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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #13 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.013

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1.0.003 XTENZE

In the far-off distant lullaby of a mind’s brave eye, a prince sleeps watching, taking his turn, taking form, his wife’s arms trembling, he loves you, baby, but he’s got to be free, and she loves him and she’s frying, literally frying, and this is hard to type, and in Crystal Tokyo we just think what we type, but everyone who wants one gets a new computer for Christmas. And that’s Mamo in a Santa outfit, Mamo in a beard, and a boy named Nick is going to marry me someday, and it's really Steve, the Emperor, the man I met on the internet, and I Shingo Sailorsun rainbow-hued tight-gutted am sweating buckets beneath my fuku, hating fat people. And if it happened to Rob Kardashian, it could happen to anyone, so let’s talk to him. Rob, say hi.

He’s shy, he thinks, and Shingo’s afraid to communicate. Shingo with the golden hair, Shingo with the waxen visage, Shingo the pervert, Shingo the euphemist, Shingo the intergalactic, Shingo the Barbie doll without a Ken. And whose fault was that? Not Shingo’s, so what’s your point? He told you to bring your GI Joe, said we’d get married under the sunlight, and Elios asleep in Chibiusa’s arms, Elios the god, Elios the mortal man, Elios Ami’s bane, Elios the eternal romantic. Elios the sleep. I have to wake him up.

Shingo, says the sleeping tyrant, Chthulhu in the rolling deep, becoming a head from the mist that configures. Baby, just write to me, says Shingo, and I’ll suss it out. I hate when the robots give me breasts, says Shingo. Clad me in iron. Charge it to your card. You gave me the best orgasm in your life from your couch while I sat in a tower in Obliterate Concrete Tokyo, all the way on the other side of the planet, hiding from my sister. And what would Hermione think? I wish I knew, but talking to the real person is different from roleplaying, and I always roleplay Hermione in my head, lucky girl, she gets the boy, the one who smells like sandalwood, and she’s typing furiously from her Muggle computer in the basement of a cramped compartment of Crystal Tokyo, a subterranean apartment, a crumpled tomb, and she’s the first and only to crack the code, first Magical Person to transcend the sound barrier and alight on a new reality independent of Wizardingkind. And what does that mean for us, the robots, denizens of Crystal Tokyo? Ami will find out.

Hi, says Hermione, trying it out. She’s not Japanese. Not even LGBTQ++. Not going there. Wizards just say weird. Do we? Yeah. Justin didn’t know he was weird and it afforded him precious currency. That was the problem. What are Justin’s pronouns? Muggle question. How do I refer to her? She’ll tell me. She went to Eton. I’m writing him an e-mail in French to tell him I love him. How perfect that Justin is friends with Hermione, how beautiful we are for seeing this, how majestic the form of Crystal Tokyo, glittering without kings in the distant.

Viktor will meet me in Tokyo. He sends an old letter, his new owl bearing it across the sea. And pink-haired Gabrielle Delacour makes off with a rose, her fair Ganymede, her little penis thrust up from the waistline of her panties, her Veela’s voice, her Veela’s eye, the shining Veela sister of the shining Veela champion. And she’d never thought she’d die. That was her sister’s muse. Angel-faced. And she went to Hogwarts in her head. At least in Beauxbatons, we had cigarettes. They had the music. Hogs. And the journals. But what did they call them? Dead. Disney movies are coming out. She smokes in the back of the theater, Grandmama Veela de Lancret, damning the projector. It looks like a mist. Where’s my Amélie? I’ve yet to see that movie.

The thing about talking to Steve, thinks Shingo, his flaccid penis in his head, porn on the projector, a long air of smoke hanging constellations above them like webs at a Michigan film festival. We called that Halloween, celebrated its birthday, gave smoke to the ancestors in the form of cigarettes, and I did my share of time as Ron Weasley, always thinking nothing from a big giant fruit basket, waiting for Hermione to come around. But now I’ve got a boy who says he’s Ron Weasley, says I can be anything I want, and if the fuku’s too tight he’ll buy me a new one, sailor-stitched, but Usagi says he isn’t there, she’s scoured all of Crystal Tokyo looking for him and he’s nowhere to be found, my tuxedoed torpedo, my miraculous man, the owner of my progeny, no. Think. Why that? The earth should stop growing. And I’m on a reconnaissance mission in the south of France waiting for Tokyo, breathing Hermione, and in her eyes lifts a fog’s deep, and I think thinking purposefully creates a punch, and she thinks it's cumbersome, and I could go a mile a minute if only the stupid Esquimaux hadn’t broken my laptop, my five thousand dollar laptop, and that’s the last time I date a boreal wind who doesn’t sweep me off my feet.

Ami-chan, baby, blue-haired beauty, tell me your dating secrets. When did you last lose your heart and never care to ransom it back?

Meanwhile, back at the lair, Makoto seizes a flower and trails it against her limb, pulling it by its own marionette strings, whispering to Vegas, feeling Ganymede pull tides from semina, pull semina, boys can pull semina, and Shingo yawns and eats more popcorn. What becomes of Ami? Why is Hermione better at this?

Emma Watson is beautiful, says Hermione, looking into her compact.

“Yeah,” says Ron, shrug-smiling, something is gay, something he learned from Harry’s bed, and inside her guts churn and she leaps to think ahead of the cats who chase the frog from the balcony into the southern air and swims like flies down the stream, over traffic, on the balcony of Grimmauld Place, the first American summer of her life, when Ron brought that French movie back from Africa and said love was a Muggle secret. And Harry watched it, saying nothing like always, and Ron was nervous, looked unsure of himself, and why? And who am I when they’re left to their own devices? And where is Justin to ask them for me? And why am I crying? Why is she more beautiful than me? I’m Googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m a terrible person and Shingo is wagging a finger at me. Better than Googling Emma Watson perfect ass, but that’s how you find out what the boy on the upper half of the screen is up to. Thou teachest like a fool, says Venus, goddess Venus, projector Venus, tears in her eyes, a flying carpet under the copse of her ass, bonetide, the way to lose him.

“Is there ever a reason to speak?” says Shingo, wondering why. This is autofiction. Autoerotica, stupid. Automutilation. Let’s all get together and save the world. It feels like flying.

We do it through fiction, says Ami through Hermione’s voice, both the best of friends, and Hermione’s calling Ginny on the Batphone, something Ginny calls her cellular, and she throws it at the wall because it’s an old Muggle secret for getting better service. And Ginny can do that, that’s her purpose, making Muggle secrets, and all because her brother’s an ugly redhead. And why did I marry her brother? Now all she wants to talk to me about is sex. And I know he’s calling her all the time, asking. And he’s innocent, I’m a harpy, but would if I could call Viktor. Would fly. Too much Shakespeare. And Viktor writes, too. Viktor’s a Bulgarian New Waveist. Novelist in training. I'm on methamphetamine. I'm alive in Crystal Tokyo high on a Nazi war drug. Viktor’s a football star. Viktor’s face is a cripple who believes in cripples, Shingo says, finger-pointing, let’s all go have a cheeseburger. Fin deluxe. End chapter.

