himself in a mind numbing kiss for a long moment, took Wade’s fingers and wound them around his cock to stroke in time to each slow roll of their bodies. 

“--oh my love, I’d spend hours loving you.” he rasped, and Wade groaned something unintelligible and needy. “Over and over I’d spill in you until you were full of me and still begging for more, then I’d catch you tight--” 

He shivered and moaned when the Prince’s hand tightened reflexively along his tip. “--yesss, do you feel that? All the ways my cock would fill you up and lock you tight to me? Then we could float in the currents for hours together. You’d be safe in my arms and I’d be safe in yours and we--” 

The mer stuttered, grit his teeth and let his slick channel ripple around Wade’s cock as he grew closer to finishing. “--and we-- we could let the seas hear our heart songs until--” 

“Pete.” Wade thrust up once, twice, threw his head back onto the beach and rocked against him desperately. “Pete please--” 

“I know.” Peter slid himself down along his Prince until he was almost punishingly full, stretched and deliciously aching and he ground down into every helpless twitch and jerk of his mate’s body. “Oh my love, I know.” 

“...want you…” 

“...you have me…” 

It was madness what they were doing, sheer insanity for a man and a mer to tangle this way. The Prince’s soul was caught in the space between living and dead, the mer was risking a life of eternal loneliness giving into the need when he should have just left, should have just waited for Wade’s soul to fully rejoin the living and then gone on his way without his heart song answered. 

But it was too late. It was too late and it was madness but Peter couldn’t find it in himself to stop. 

“Half a century I waited for you.” he murmured, and Wade turned his head to catch him up in an achingly tender kiss. “I’ll wait a half a century more for another chance.” 

Music, warping the air and stirring the calm harbor waters into waves as Wade tipped and teetered at the edge of bliss. Music, thrumming in time to their hearts as Peter’s cock spilled onto Wade’s stomach and the Prince lost himself inside the mer’s body, pulsing and pouring and skittering searing pleasure through his veins. 

Music, as they left a bloody sharp kiss and stared into each other eyes, a heart song as the sun began to sink behind them, a melody as Wade reached to wipe a tear that fell like a diamond from Peter’s golden eyes. 

“....Pete?” 

But the mer only shook his head and smiled, then tucked his chin into Wade’s shoulder and held him close as the fire between their body’s settled, soothed, and their souls melded one to another. 

Music. 

They were not meant to be. 

****************

“You’re beautiful.” Wade propped himself up on an elbow and traced the gorgeous red lines that cut through the darker blue on Peter’s tail, clicking his fingernails on the scales and smiling in awe when the setting sun caught the blue and turned it nearly purple before darkening to practically black. “Red and blue, red and black. Gorgeous.” 

“You humans think the oddest things are beautiful.” Peter stretched back on the sand and purred in contentment as the Prince ran gentle hands over him. “I was caught in a net when I was younger, the wires cut into my tail and left me scarred. I should be wholly blue and flawless but instead it looks like--” 

“Like your tail is set through with rubies.” Wade interrupted, thinking about the priceless treasures he’d seen overseas, the intricately sewn tapestries, silk so fine it sparkled in the sunshine, jewelry that wove like nets and webs along a royals porcelain skin. 

Not one of them compared to how lovely the delicate red lines were as they wound through the blue of Peter’s scales, and though Wade’s heart hurt to think of his mer hurt badly enough to be scarred, selfishly he loved the way Peter shivered and shuddered as he traced each and every one. 

“Beautiful.” he said again and Peter purred at him again, bared those deceptively dangerous fangs in a pleased smile. “Why do your eyes turn gold?” 

“Because you’re my soulmate.” Peter answered simply. “Our eyes only change for our mates. Gold when I am happy or content or when I am--” his dark gaze flickered gold as he lingered over the stretch of muscle on Wade’s reclined form. “--when I am aroused.” 

“You are angelic.” Wade swore, and the mer countered with a soft laugh, “More along the lines of a water demon, but you may call me whichever you’d like.” 

Peter sat up into a kiss, wove his clawed fingers into Wade’s hair and tugged lightly at the blond strands. “You are beautiful too, my love. Your eyes are the color of the ocean in the islands, where the water is bright and clear and we can see down to the sand on the sea floor.” 

“Ah, is that why you came to find me in the wreckage of the ship?” Wade leaned into the touch, sighed and pressed closer when fangs pricked just lightly at his neck. “Because my eyes remind you of the ocean?” 