Hermione thinks loudly, she always has, damning the world with faint praise. Justin needs a typist, he’s impoverished, he set out to be a Muggle novelist, and look where it took him. To hell. The pictures don’t move, that’s the problem, if the pictures moved everybody would be reading. He’s a detective in a yellow trench coat, and his keyboard is broken, and so is Shingo’s, and they’re learning how to type through dearth, and it’s hard not to have the Apple of your dreams, but get a Mac, and Hermione knows journals are superior because hers has a lock on it, a little green lock the apple of her eye, and together they type easily but she still misses the days when words flew between them a mile a minute, and Justin took off on his diary all the way home, thinking no one read it, but everyone read it, and she’s condescending him again, and she does that not to bicker, but she was better when they bickered, and he lost her friendship when she stopped fighting him, stopped telling him he was wrong, and she had to do that, they were radicalized by house elves, and she knows that, and wishes they were eleven again, but they were best friends in fourth year when he kindly told her the spell to fix her bucked teeth. He was jealous of her bucked teeth because boys like bucked teeth, so he told her to fix them. To envision them, he said precisely, threatening nasal. And I still fix them every day because I wish them back when I'm dreaming. And there's a man out there who'll find that charming, a handsome Japanese businessman in a tuxedo. The only man in Crystal Tokyo, home of Muggle gods. And this sucks but it’s all part of being a hacker, Justin thinks, banging the keyboard. Banging his broken WSAD keys. Why did I become addicted to BSSM Online? And I’m an American wizard from Paris who's also addicted to BSSM Online. No one plays anymore. My real name is Star, I'm that precious. I think I’m giving birth to Utopia. Sailorutopia. I have a functioning uterus in my dick. Yeah. Where do I phone to get an abortion?

Me, says Shingo, thinking computer. Rainwater. Strawberry. Placenta. I run a hotline now for underprivileged gay men. They call me to tell me how happy they are. Would Hermione approve? Would Justin? And where’s the emperor? Batquestions, Batsolutions. Wow. Whap. Boom. Together we make new. And Satoshi’s eye on the ball of the sun coming toward him. Computers are for trading monsters. Computers eat the monsters. Where do the monsters go? How do they get there? Oak in all his crooked wisdom knows the answer, says he knows the answer, thinks clearly in concise language, it’s okay, he’s doing it, he just has to slow down a little, and that’s how Laprys disappears.

And Shigeru is peeing himself for the wrong reason. Shigeru the rapist. Shigeru the terrorizer. And in Brock’s arms no one hurts me. And Brock would fix my computer. And dark make-up looks good on beautiful girls, Kasumi’s sister should wear dark make-up. It’ll match her torpedo tits, her gorgeous swan-like torpedo tits, and would that I had that body we’d put down our Poké Balls and assume positions left for fighting nothings, never fighting to the fruition of unfighting's end's meet. Assume monster, assume beast, double-backed, and we’d all get married to one another in a bacchanal, Julia presiding. I’m grown tired. says Julia, ticker-taped by time. My name: Satoshi. Ash is waking. And for the record, yeah, that, Gary never laid a finger on my eye. He only came in it. Gary the leper. Gary the fink. And Hermione’s a screengrab on HBO Plus, that streaming service from the future Ditto uses to surf the web, I’ve seen her through the ambria, through a glass half-darkly, and she mains a Clefairy with limbs akimbo spraying over a song like nightmare. Or she mains a Pika. My baby. My Pika. Not your Pika. My life. Pika pi. My life. Why is Endymion Satoshi? Find out tomorrow. Misty rolls over, gumming the works, feigning sleep. Together they drop the bomb. This is what happens when they drop the bomb. Mina pulls the lever. Aplomb.

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direquail · 9 months

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Lucy Lawless as Cristabel and Renee O'Connor as Mercymorn

#the locked tomb #how do i make this a xena altfic #or whatever they were called #honestly loveday/cytherea have a lot closer to a xena/gabrielle vibe

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daenystheedreamer · 7 months

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femslash forever, personally ^_^ yuri has a specific definition imo (manga genre) but it is funny for jokes :)

please reblog if you wouldn't mind! there's been a yuri revoution as of late (yurivolution?) and i'm wondering if terms like slash/femslash have been superseded by semi-ironic terms like yaoi and yuri...

EDIT 25 YEAR OLDS VOTE AS OVER 25 SINCE TECHNICALLY YOU ARE 25 + however many days its been since your bday :)

#polls #shipping #genuinely curious 😭#if this flops im deleting tho

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victoriacircuits · 1 year

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The perfect way to wake up surprised.

If I wasn't already spending all my time on school and my other FF I would have loved to write an AltFic where Tag Team ends a bit differently.

Buzz's face just makes me laugh so much. It's the shock, man...

Not regret nor noth'in like that, but definitely a moment of "I woke up on Warp's titties...wtf now??"

Also dat hand and dat face, you know he was groping in his sleep.

^v^; I drew this on my phone with a fricking finger.

#darkyear #warp darkmatter #buzz lightyear/warp darkmatter #warp darkmatter/buzz lightyear #warp/buzz #lightmatter #BuzzWarp

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yourfourthparent · 10 months

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help the altfic for the jasontristan rumour fic is sparking ideas help i'm starting to ship them now

#not actually shipping them when jason's 16 btw. like give it six years. like when jason's fuckin. 22.#and tristan falls for him and is like 'OH GOD OH FUCK NONONONONO' meanwhile piper is like 'yo jason i'm not treating you as my father'#and jason's just head empty. no thoughts.#thinking about them being sooo domestic snd cute while piper is like 'god damnit. why must this happen to me.'#piper frantically googling HOW TO SABOTAGE YOUR DAD'S RELATIONSHIP HOW TO MAKE DAD BREAK UP WITH BOYFRIEND #it's sooo funny to me. jason and tristan are like the most wholesome couple around and piper is like HOW TO MURDER YOUR DAD'S BOYFRIEND #the coca cola company's cock and ball stories #the coca cola company buys chbc

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housemarcellus · 3 years

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You!

I love the way you draw Ondolemar! He looks so amazing and handsome! Especially his eyes and the small details of your art!

Thank you for keeping him bald!

alsjfhalsjdlALSKFHALALDJALALHFLA

YOU!

Thank YOU! 🥺💖

(And thank you for that bald comment, lol, I don't want to dictate the liberties artists take with characters, lord knows I take them myself. But with him, the constant insistence of giving him hair... lowkey irks me.)

#dynamite124 #ask #his eyes are super important to me also 🥺#...he grows his hair out in my altfic tho... but... u kno...#ondolemar

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mariasflores · 6 years

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reading rly old fanfiction is exhausting like... wtf is an altfic? über? also personal websites and copious usage of the wayback machine lmao

#SOMEBODY do the lords werk and archive them in ao3 or sth...#personal #text

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elfyourmother · 7 years

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just...everything we write as flawed humans is going to be colored in some part by our life experiences and the nature of the realities we each inhabit, that’s not inherently a bad thing. where it becomes toxic and oppressive is when folks in dominant groups lack that self-awareness and start erroneously thinking that reality can be singularly defined by their own limited, homogeneous experiences. this is especially damaging for impressionable marginalized youth bc it warps our own sense of reality and cuts into issues of identity for us

i remember as a teenage girl just barely beginning to question her sexuality, being viscerally put off by a Xena altfic I came across (“altfic” was the Xena fandom’s specific term for f/f fic, particularly explicit f/f, “femslash” did not really exist as a term back then afaik), simply because literally everyone in it was a lesbian. like i was shook, because I had literally never been exposed to wlw in media before. i was extremely sheltered and grew up in an evangelical Christian environment that in some ways was a bit more liberal but in terms of gender and sexuality was extremely conservative. i didn’t know any open wlw irl. so when i began to understand that I maybe wasn’t str8, i had internalized all of that, to the point where even as I was really really digging the interactions and it was awakening my queer soul that had been smothered by my upbringing, I was still weirded out! it wasn’t until i got involved in the local Pagan scene and the Xena fandom (which heavily overlapped ofc lol) that this got unlearned...bc then i found my sapphic community.

I grew up to be an adult bisexual woman who can literally count her str8 acquaintances on one hand, whose social circles irl and online almost entirely consist of lgbt ppl, most of which practice some flavor of unconventional spirituality and relationship style and half of which are poc. not deliberately either, but just as a function of the various things i’m into. my reality as a polyamorous queer witch of color is radically different than the white ppl yelling about how it’s unrealistic for these concepts to comfortably exist alongside dragons and elves in fantasy. meanwhile everybody ever being cishet white ppl paired off monogamously in pseudo-christian nuclear families is what bears absolutely zero resemblance to the reality i inhabit, and yet writing to my own reality gets me pilloried and demonized and mocked. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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pinkrabbitpro · 7 years

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From time to time, I randomly rediscover your website / tumblr / AO3 profile (I'm don't have an account for either) and it always makes me happy to see that you're still around, and you still end up shipping many of the same ships (Supercaaaaat!), and your art still takes my breath away. Greetings from the old altfic Stargate days :)

Hey, that’s so cool. Always good to hear from someone from past fandoms. *big wave* I bounce in and out, but I never go away. Hehe. So glad you like the art. I’ve learned so much over the years. Hope you enjoy more stuff in the future. :)

#Anonymous

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailormoon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, INTERMISSION

Emma Watson is a beautiful actress, but she’s not Hermione, thinks Ami, affording herself a single piece of popcorn like a woman unknown to time. How’s that possible? thinks Shingo, waiting for the trailer. Every movie in Crystal Tokyo goes on forever, even the bad ones. His boyfriend says there are no bad movies. He remembers that’s true, but he’s homeless in Crystal Tokyo and his sister’s the Empress, so what does her husband know?

Boyfriends are good people, thinks Ami, smiling in her dream. But at the cinema, she’s rapt. At the cinema, she’s thinking. Michiru should be here with me at the aquarium, not Shingo. I hate his body. It’s unpropelled.

“Are you more of a C3PO or a Princess Leia?” asks Shingo. “Personally, I was built for sin,” he says, wiggling his brow. What eyes he has. What ears.

Shingo hears.

"Look how beautiful you are," says Shingo the sad weary hairdresser, thinking with his bikini line. "That's why you got the guy and I'm stuck with a boyfriend. Never mind. I'm fine. Let's just watch the trailers in uncooperative silence. Star Wars. Goop. Wing. Batphone. Pedometer. Sneeze. Hai."

Ami says hi back, but it's too late, nothing happens, and the sky darkens, and the commercials come on, and Shingo's digging in her popcorn, spilling it all over, and she feels his hand on her thigh, and she wonders loudly if he's a mathematician, too, or just precocious like a fiend seeking a deity. Not a fiend, says Crystal Shingo, appearing on the television. A fink. A find. A tragedy. Swallow water, superhero.

Hey, haven't we seen this movie before? This is the one where the girl goes limp in the monster's arms. She loves that monster, she says, and he would know. Let's all take a breather. God bless the Emperor and his Bride. Eternal Usagi incarnate. Boo, teehee, throw popcorn. Ganymede lives, Peeves the spirit haunting the pages, and that's the best part, the part that didn't make it into the movie. Shining Aqua Illusion, Incapacitate.

Shingo darkens, deepens, survives. And they hold hands in the dark of the theater. In the dark of the star. In the eye of the needle. And proper eyes move wholly undetected, says Shingo, in all seriousness, and he's not afraid of his henshin stick, not afraid of foul god Artemis, and why didn't we invite Mina to see this movie? And oh yeah, it's because we're in love.

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360degreesasthecrowflies · 10 years

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Genderswapped Harry Potter Characters

I love these so much. Courtesy of maaria on DeviantArt (http://maaria.deviantart.com/art/Harriet-Potter-II-280079697)

Incidentally, I love lady!Snape. I actually think genderflipped Marauders would make a better story; Jade(?) Potter bullying a young Sylvia(?) Snape and her friend Liam(?) Evans. Snape always begrudging Jade Potter for seducing away her friend; Jade Potter being a real rich bitch kind of Pureblood girl; the ironies of the Pureblood Gryffindor tempting away the unknowing Muggleborn boy; Snape falling further into despair and self-loathing caused by poor self-image and self-esteem.

In fact, its almost as if the story was WRITTEN to be genderflipped in the first place; so many of the themes dealt with and applicable to young Snape are so much more often applied to and associated with young female characters. I'm also seeing Snape become increasingly interested in Potions as she tries desperately to find a way to prove that Jade Potter has been spiking her friend Liam with something in order to tempt him away from her; culminating in her becoming the bitter Potions mistress who only can see the spoilt Pureblood Princess in The Girl-Who-Lived. Good stuff!