“I would have found you in the wreckage no matter what color your eyes were.” Peter swore. “Today you look like the sun god fallen to the sand, if tomorrow you were to look like the god of the underworld or a creature of the deep, you’d be my soulmate all the same.” 

“Then why do you seem sad?” Wade wanted to know, and Peter whispered, “Because our time is limited, my love. And somehow I already miss you.” 

“I’m right here.” 

I already miss you. 

Later, the sky turned purple and blue above them, the winds cooling and water turning frigid, the sun setting in a fiery ball at the horizon, and Peter finally eased back from an endless kiss to brush his lips along Wade’s forehead and then his cheek. 

“I have to go.” he whispered sadly. “The sun is setting and so is our song, it’s time for us to part ways.” 

 “No.” Wade shook his head, made a fruitless grab for his mer. “No, Pete. Don’t leave me.” 

“I have to go now before it’s too late.” Peter slipped away from Wade’s grasp entirely, checking the sky above him as he scooted backwards into the water. “When the stars come out your soul will be fully back among the living, and humans and mers are not meant to love one another. We had a few moments together, which is more than some soulmates ever have. Sleep, my love and forget me.” 

“I will never forget you!” Wade jerked up to sitting, pulled his feet from water that was turning colder by the second as the sun went down, and lunged after Peter. “Come back! Pete, wait--” 

-- weariness hit the Prince like he’d ran into a physical wall, and mid reach, his arm fell back to his side, his legs giving out and keeping him firmly on the sand as the sun dropped another notch in the sky. 

“What--” Wade struggled to even sit up all the way, his breath suddenly coming gasped and choppy, his eyes heavy and leaden. “What’s happening-- what’s happening--” 

“Sleep and wake to fully living, Prince Charming.” Peter slid back into the water another few inches, biting at his lip until it bled beneath his fangs as he watched his love struggle just to stay coherent. “I’ll sing you a song to help you forget, and when you open your eyes again, you’ll be safe. I promise.” 

“Will you--” sand fell through Wade’s grasp as he tried to keep himself upright on the beach. “Will you forget me?” 

“The ocean forgets nothing.” the mer’s face twisted in heartbreak when his Prince’s head dropped back, otherworldly sleep calling him in deep. “I’ll remember every moment with you.” 

“...seems… unfair…” 

“Fate is rarely fair.” The last of the sun’s light was on them now, shadows from every direction, covering Wade’s feet and creeping up his legs to his torso, to his chest and just before the darkness reached his lovely face and the call back to living took him entirely, Peter blew his soulmate a kiss and murmured, “Goodbye, my Prince.” 

A siren’s song rose low and haunting over the waves at dusk, coming to Wade on the wind and swirling through his mind like fog. 

He was weary to his very bones, senses clouded with pain that had been absent for hours but suddenly throbbed through every muscle. Every breath was labored and with every one, a little more memory slipped from Wade’s consciousness as the music grew in volume and somehow in sadness. 

Good-bye my love. 

The waves lapped at the Prince’s feet, not quite close enough to touch, but close to lull him to sleep, his eyes closing and heartbeat syncing with the come and go of water on the rocks, the ebb and flow of the tide, the quiet rhythm to the melody that echoed in his heart something painful and heartbroken and lonely…

… by the time the stars came out, Wade couldn’t remember how the hell he’d made it from the wreckage of the Sister Margaret to dry land. He didn’t know why his shirt was torn off, why his pants were loose around his hips or why his body thrummed with the remnants of pleasure. 

The Prince didn’t know why, and in the distance of the harbor a pair of dark eyes watched from afar as Wade looked around in wonder and confusion before giving into the pull of the music and falling back into the sand to sleep. 

“Perhaps another lifetime.” Peter whispered as the last of his siren song faded away on the night wind. “Maybe then your soul will be mine, as mine is forever yours.” 

Wade slept on the beach, and the seas barely rippled as the mer disappeared under the surface to ease his grief below the waves. 

Perhaps another lifetime.

******************

Chapter Notes:

In some comics Wade has blue eyes and blond hair, so for reasons important to The Plot, I used this description for him vs my usual. 

Obviously the Sister Margaret is the name of Weasel’s bar, and it also made a perfect ship name.

Uhh help I’ve never written mermaid sex before?? 

How much do we love demisexual Wade who never really saw the appeal of sex until he found the one he was meant to be with?

Recognize the golden eyes from MTW? Yeah, I will never let that trope die, it’s my canon now.