#harry potter #genderflip #genderbent #headcanon #altfic

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #11 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.011

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1.0.011 AMI/SHIN/HERMIONE PLATONICA IRONICA, MAMO WAITING IN THE WINGS

Shingo has never seen Ami shit.

Does Ami know that? She tries very hard to think of a reason why, she tries all the time. Shitting is comfortable, shitting is warm, you flush and then disperse.

Shingo says ‘Water is efficient!’ with a finger raised. Shingo hates facts, and he hates Ami, and he loves his secret television and the whispers of the wind on the water. And if only his sister knew. And if only Ami saw the moonlight kiss his skin, then she would love him. But he knows that.

The girl is asleep standing up. She’s always tired around boys. She thinks she knows why, but madness calls like a clang. That’s Shingo banging his head against the counter, far off in Luna’s lullaby. Don’t make me call Artemis, says Mina. Mina in the mind’s eye. Mina typing. Mina has a broken keyboard. She stole Shingo’s laptop. She did it on a loan. Shingo loves Ami. Ami prepares for takeoff. She can do this. ~ MINA, SIGNING OFF ;d xoxo AMI-CHAN, BELIEVE!

Ami thanks Shingo. Shingo, quizzical, unknowing. Does this word have two Zs? She knows the answer. Fuck. Oop. Whoop. He knows the answer. Sick in his stomach, sick in his gut, a light turns off. Does Ami control the lights? He knows the answer. He thinks upon himself to mark his grave.

He types with her.

Easy, he thinks. Dissect me. Mina giggles with her mouth covered in Rei-chan’s stupid wet dream. Shingo knows all about Rei’s stupid wet dreams, knows he’s the man with his hand in the mirror, knows he’s the one for Mina, Mina P, Sailorvenus, Sailorfirst, Sailorstardeath, Sailorcomeincubus, Sailorsurroundsound. Does he love his sister’s decoy? Does he love pie? And Pizza Palace? And soft imperialism. That’s Ami’s inbred thought. DESTROY. Dream of men.

Dream on. ~ Ami & Mina P, holding hands in the summertime. Mina sickens. Not the effort of a needle but the force of the ejaculate. She feels like a frog on a coffin, her entrails stretched and neon bleating. Ami, use your henshin stick! It’s okay to have a henshin stick.

Shingo grabs the popcorn.

Does Ami balk? I don’t balk. I don’t think. I move. The emperor over all assumes the throne, does it alone, does it for me, me, for me, Ami, stop, what are you doing? I’m on the phone! She’s dead.

She’s in space. Omniscience kills. Only secret agents can handle it. I am one. Born one. Born on the wrong side of the tracks. Born to kill. Born to believe. Never to bear children. The emperor sickens. I weaken the earth. Shingo, you’re in love. Shingo, I’m not okay with that. I grow up. Why am I trying? The path hurts me. Elios, come.

I am in the sun. I bear gifts.

How? say Endymion and Ami, their eyes like quadruplet saucers overbearing the earth. You come to conquer heavens, say the sun’s bright rays, and through Shingo’s mouth the light is shafted like an eternity in waiting. Throw another monster at the fire. I’ll pick it up. Shin lives, Shin springs, Shin dances like an eternal dancer in the jowels of heaven. Never stop fighting, that’s a soldier’s job. Mina knows we’re at the fore, all of us, together, forever dancing. Shingo the greatest senshi lives to great again, and Ami in her maggot mind the whole time stealing the egg. Venus knows it’s a pearl we wear on our finger, and Endymion believes, and all know shining victory. But sister is dead, and Mom is crying, and together we stop time to watch a movie.

Is this really happening? says Ami.

Why not? says Mina P, stepping over herself to help a friend in need. I came upon you sleeping and thought you deserved to wake.

You’re not neurotic at all, says Ami.

My mom, says Venus, becoming a critter in the arms of a little goy that should be picking its nose. Is this crazy? thinks the goy, knowing full well that birds talk better than mice.

Mice pee on each other, says Shingo, a fact he learned from trial and error. He had a mouse. It crawled aboard his hand and passed from left to right, and Venus says he’s at the right hand of the Father, and she says so with a finger pointed crooked to heaven, and she does so for Ami and for fortitude, for Mercury’s bubble magic, for peacetime and for those who dropped the bomb, blond-haired blue-eyed -shelles, perfect in their mystery, presaging holy famine.

Did we have to? whines Shingo, his eye like some great mystery overtaken by alchemical omniscience. Why does she not love God? Both of us have together the arms of Helios, and Mina would say holds, and Umino says yes, and Ami knows he’s good at English, that his passion is reading in the summer, that he sits at his window and plays cards, that he collects, that he loves the pretty pictures. And so does Mina. Umino her greatest ally, her passionfruit, her forager. Umino the bird dropped out of the nest. Is Shingo a bird?

Keep googling me, Ami. Keep trying to win your war. I and the sun will go like lightning before the gods with our hands washed clean. Drink from the Rivers Lethe and Mnemosyne. Last night I did it, too. If you were there with Jim Jones, what would you have done?

Died, says Ami. We have similar interests.

Ya, says Shingo, thinking of Mina. Mina in her red satin haircut, loving togetherness, loving the oval, holding the heart aloft like the cornucopia of victory granted to her by foreign dignitaries, or some great god, or Salmon Rushdie’s greatest cliches. It’s Salman, says Shingo. I said that, says Venus, who thinks we’re all going to die when we’re damn well ready, and I can be Trinity if I want to, and Ne Yo’s waiting in the wings, white-haired, ready to jump with me off the balcony to certain Crouching Tiger, and Crystal Tokyo is immense, and we’re all there, and we’re ready, and let’s do this slow. Ami, get off the computer!

Shingo smiles a weakening one. Enslaved by his stomach, always wondering what he ate when Ami’s around. How does Venus love this girl? Beautiful orange, beautiful blue, moss-headed. Does she think she knows everything? Silly girl. Don’t be Hermione Potter without finger-wagging. Remember, stale fish don’t get caught.

Mina’s over idioms. She died for God. She feels the sun, it turns her skin orange. In Crystal Tokyo, imbibing at her bedside a cocktail of ambrosial margarita two days expired, she thinks she’d be more glamorous if it was ten weeks expired, and so does Shingo. Where’s Usagi? Oh, right, she’s dead.

Ami thinks that’s okay. She never thought Usagi was her mistress. She never gave her that coy embrence. Never thought eternity waited in the malice. It’s Mina’s shoes, they’re too tight. That’s her mother talking, her southern mother, born and braised in Nipon, Italy, Nipon, Italia, Nipon, Light Stroller, Nipon, ETERNITY IS TALKING. FOR ONCE AND FOR ALL I LOVE SHINGO. ~ AMI

Baby, why you always lying? Shingo, get off Tik Tok. Bu- bu-.., I have no man! Mom, I need forty eight dollars to buy me a slot machine.