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

******************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii @livewire28 @tulipsnbigcats @kimstark @alex-stark-rogers @bibbarnes @heeeyitskay @goindownshipping @quietgayguy @nanita90a @justaniche @pumpkin-spidey

#ncts fics #spideypool #mermaid #peter parker #wade wilson #commission

[captain-emmajones]

Here’s a Prompt; Emma’s when she comes back from the Underworld without Killian, pre funeral scene, when she realises she’ll never see him again 💔😉

Hello beautiful angel, thank you for the prompt! This is slightly different from what you asked for, but everything did originate from your idea. I hope you’ll like this <3

Big thank you to @snowbellewells who was a real angel and beta’d this and saved all of our eyeballs in the process <3 

Fluff - Angst - Canon Compliant -  Ao3 - 2500 words

Summary: This is set at the beginning of season 4 when Killian and Emma start dating and expands until the end of season 5 ... or the times Killian helped Emma make her bed after staying over, and the times he didn’t. 

The first time he offers to help her, she is sprawled across her bed like a starfish, as she tries to properly tuck in her freshly-washed fitted sheets.

“Come on guys, you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” she hisses between her teeth, one foot keeping the right corner down while her fingers battle with the left. 

“Need a hand love?” 

“Thought you were in the bathroom,” she mumbles -- this close from succeeding, this close -- and she doesn’t spin around to face him because the sheets just might escape her and she won’t allow it. 

She hears him chuckle behind her back. How dare he be chuckling?

 “Aye, well, a man has needs love...But now that I am here, let me help you.” 

It’s actually quite funny then, because as she reluctantly raises her chin towards him, ready to tell him that she’s got it covered -- although she has actually broken a sweat over this terrible affair -- well, her eyes meet his and her heart leaps inside her chest just as the fitted sheet bounces back into her face. 

Fuck. 

Because, see, the thing is the sun is quite a traitor, and it has decided to dabble its most outrageous golden beams into his gentle blue eyes and this absolutely does not stir something weird deep within Emma’s belly -- not at all. 

And Emma’s heart tries its best to remain neutral, cold, detached but the only thing it manages to do as Killian Jones offers her a bright smile and a raised eyebrow is to sigh and skip an alarmed beat. 

“Y-yeah, sure. Thanks.” 

The starfish leaves her natural habitat to stand up and hand him one corner of the white cotton sheets. When his warm palm brushes against hers, playfully, on purpose, she flushes remembering what those fingers did to her the night before.

“There we go, Swan,” he says, casually, as if all of this domesticity is normal and appropriate when her heart is throbbing and threatening to jump out of her ribcage onto the carpeted floor. “I’m actually quite an expert, as you’ll see.” 

And because misfortunes never come alone, he has the audacity of gently pressing his lips to her temple and sighing a deep sigh of contentment against her skin, and by that time Emma has completely stopped breathing. 

Because the thing is she is fucking terrified. 

.

Later that day, when Killian has ventured out of the apartment, a piece of toast tucked between his teeth, pirate business to attend love, and Emma’s alone with her mother in the kitchen, and her spoon tinkles inside her mug, tinkles and tinkles, Emma wonders aloud: 

“Mom, when did dad start helping you make your bed?” 

And then it’s quite a scene for the ages because Mary Margaret nearly spits her entire mouthful of tea into Emma’s face, and Emma figures her question might be slightly weird and instantly regrets asking it.  

“I’m, I’m…,” Snow White begins, and Snow White is blushing, and Snow White is Emma’s mother and Emma wants to dive into her mug of coffee and possibly drown there. “I mean, I don’t know.” She pauses, winces. “With the Evil Queen, and the sleeping curse, and all of that...your father and I didn’t really get to date, you know…” 

Oh, Emma knows. This is all very new and weird to her, the whole dating Captain Hook. 

“I see,” Emma replies simply, because Mary Margaret is gazing at her far too intensely and Emma is still contemplating diving into her small mug. 

Instead, she stubbornly lowers her gaze and refuses to look back up at her mother, who will not stop staring. 

“Why…” Mary Margaret’s voice resonates a few seconds afterwards, “Why are you asking, Emma?” 

Emma feels her hair stand on hand. 

“No, you know, just wondering…”

.

The next time he sleeps over, her parents are downstairs when they wake up. Emma feels like she is sixteen and she’s just had her first boyfriend at home, and while it is obviously inconvenient, a part of her cannot help but shriek (very silently) of happiness because this is is silly and dumb and it’s hers. 

“Alright. Just stay here, I’ll go grab us some coffee.” 

When she climbs back up, cold, morning air greets her and curls around her bare legs. But Emma cannot bring herself to complain. In fact, she can barely bring herself to form any coherent thoughts.