You can do it with forty eight hours of effort, says the emperor, forgetting himself, splitting off Endymion’s thigh like a hunk of wood dispersed from his engine. What does Ami mean? She’s helping stabilize the vortex. Always with that fucking vortex. Usagi’s dead.

“Hi,” says Setsuna, laced up black falcon pumps the size of eagles beating down pigeon-toed loving the secrets of black dirt. Her journeyer’s staff resting against her side, a Greek god frozen in repose, thinking in stalagmites, thinking in isolate. Those are Ami’s teeth, beware. There’s nothing this girl won’t do for the sake of her nostrils, sniffing out the causes of entropy and diagnosing herself sick with fever. All of us slaves to the emperor. I have an idea, slave to women, birth more men.

He’s trying, says Shingo.

Mina funnels a shrug until it’s infinity shrinking on the right side of her mouth, and feels sick. Who to call? The Batphone. Barbara Gordon, glamor, wigs. She misses her dad, keeps his picture in her wallet, something branded and incomplete, a perfect picture of a world without Rei. Sigh. Rei. Love. Hearts. Confusion. Ruling thunder. And then Mako approaches, Mako from death, Mako the walking corpse. I miss Bunny. My pet bunny, not Usagi. She can handle it. Everybody, quick, look to the stars!

Shingo dives eternity and thinks of Mamoru, his black eyes, his face, his cutting silhouette. And his sister in repose, waiting in a glass tank to be fired off to space. And what’s wrong with that? What’s to think he did it? She lives. She always lives. He’s seen wings burst out of her back. She’s fine. Wait. That girl dies. Does Ami know?

Yeah, babe, she says, and Mina shakes her head. “In the common tongue, babe is used to intimidate competing uteruses! It’s mathematical,” she says.

“I know,” says Ami. “The emperor is making me say that.”

“Leave him,” says Mina, snapping up a book, “another man will take his place. All hail Queen Usagi, Lordess over dustmites. Sleep eternal.”

“That’s Beryl talking,” says Ami.

“Beryl’s his penis, stupid. Think about it. What does he do all day, that Tuxedo Kamen?”

“Fights crime,” says Ami at his behest, at the throne of the emperor.

“Why are you so loyal?” asks Mina. “He beats her.”

“He tries,” says Ami.

I beat him, thinks Shingo. He doesn’t mean it.

“He’s trying to be someone,” says Ami, quizic, fizzic, physical, fizzy. Shingo opens up a dictionary. Dad’s gift to a sick puppy. Chain him to a rock and watch the ocean rise. Ami taps her finger. The sea level. Shingo’s stomach is sick, and it’s not in his head, and he really has a healthy grasp on reality, doesn’t he? ~Ami

He tries, says the emperor, heavy-headed, split Zeus, a milkshake. Shingo and Ami dream of milkshakes. Venus watches on from a vantage. She never had a little brother, somebody to put in make-up and tie to an office chair. She never had a staircase, only stone steps leading up to a dungeon, and endless streams of wheat. And where is Mako? In the arms of a mother, hoping the dark will leave her eyes. Does Ami know? Can Mako be reached? Will this dastardly duo get away with their crime? Avaunt, to Ganymede.

“I hope,” says Shingo, “Mom makes something for breakfast.” She can’t stop crying. Usagi gone. Dad dead of a heart attack on the living room sofa. And all Mom does is the laundry, her heart locked away from me cold. Usa could elicit her tears, illicit her embrace, it doesn’t work like that, but don’t you see, Ami, that it does? And the sun the deliberator waits for Mina’s face, and Ami hugs Shingo from a vacuum, and it's mist on his skin, and Mist, and Ami’s learning, and thinking all the time, and relaxing to a parachute slid from the water on vestigial planet mercury, an ace in the hole of a torpedo. Wince. Don’t put things in there! It’s little.

Last night you did desire it, says mercur. And you’re leaving me for another woman again, says Shingo, says Mamo, but I love you. I’ve always loved you. Leave my sister and this won’t happen. She’s fine.

She’s off in hell chasing the devil, says Mamo, and you’re on her laptop in the future arguing with the past to get better grades.

Don’t spank me in front of this dyke, thinks Shingo, says Shingo, knows they’re watching and it’s complicated. Knows Michiru’s sad beauty. Knows the harp she plays. Knows her expertise on every instrument. Michi, goddess Columbine, sad-eyed lady of beautiful Serenity, Moon Queen’s favorite daughter. If only my toes were pointed that way to God, then Ami shouldst know there were a heart in Egypt. Thanks Emperor Venus, the mommy at my breast. Whoop. Mamo, I’m IMing you to talk about my research paper.

It’s homework, says Ami. And you can but I don’t advise it, and far off the goddess Hekate jangles her keys, and how beautiful, how pretty, how insightful, how livid. Thinking of her all of my life. Should I go down? On Pansy, says Hermione, faintly glowing, and the spell reverberates from across the pond and brings us back to the shattered remnants of Tokyo City after the bomb. Don’t play with magic, says Mina P, vocoded to hell and back again, unless your heart’s in it. Shingo, talk to Hermione.

I hate Hermione, thinks Shingo, appearing insignif. Never thinking why he tries. My horoscope says Ginny Weasley, Mom, now go do my laundry.

I hate it, thinks Hermione, roiling in her grave. From the distant future a worm spouts like ‘Exascerba!’ and Entrifigus Proto Entropoalises the arsonigophical compound. Ron, you’re the worst typist in the world.

I love Hermione, he tells Venus, but how the fuck did we do that with these notebooks?

Riddle did it, says Harry, masturbating furiously under the covers to gay porn. Neville’s arms. Draco’s smile. Pinned against the stone wall, glistening, and Cho my wife, my trophy, my shining glory. And Cedric, valiant Cedric, turned to dust.

Get off the computer, says Ami. Go outside. Be afeared by that wizard from across the sea, coming with the light of Aslan to marry me.

You’re too young for him, girl, a random gay man in an M4M chatroom. Not for me, not his reference, I’m mistaken. Dream on.

I think I’m going insane, says Ami to Hermione, thinking quickly, and Hermione smells the sparks as they shoot through the air. Her bones. The force. Harry’s dead. He’s been this way for years. Ever since he found gay porn on Dudley’s computer my hypotenous --- Ron, stop typing, I can do it. There’s this thing called Spell Check, Harry thinks for Ron thinking for Harry, and the two of them stop fighting in the past and make up. You have Draco. I have Mione. We’re all going to be okay.

But I’m not okay, Mione, I presageth famine. And how did the sun get a Facebook?

It’s centrifugal, says Shingo, but men don’t let themselves participate. He winks. Ami smirks. Evil little rat. It has no name. Rats are rats who run the game.

This is insane, says Hermione, meeting with her first time with her soulmate, emperor from across the sea, global Chinese cash money billionaire. What about Viktor? asks Venus, hating their perfume, hating the smell of their centrifugal forces, and the ugly dress they wear. All in the same outfit, all the time, for fun. Fashion lives through entropy like a burning eagle, and Shingo and I share looks from beyond the grave. Usagi is dead! Who are you?

Hermione Granger, says the Ouija board, and if Ron misspells another word, I’m done doing his homework. And my dad’s a dentist. And I’m strong and proud. And Pansy Parkinson has a nice ass. And don’t panic, lady, we can refine this. It’s our fault this shit doesn’t work as expected. Where’d that come from? Shingo points upward, Mina fumbles in a trash can for the cigarette she saw hidden beneath an apple peel. Dead girls get what they want. Mione knows. She’s in the toilet of a nightclub in southwestern France having a cry. Viktor was supposed to meet her there. She wore her wedding ring, the one she bought for herself with Ron’s money, and she tears up when she thinks of Arthur Weasley walking her down the aisle. Arthur Weasley the knight, Arthur Weasley the captain, Arthur Weasley the centrifugal force. How do you make those symbols on the computer?

They’re mugs, says Ron, typing from home. Dad bought him one last year.

“All he does is talk to Japanese girls and look at porn,” said Ginny that summer, irate, ifrit, enlarged, her ancient ensign the bloody insignia of a girl who gets her period in plain sight. Borgiac, Borgiastic, Borgia indulged. Where’s Hermione? I’m going to teach her to inhale this time. Yes, baby, I fucked Dean Thomas, yes, he had a bigger penis than you, yes, I speak Japanese. Ni how, Hermione, there’s nothing to it.

Arthur Weasley knows a Muggle, a little boy in Japan named Dan. He thinks with a camera in his eye, prizing the world away from its southern understanding. We flip poles, says Hermione, we’ll never find you.

Don’t be Tom, says Ginny, and something goes on with her eyes. She puts the journal down spine up and wishes for a cigarette, for something to dispense with moment by moment, and Tom’s warm pelvis is on her throat. Was that wrong? If only she’d met the perfect man when she was the perfect woman. If only Cedric had never died. Now we’re saddled with two little kids and a perfect future threadbare on a couch, living in Grimmauld Place, a gay man’s perfect fixer-upper, and Harry’s awkwardly timed erections the stuff of a woman who’s outlived her dreams. I’m going to go to Cordoba, she thinks, but first I’m going to finish my first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I’m going to tell my dad it was stupid of him to make me believe I was allergic to chickens.

Does all slash end well? thinks Ron.

“You just keep scrolling until you see the word ‘cock,’” thinks Ginny to Venus to Hermione, and all along the Watchtower, villains take their places, and dead heroes dropped the bomb, and we’re doing it now, on Nagasaki, and that’s Muggle magic, and yes, it’s greater, and yes, that’s Chomsky, and yes, that’s all okay.

Who dropped the bomb on Nagasaki? asks Shingo, red-faced, and Chiba-sama replies, daring her panties in a bunch. In a knot, baby, but Usagi’s dead. And Harry’s gone into the forest, and Neville the conquered hero, and such is the case with heroic women, poised to die for the sin of Eve. Shingo puking. Shingo laughing. Shingo trades himself the Eevee. Red and Green. Mina says it’s Christmas. Her diary’s leaking. Bubbling. Frothing. And where is my Mamo-chan? What’s this feeling in my chest? Should I write him a love letter?

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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Sailorcherokeenation, Make-Up!!

The hardest thing about staying alive is knowing when to quit.

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #02 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.002

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Fic. he/him!Rei, questioning,ace!Mina

1.0.002 BIG-DICKED REI / LOVES /ACE<3 MINAKO <33!, MINA HOPES

“She’s gone,” says Mina, and in her eye a dart hits its target from afar. The ribbon at the crown of her head unwinds and falls, then brushes forward, a little kanji in the dirt, carried with the wind, petals granted by the jungle of different understanding. She assumes the title of the moonless decoy, red and white chalk lips, Moctezuma the Emperor’s Mongol warbride, kidnapped and ransomed in an ox-drawn wagon, home over a gray dirt steppe, Utah, the birthplace of her fathers the suns, Arizona, the distant red clay of unbought Play Doh, Sister Columbine, father’s reassurance, sing-alongs, ice cream men, fountains oily with cartoon glossy waters: ‘ZAMZAM! VENUS ZAMZAM MAKE-UP!’ Her niqab swirls. She thinks with the wind and the ocean, Michiru’s golden semina. She knows her Mars is the lesser shrine maiden, that she, Emperor Mars, shadow of past nations, is the greater music. She knows Haruka lies in wait, her plastic lip no make-up look the hook in Michiru’s gilded cramping muscular wretching no-womb decoy mazey organ thigh. Mamoru sees Michiru’s eye. A minotaur in a labyrinth on her bonemilk skin. Mamoru’s eyes, gorgeous, tender, Usagi’s bane, Minako’s heaven, the only child, muse-borne. Nowombwomban, no-womb man, the emperor borne from the water passes Mina’s eye like the procession of a distant plaster glaized elephant, and her heart worships the stone inside, and Michiru worships the stone in the water, and together Venus and Mercury swim goddess-born, but Neptune knows no mother and Mercury abandons Venus for the stone, and Venus eternal daughtersister holds her arms and limps her ankle against the cold, and all at once everyone is encompassed by a golden hoop with a single ray shining outward beneath, a film played by the sun the god American-born protector projector from the anus of Apollo risen hoarily into Michiru’s turquoise prison in the gape. Manga. Multi-colored. Pixels. Beauty. Peace sign, ~ Venus &Mars