Because, see, the thing is Killian Jones -- her boyfriend, as we’ve mentioned before -- has opened wide the windows and is currently on all fours, busy fluffing her pillow, on top of her already tightly made bed. 

Emma blinks, swallows, tries her best to contain the panic birthing inside her throat, ready to roar out of her mouth. 

It’s just Killian. It’s just him. It’s just him. 

Although her legs seem to burn with the urge to run, flee, disappear, she breathes in deeply, it’s just us, forces a smile on her face and clears her throat to signal her presence. 

All it takes to quiet down the voices are his eyes gazing into hers as he turns his face. 

And she says, “You didn’t have to make the bed”, but she means something else, something that she isn’t ready to voice, that she is terrified to even think.   

And he smiles back at her, rolling back to her side, and she can tell in his “Don’t worry about it, love,” as he springs to his feet and to her lips that he heard it anyway. 

. 

As things turn out, Killian makes a far better bed than Emma ever could, and Mary Margaret is quite pleased. 

“I have never seen your room so tidy,” she exclaims on delivering a hot cocoa to Emma who is still busy with sheriff files. 

Feet propped on her desk, Emma shrugs and scans the room while this silly, little warm bubble of happiness swells inside her chest. 

“Well, yeah, Killian always makes sure everything is in order when he--” and abruptly cuts herself. 

Emma’s cheeks flush a bright pink then, what the hell was she about to say? and Mary Margaret’s cough is another poor attempt to hide her grin. 

“I see...Well, I’ll leave you to it. Say hi to Killian if you see him tonight.” 

Emma means to tell her that she absolutely doesn’t want to talk about her boyfriend with her mother, of all people, and she isn’t sixteen anymore and she shouldn’t feel this embarassed, but instead she just smiles, giggles a bit even, for fuck’s sake, and exhales: “Sure.” 

And if she wants to slap her own face with her own two hands afterwards, it’s only because this is new and terrifying and the happiest she’s been in ages. 

.

When she sleeps over on the Jolly Roger, and she wakes up to his side of the bed empty, a good sailor wakes up with the sun love, she tries to make the bed like he does...and fails, miserably. 

“For both of our sakes, Swan, please leave the bed to me.” 

And she wants to be mad, fists on hips, but instead a rare, childlike laughter rattles her ribs as she pounces on top of him and they both land onto the bed. 

“What’s the point of having a neatly made bed if we’re going to mess it up anyway?” she grins against his lips, and then kisses him more, and more. She cannot get enough of his kisses. 

He chuckles, too. It’s a wonderful sound. 

“Point taken, Swan.” 

And as she backs away to slowly delve into his eyes, Emma thinks she might need to hear it for the rest of her life, or else she might wither like the poets do. 

. 

(When he leaves, she doesn’t wither like the poets do. Emma figures she should have known, should have known that the metaphor was far too delicate and gentle, should have known that death would be fire and ashes and void -- oh, so much void, where he used to live in her heart. 

When he leaves, she burns, she breaks, she collapses to the ground in a deafening bang, but she most absolutely does not wither.)

. 

The first time, it is a parallel universe and it doesn’t count, it isn’t real, and she gets to hold him a few hours later, and squeeze him, as hard as she can, against her heart, and she doesn’t say it, then. 

Although his smile weakens he lets her love him this way -- with her fragile, imperfect, scarred fingers that tremble even as she brushes his cheeks. 

She doesn’t know how else to love him.   

(He also loses her, that night. She tends to forget it. That she isn’t the only one bleeding, that he also lost his love when she took on the darkness in a flash of light. He also lost her.)

.

In Camelot, they share a room. 

Although Dark Ones do not sleep she remains by his side most nights, and she watches him.

As the moon and the stars illuminate his skin, trace the shape of his face and dust his cheeks of constellations, she thinks about the time he died, only it wasn’t real but it could have been, and she thinks about how precious he is to her and that death should not be able to touch love, death should remain very far and hidden from her because god knows what she’ll do to keep him by her side. 

She brushes a stubborn strand of hair from his forehead and brushes her lips against his warm skin, once, twice, thrice. I love you. I love you. I love you. In his slumber, he smiles. 

She loves him. It is the only light in her darkness.

.

The second time, he lays asleep in a middlemist flower field. She doesn't let him sleep. She wakes him up. 

He hates her for it. No one likes to be awoken in the middle of the night, in the middle of an eternal, ghastly night. 

.

When Emma is alone in this big, enormous house, she is quite thankful Dark Ones do not need sleep. She doesn’t have to make the bed. But she does stare at it, the bed where they should be both lying down, curled up together, warm and comfortable and happy. 