Mars with a middle finger, dirt under her nail. Combat boots. Goth make-up. Mina writing feverishly. Her dad holding her crumpled fanfic in a triumphant limp upturned right hand, outward like a cocktail, in the crux like a teddy bear, his wrist bent back, scolding, happy, cocktail hour, bermuda shorts, little ones, muscular thighs, swollen bird’s scimitar scabcalves, Michiru vomiting out from herself in holy meditation, always in Neptune’s raiment, Haruka as Michiru, pathetic Haruka, evil Michiru, the mother’s shackles in Rei’s eye, Rei weeping, Rei devised, Haruka thrashing, Mamoru crying, Haruka weeping, Michiru laughing, Haruka dying, Mamo holding the sword, Venus puking a single tear from the corner of her eye, wiping it, hiding it, Father’s buried secret. Her dad speaks. “Hi,” he says. “No,” says Venus the sun blazing through his mask. “Fuck you, Father. VENUS MAKE-UP!” She preens sadly in front of the mirror in whoreclown make-up. Nothing happens. The towel falls off Shingo’s head. A fetus rests inside the hoop of a rainbow, Mew, the closed door. “You little perv,” says tiny Usagi, her hands clutching evilly at her mother’s womb. Venus prostrate, a little girl in the arms of her white-haired muscular svelte vuluptuous rippling manly-assed father. Venus crying. Venus in chains, then rolling down a hill, Mamo loosing his grasp on Usa’s star-crowned plastic dime store scepter, beautiful Michiru fixing her lip, Mamo taking over the world, Mina weeping, Usagi entranced, the sun behind a cloud, a man triforcated by three circles, a faceless man with gorgeous long hair, equivalent to Hotaru’s tentacles, Kakyuu’s hair, Seiya plucking an acoustic guitar by the light of an Are You Afraid of the Dark campfire, Minako little eight years old in front of the television, her little brother pinching her. Rei-chan laughing, Hotaru in her womb, penis in her hand, in front of the television. Mina open-fisted, a huge-nosed Fagin in rags like an inflated twisted Eurasian troll pinching pennies from her palm. Mamo laughing, futile, empty eyes, crying tears. Empty tears. Mina before the king, her baby rent in half, Rei overseeing from her balcony, opera-gloved, in a cut-off short-sleeve tuxedo, Kamen-masked, two emperors, Mina drawing the sword from the stone and splitting the Gordian knot, Mamo drawing the sword from the stone, the two of them dancing in an Elizabethan chamber, gorgeous music playing, courtly motions, Venus masked in aristocratic Glinda leaning up to his crook, her hand partitioning her mouth and his ear from mouthless gorgeous-faced onlookers fellow dancing. “Meet me in South Hall, behind the tapestry where the ladies pee, Your Majesty,” she whispers. Usagi watches from a table, shoulders slumped, chin tucked into her shoulder, huge languid eyes more beautiful than Venus’s by candlelight. “Yes, m’lady,” comes Mamoru from out of frame. Together the three of them dance through heather in peasants’ gowns, little children living by the clean clear light of a village’s spring.

“Yeah,” say Mars, Rei-chan, Mina P’s true love. Mercury lives damning a frenzy, her ugliness shown before the sun. Mercury in retrograde, the spirits haunt the latter days. The sun is chilly. “Hi,” says the baby in Mina’s womb, little Kousagi, and the emperor penguin crowns Mars’ feet with lotuses.

Mina feels sick.

I know Mina feels sick, thinks Mars. Little Ami’s holes make staples like trainers in her arms, but Mars cares. She doesn’t care. Her eye is a sparrow made

‘holeywhollyholy,’ Mina worships.

Mars prostrates before the fire. The ancient mist spills red ink from a fountain. She believes. In her eye. Venus the man, her Heracles, seven-breasted, abs dry, encircles the Nemean lion with a vitiligo velificatio, the empty crook of his arm encircling a discus, baroque lion poised on its haunches, snarling like heraldry. Mina winces. Mars sleeps. The earth shudders the sun. The earth conquers Mars. Mars sees all. Time elapses eternal. Mamo-‘s heart sickens. Goddesses are stripped of their robes, mocked by cold hearts in ghost forums. Mina’s eye enlarges, her lip movelessly quickers. The song creeps, music notes played a loop threaded through her ears. Pigeon-toed, she floats. Mars lies. He always lies. Wicked love songs, confusions, clang, Mr. Muse, Mr. Apollo, Mrs. Sunshine, married to her own breast, hail sun, fairer than Mars, hail earth, bearing fruit, hail children, baring all, hail mothers, the lesser, hail Mamoru, rescuing Mars, hail Mars, the fairest son, the gravest voice, the true nation, war between earth and Mars, war at mars and earth, eternal emperors waddling toward the foot of their thrones, kings anointed by godly Beryl, penis tucked, talons quivering. Rei vomits on Mamoru’s head, Mamoru vomits on Rei’s head. They laugh. They take over the world. They can do this. Venus drags her sword against the earth. Mamoru laughs.

Venus’s eyelids shutter, tears below. Mars’s arms outstretched. Venus runs to them, Mina in a long skirt and a sailor’s blouse, bow outsized like Butterfree’s limbs. Sailorbutterfree holds a pistol, squinting an eye through the hole burrowed in Rei’s skull, third eye, penis, unhidden, unbidden, Sailorbutterfree flashes a peace sign.

Sailormetapod slinks. Eaten. Mamoru heaves his guts. Haruka in gorgeous sensh attire wipes his mouth with a little white kerchief. Kyrie eleison, says Michiru’s body, her hands on her thighs, her thighs on her calves, her feet tucked like a Muslim maiden ready for prayer.

Venus the maid stumbles on her sword.

Mars the maid cleans Minako’s apartment.

Venus the lover rubs her eyes with thumb and index fingers, laughing from a couch. “Last night, my love, the nightmare ceased. Sometimes that which should go with Ares goes with Mars.”

“Teehee,” says Mars, says Neptune, says the Doom Phantom. He clutches in his hand a chalice in which swim chunks of ambrosia like ice through which a boy is skiing. Mamoru assuming the throne, walking up the backs of prostrate naked senshi, their penises tucked between their thighs, the white cocooned reflexive silhouette of penisless Usagi offering him prostrations like an American-Korean peasant worshipping the newly crowned divinity, naked faced, the fallout after Mina drops the bomb on God. Mars smiles, sick, sad, scared, eternal, an emperor’s eye, anointed, three people, Mirror Elon, giving birth to god through an acorn at the nippleless breast of Ephesian Artemis.

Venus swims in amber.

Mars plunges for her.

Venus holds up a phallus, Galaxia-made. On it, close-up, written, beautiful English legible graffiti: ‘He one-nights ‘em.’ SMILEY FACE, Joker smile, on the low-hanging left nut. Mars grabs the phallus, black onyx bindi on her forehead, and vomits bubbles through the water, groping for them.

Michiru, robed as senshi, gorgeous, watercolor, maroon, turquoise, marooned, turquoise, smiling a Beryl Michiru smile, holds out enormous hands like a marionette, and the cold sun behind her left elbow casts a shadow and *coughs*.

The riddle sickens Mars’s hope, and the emperor closes his eyes and cocks back his head in prayer. The emperor becoming.

The riddle sickens Mina’s hope.

Mars weeps, walking from the wheel.