She stares at it and she remembers his sleepy smile under the golden morning light, not two months ago, she remembers his blue eyes disappearing, one instant, behind yellow sheets that danced in the air between them, she remembers how much love she had seen in his eyes and how much it had frightened her. 

She isn’t afraid anymore. Her fingers have stopped shaking. 

She only hopes she isn’t too late. 

(She is, of course, she is but that will take some time to sink in.) 

.

The third time, she sleeps on the couch, warm fingers against the cold silver of the ring he gave her. 

“The Dark One is immortal. Emma isn’t. Bring her home to me.” 

Her heart pounds inside her chest for the first time in weeks and it bumps against her ribs, it rattles, it begs, it cries: what is the point anymore? What     is       the        point? 

She sleeps on the couch. 

It would be too much to withstand to wake up in her bed and forget that he is gone, stretch a hand and not meet his, stretch a leg and only find void, nothing, and remember it all, suddenly -- and stretch the bed cover and find her muscles sore and lonely and how the hell did she manage to do that alone? 

She sleeps on the couch. 

Until she stands up and decides Orpheus was right and strides to fetch him from Hell. 

.

Is she meant to turn around, and lose him forever? Is there no other ending? 

It can’t be. It can’t be, not when his skin still tastes like his skin, and his eyes are still blue and real and he is here with her, and they are going to make it out of there alive, together. 

Orpheus failed. She won’t. 

.

She does. 

She fails. Again. 

She leaves him behind. And when she turns around, her father’s fingers clutched around hers, tugging, tugging, Emma we have to go, she doesn’t even get to see him one last time. 

She swallows broken pieces of glass and happy endings and true love, and she suffocates because it is the fourth time and she cannot breathe and this cannot possibly be the end, they deserve time, more time -- 

-- We already got more time than we were ever meant to. 

.

The day she buries him, she’s staring at her unmade bed when, for the first time, she realizes, understands, that there will be no getting him back this time. 

That his warm fingers will not close over her knuckles, his stubborn little sigh, as he mumbles not like this Swan, you have to really tug, just like that…

Her fingers will forever remain stretched, ready to grasp, hold, treasure... but there is nothing left to reach. 

Tears burn her eyes as she stares at the stubborn piece of fabric in her hands that will not be properly tucked in. 

A breath, a sigh, a sob shaking her spine. 

She should have paid attention when he was explaining. Should have remembered the steps. Instead, she stared at him and his mouth and his eyelashes in this golden light and  thought she would have him forever. 

She thought they would have their happily ever after, so why bother with making a bed? 

But now he is gone and she is unable to make the bed like he does, used to -- oh god, will this ever get easier? -- and her fingers have nowhere to hold anymore, nowhere to reach, nowhere to be. 

.

It does. It gets easier. 

As things turn out, Fate has other plans than death for Killian Jones. 

Emma is forever grateful. 

(Their nights are still haunted by terror and grief, but that’s quite alright. 

Because, see, every morning, no matter the stormy night they just spent, no matter the nightmares and cries and screams, well every morning they make the bed together, and Emma actually pays attention when he explains, she’s learned her lesson, and they get to face the rest of their lives together.)

**

#cs ff #cs fanfics #captain swan #amy writes #my stuff #killiansprincss #im sorry i'm taking forever on those prompts but im trying :')) #much loove xxxx

[kvetchlandia]

Dave Heath     New York City     c.1957

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,   who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,   who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

--Allen Ginsberg, “Howl, part 1″  1956

[subversivestyle]

Sailor Moon Eternal GRWM Makeup Tutorial Using Sailormoon X Colourpop

Sailor Moon Eternal GRWM Makeup Tutorial using SailormoonXColourpop #SailorMoonEternal #Sailormoon #SailorMoonMovie #makeup #beauty #bblogger #bvlogger #pride #sailormoonxcolourpop #maquillage #maquillaje #beauté #subversivestyle

I wanted to do a Get Ready With Me Makeup Tutorial Using the Sailor Moon X Colourpop Collaboration in honor of the Sailor Moon Eternal Movie premiering on Netflix on the 3rd of June, 2021. Contrary to popular opinion, this is a new Sailor Moon Movie that launched in Japan this year. Products Used: It! Cosmetics Illuminating CC TooFaced Chocolate Soleil Dermablend setting powder Colourpop X…

View On WordPress

#beauté #beauty #beauty blog #beauty blogger #beautyblog #beautyblogger #beautyvlogger #eye makeup #eyebrows #eyemakeup #eyeshadow #eyeshadow palette #lip gloss #lipgloss #lips #lipstick #make-up #makeup #makeup blog #makeup tutorial #sailor moon #Sailor Moon Eternal #Sailor Moon Makeup #Sailor Moon Movie #Sailor Moon Netflix #Sailor Moon X Colourpop #sailormoon #Sailormoon Makeup #SailorMoonXColourpop #subversive style blog

[recentanimenews]

The World's First Sailor Moon-themed Illumination Event to be Held at Sagami Lake Resort Pleasure Forest

    The outdoor resort complex Sagami Lake Resort Pleasure Forest, located in Sagamihara-city, Kanagawa Prefecture, will hold the world's first illumination event inspired by the Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Eternal films, named "Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Illumination -Eternal-," from November 13, 2021. It will be the main area of "Sagami Lake Illumillion," which is certified as one of the three major illumination events in the Kanto region.

  In the new area, the four-meter high "Elysion" and the huge "Legendary Silver Crystal" that changes into "Golden Crystal" depending on the time shine in the colorful illumination that spreads all over the area, inviting visitors into the world of the film. In addition to the rainbow lifts that match the colors of the ten Sailor Guardians, there are also a stained glass wall featuring the guardian star symbols and various photo spots, including the one where you can take pictures as if you were Eternal Sailor Moon.

  In the main area "Crystal Tokyo," a powerful illumination show will be held with music and lights that shine like crystals. During the period of this special collaboration, the park announcements and some of the attraction announcements will be switched to the collaboration version, and a lot of items and collaboration foods using newly drawn visuals will be available. More details on the collaboration will be announced as they become available.

    The are map:

    "Crystal of Love - Legendary Silver Crystal and Golden Crystal -"

    "Crystal Tokyo"

    "Crystal Power Make-up Spot:"

    ＼「さがみ湖イルミリオン」11/13（土）オープン／ 今年は劇場版「 #美少女戦士セーラームーンEternal 」とのコラボエリアが登場！ イベントの詳細については、続報をお楽しみに！ 特設サイトはこちらhttps://t.co/esFBFyfBJV#美少女戦士セーラームーン#さがみ湖イルミリオン#プレジャーフォレスト pic.twitter.com/n20fpmbYaw

— さがみ湖リゾートプレジャーフォレスト (@sagamikoresort) October 5, 2021

      "Sagami Lake Illumillion" photos:

        "Sagami Lake Illumillion 2020" digest movie:

    Source: Fuji Kyuko press release

  ©Nakoko Takeuchi, PNP/"Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Eternal The Movie" Production Committee

  By: Mikikazu Komatsu

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

[newloverofbeauty]

Richard Avedon:  Peter Orlovsky & AllenGinsberg  (1963)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

 dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

 angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, 

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural 

darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, 

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, 

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, 

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, 

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, 

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, 

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night 

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, 

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, 

illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, 

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over 

the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun 

and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings 

and kind king light of mind, 

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx 

on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-

wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, 

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale 

beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, 

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, 

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and 

eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes,

 meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, 

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, 

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,

 who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, 

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, 

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, 

 who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, 

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, 

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, 

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and 

followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, 

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and 

the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, 

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big 

pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

 who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, 

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing 

while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed 

down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, 

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, 

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime 

but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, 

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, 

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, 

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, 

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, 

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath 

when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, 

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate 

the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb

 and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, 

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of 

cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall 

and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, 

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed 

in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, 

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, 

cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable 

lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops 

in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & 

especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, 

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden

 Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay 

and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

 who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a 

door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, 

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the 

wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, 

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, 

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, 

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, 

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, 

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, 

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, 

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, 

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, 

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to 

open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, 

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine 

shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, 

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown 

and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, 

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the 

filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses 

barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz 

finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, 

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, 

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision 

or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, 

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, 

who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out 

the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, 

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, 

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads 

and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, 

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers 

to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, 

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, 

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented 

themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and 

who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, 

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, 

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the 

visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, 

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes 

of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

 with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M.

 and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, 

a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— 

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— 

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the 

alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane, 

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and 

trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs 

and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater 

Omnipotens Aeterna Deus 

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you 

speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

 the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, 

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and 

blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma 

sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio 

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat 

a thousand years. 

 –Allen Ginsberg, “Howl, part 1″ 1956

[zackhery85]

Sailor Moon Continuation: Season 6

The finale of season 5 keeps you hanging on edge wanting to know more about the future of Prince Endymion, Princess Serena and the Sailor Guardians. With Serena's new found experience and power by defeating Galaxia and illuminating the Galaxy with loving moon energy how does it affect the present and future of crystal Tokyo? By defeating Galaxia, Sailor Moon has become more powerful, however in the future of crystal Tokyo, before Galaxias defeat in the past, we observe that Neo Queen Serenity is not powerful enough to defeat the dark moon clan of Nemesis and requires the help of the sailor moon of the past. We also see that she still has the silver crystal in its basic form, which has not evolved into the eternal crystal like in season 5 in her battle with the starlights and against Galaxia. This means that in the past of Neo Queen Serenity of the original future, she never battled Galaxia as Sailor Moon. If she had, her silver crystal would be an eternal crystal and she would have been powerful enough to have defeated the people of Nemesis. Why had she never battled Galaxia? Maybe in her timeline it took longer for her to reach earth as she saw other star systems as more of a priority. Sailor Moon travelling to the future to defeat the people of Nemesis, might have added to the experience and power necessary for Galaxia to take notice. I feel it was really the light of hopes (Chibi-Chibi) attraction to Serena and presence on earth that caused Galaxia to come sooner, and it is really about the type of energy and consciousness a sailor guardian posses that attracts the light of hope, not about the level of power you posses. Even if Sailor Moon has the right type of energy, I feel she would still need to have enough experience in order to successfully use the light of hope. If experience wasn't needed then why didn't the light of hope arrive at the same time in Neo Queen Serenity's timeline? Is it possible earth went into a deep sleep before the light of hope could arrive? We know that Chibi-Usa never visited her and she never travelled to the future. If the planet was alseep, it is likely the light of hope never would have come to earth as sailor moon would be sleeping and unable to fight Galaxia. Sailor Galaxia wouldn't have viewed earth as a priority or Nemesis as Nemesis creates darkness, destruction and chaos like herself. We know after the battle with Galaxia, the future of Crystal Tokyo has changed. What caused the earth to sleep? What about Tuxedo Masks family in the Moon Kingdom of the past? Who were they? What about the earth kingdom? Will he at some point travel back in time to learn about his past? What will the future be like now that it has been changed? Will the earth still sleep even though Sailor Moon was able to illuminate the galaxy? If it doesn't, how will it affect the people of earth and Crystal Tokyo? It think it is unlikely they will sleep, unless they are put to sleep by Sailor Moon for some good and nececary reason which may be in order to protect them or part of the evolutionary cycle. Could the earth experience a natural disaster which causes sailor moon to put everyone to sleep until conditions on the earth return to normal? That would explain how they can rule the earth. A natural disaster would destroy the structure of society and governments, so there would be no one to rule the planet once everyone wakes up. Another question is - what type of natural disaster would it be? As it has not yet occured in earths present timeline. I thought a series where Darrien and Serena travel back to the past to find out about Darrien's past life on earth and his family would be great as part of a continuation for season 6.

[charmandhex]

It’s not that Lup ever took any of it for granted. The path of her life has taught and retaught Lup the value of small wonders over and over again. Freshly plated French toast, with the outside perfectly browned and crisp and the interior soft and custardy, accompanied by a generous drizzle (for Lup) or a small lake (for Taako) of warm maple syrup. Sunrises on a hundred different worlds in hundreds of different colors, the skies an infinite canvas painted in vermillion and seafoam and eggplant and midnight, distant suns gradually illuminating the world stretching out before her. Moments with all of them together, quiet moments, peaceful moments, where they could put aside the circumstances that had forged them and simply be a family. She’d been fighting for that, for both family and world, when she’d left in pursuit of the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet.

And she had clung to those thousands of memories during those ten long years in the Umbra Staff, thousands of minute anchors to join the six adamant. They had helped to ground Lup as she waited in stasis, when even the passage of time itself seemed too distant to be real. They had fed her, warmed her, cloaked her in love and flame until that fateful moment of freedom, and the Phoenix took flight once more.

So, no, certainly, Lup had not taken it for granted during her childhood and her studies and her impossible century.

But it all seems to mean so much more now.

The first time she holds a knife in her hand in her new body, it’s almost clumsy for a few moments as she carefully adjusts her grip just so. The wooden handle seems to welcome her hold, and the wood grain might be smooth enough not to notice, for one not paying attention. She lines up the onion, careful, prepared for the first cut. Chop. The sound is delightful, almost musical in Lup’s ears, twitching as the sound turns over in her mind. Of course she’s heard it thousands of times since the Day of Story and Song, as she’d insisted on being in the kitchen with Taako as he cooked (not that he’d insisted any less). But there’s something different about the way it hits her now, knowing she is responsible for it, the one in control of it. She moves again, careful still for the next. Chop. Chop. Chopchopchopchopchop. Chop. She’s giggling with delight by the time Taako turns around, an amused smile on her twin’s face.

Laundry. It had never been Lup’s favorite chore. Specifically, the folding of it. Perfectly drawn arcane symbols were easier to come by than a well-folded fitted sheet. But now. There’s the satisfying snap of Barry’s jeans as she folds them in half. The lavender scent from their preferred brand of soap permeating the room. The friendly warmth rising from the basket of clothing Lup had impatiently dried herself. When Lup reaches into the basket for the next item of clothing, her hand brushes against Taako’s impossibly soft blue sweater. And Lup freezes. She slowly draws the article of clothing out and studies it cautiously, as though the delicate knitting might tear under the weight of her gaze. After a few breathless moments (was it surprise or forgetting to breathe again?), Lup buries her face in the sweater, humming to herself at the feeling. And Lup nearly cries when Istus presents her with an equally soft sweater of her own two days later.

The world itself seems brighter and Lup more connected to it than perhaps she has ever been to one single place. It seems a series of small miracles, and everywhere she looks Lup finds herself adding to that list. Warm raindrops on her skin with the scent of a storm heavy in her nose and with the deck of the Wavehumper steady beneath her feet. Wind toying with and tangling the soft strands of her hair as she stands high in the pillars of Raven’s Roost. The endless rhythm of waves crashing at water’s edge only feet from Chesney’s. The endless blanket of stars still to be learned that are best visible from the moon base. The way life continues on even following death, fungi feeding on decay that Barry eagerly points out and fire-scorched lands dotted with the green of new growth that Taako reminds her of. The world... the world is a remarkable place, and Lup loves exploring it.

And her family. Her family and friends, lively and vibrant and growing by the day. How could she ever forget them? How could she not commit even the smallest details to memory? There’s the flash of light against fresh paint on fingernails and the way Magnus sticks out his tongue just so as he concentrates, flecks of color dotting his face along with scars Lup is slowly hearing the stories behind. Sailor’s calluses once again hardening Davenport’s hands, paired with a well-known firm grip and the briny smell of the sea pungent and sharp. The warmth and joy ever present in Merle’s gaze, no matter what changes he’s seen, reliable as the earth beneath his fingernails and feet, and the certainty in himself and his life clear in his stance. New lines that make an unfamiliar map of Lucretia’s face that Lup will surely learn, paired with the familiar ink stained hands and the ecstatic laugh.

And Barry. Barry has had her heart for so long, longer than Lup could even tell you, having fallen thoroughly in love before she’d even realized she’d slipped. There’s the warmth of his embrace, solid and soft, surrounding and supportive, and so very, very loving. There’s the way he gets so intently focused on his work, either in Reaper duties or their, ah, scientific extracurricular activities afterward, and his brows and nose scrunch up in the cutest way possible. There’s the way the music of the piano rises up around him, enveloping them both in sound and love.

And Taako. Her heart. Always her heart, through time and space and life and loss. There’s the way trust passes between them like a river, flowing eternal and unwavering, and the gentle, almost unceremonious pop of Disguise Self being dissipated. The way she can still trace every freckle on his face in unmistakable, if slightly altered constellations, the way she can know his mind with a look in his eyes. There’s the way they move through the kitchen, fluid and meticulous as a dance, intuitive and comfortable even after a decade apart. There’s the feeling of his arms tight around her, never losing her again, matched by her arms around him, reminding him that he’s never truly alone.

Lup really has never taken anything of her life for granted, not during a life lived on the brink of losing it all nor a decade where it seemed she had. But now, in her new body, in her new and joyously final life, well, there really is so much out there to love, each and every day.

#taz #taz balance #lup #taz lup #taako #barry bluejeans #blupjeans #taz fic #taz fanfic #the adventure zone balance #the adventure zone #charm works #this week’s fic brought to you by me wanting to bury my face in a cashmere sweater and my love of describing things #food mention

[landofanimes]

Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Illumination -Eternal-

travel.watch.impress.co.jp photos (2/2)

#sailor moon #sailor moon illumination eternal #sailor moon eternal #sailor senshi #sailor chibimoon #helios #tuxedo mask #eternal sailor moon #sailor uranus #sailor neptune #sailor pluto #sailor venus #sailor mars #sailor jupiter #sailor mercury #sailor saturn #moon cats #bssm