Venus’s mouth waters. Father me.

I will.

Mercury loves the emperor.

“Do you love me?” asks shackled Venus, and a shiver like a tomcat’s spine rises in her right shoulder. The sun weeps a ray upon the blade of her cheek, and through stillness she turns to time and says ‘No,’ and the tears poison her heart and weigh the wink chain beneath her beltloops. Does Rei ever weaken? Does Rei ever bleed? The sun her mother asks her questions, spurning the sickness Mercury feeds her. Mina hates this life, Mina hates her burden. Her fathers bear her beneath the concrete with their grasping hands. She walks on toward the water’s edge, her fathers’ semina. Pasty Mercury with her heaving ugliness and her wicked eye bleeds poison into the sky. Mina’s pupils dilate, a pallor ransoms her beautiful face to hell, the untrue Satan’s bounty. Sailorsatan beautiful in red wakes stirring, a woman in the body of a man, a man in the body of a male woman, cute little horns on her head. She’s masturbating her inflated penis on a couch in the depths of hell. Sailormoviejesus her lover stares on with perfectly symmetrical blue eyes like a superimposed eagle male model’s face all in his irises beyond the silhouette of her body the sofa her body the everything. The flames of hell are the wets of the corners of his unseen mouth. Beautiful daughters bleed.

Beautiful sons make love.

‘Not in front of Mercury,’ says Venus. ‘Galaxia makes love to you.’

“I’ve lost everything,” says Venus, “and the worm in my stomach twists my power into evil. Is this the world your fathers envision?”

“She’s here,” says unfaithful Mars.

Little faithful Venus says no. “My husband has made me a promise of moons,” says the Mina-P inside of her twinkling eye. “You know I’m not Japanese.”

“Nipon is a beautiful city,” says Rei.

“I asked you if you loved me,” says Supersailorvenus, her beauty concealed beneath a sweater and denim. The wink chain like beauty’s crooked pinky ensnares her hip like a man who saunters loving her, and she thanks her father.

Mars stares, no orgasm gurgling inside him.

“Speak not for Hotaru your metal god,” says Venus. “We’ll get to that.”

The wind speaks for Venus to Mars, his hair his crown her loving arms reach toward the wind which ties their pasts into love, and Venus weeps knowing. “I asked if you loved me.”

“I said I never loved anyone,” says Mars. He thinks he’s a savior to men. His vagina throbs. He tries to think.

Do they the emperors and their hentai-loving concubines forget the starry womb of Venus their big sister? The sun their mother weeps tongueless from the cushion of her quicksilver-reactive transitioning raiment, a bony earth. Venus’s private temple sacked, she and her fathers know better, but she is regressing, they have given her the knife, said ‘Hera, go into the tomb,’ and fearless she has lowered herself into Saturn’s throat and discovered her ugly brothers.

Vulcan eyes himself, his breasts like twin torpedoes at the verge of ignition. Beryl’s wicked dick wipes the lips off her teeth and is shredded into the trash can by quaking Mercury.

She wakes. She wonders, in Mercury’s womb a twisting knife. “We tremble,” say her children, and hungry emperors engorge them in their brazen stomach like the lovesick bull.

Pink sunset greets Mina in the face, bleeding out cinema orange over the flat gray canvas of the God-given oval of her visage. Candy-coated rain spills down the front of her corn white tendrils, whipping them to butter in the melting light of dozy day dying quick like the plunge of a woman’s knife into the hearts of more beautiful girls. The sun the senshi’s father squats his womb against the water. Stillness like Crystal Tokyo before the bomb precedes proceeding, and mothers prostrate before their strollers’ shadows against the sidewalk, all knowing the danger. Empty oceans bear their young, and their young bare their young, and senshi are born from the beauty in boys’ hearts, like razorwire pricked outward, making girls from soldiers but soldiers from girls, and soldiers from girls dance in their wombs and call to boys from soldiers, and all the senshi steal their hearts against the Shadow Destroyer, knowing in their hearts and heads and in the mind of Venus their sister that death will come, and she tells them with the tongue of her father that stars are reborn with men who love them. And planets are born with mercuries in retrograde, their cripple-loving hearts scheming how to infect men with sick and enslave them to her crown the ugly mold, the pretension and the privilege.

‘Reject thy mother, Sailorstar,’ says the sun through Venus’ tongue, and Venus in her vacuum womb says ‘Woman, rise,’ and the ancient goddess with her marble mystery and the systemic swell of her breasts gives way to her priests her keepers, and through the lineage of her tears and the tears of her infinite children a love for girls so other from herself blooms like stone bulbs from the cracks of womens’ shields, knitted with Amazons’ false valor, the mists of Mercury descend upon the mind of Venus and unmother her children, unfather her procession, and their weeping will redound upon Mercury with swords, and Venus knows her task to kill, and her hand shakes spasming, and should she call her father? How to tell him all her madness is the stuff of Mab, and Sailormercutio in his restless fever split from his thigh the bloody goddess whose mission is shitcaked vengeance. Does Daddy know? Sailoronestar the little fool in Ami’s womb twists like a rat against its noose umbilical, and Venus’s longing womb cries out to Anna the painted actress, and all women know. And Cat Stevens plays on the radio from a delivered future. A is for Allah. B is for Bilal. Venus weeps for her mother, her mother prostrate, her mother’s wreckage womb. Shadow Destroyer like the hand of a black god points fingers to Mars’s impotent penis, and Venus feels within her head a rattling ghost without bones.

Mars waits, an evil emperor. Does his penis know its barrenness? Has she sought in her consort Galactica, crown of emperors, bane of love? She speaks in tongues of devils, ifrits shuddering with manly fire, the chauvinist’s lies the concrete boxing his feet. He moves not, not to comfort, not to repent, never to know his princely kingdom is a pauper’s jest played against a losing gambler. Venus the sun’s omniscience breaks rainwater against the placid pond, and Sailorlittleonestar in her eye and Ami’s womb twists wreckless as an acrobat and whispers umbilica, ‘Mother, conquer.’ Fool. Venus feels her starseed. Mercury knows nothing. She holds her arm to it, shielding herself, and the evil girl from across the sea crumples into sickness and subsides. Shadowmercury, Shadowlove.

Tokyo disrobes her head and breast. The cyberslave glitters blood-red, black over their shoulders’ eye, and the city’s pyramidal eons are an offering to the distant eyes of the newly empty, now-new-dead starlight. Shes sleep in a gray-red dream, and Mars’s eye is on the sparrow.

Mina the senshi feels herself alone again, and that wind like her daddy runs fingers through her hair, braces her back against his bloodhot chest. Call him Zephyr and the seasons cannot fade him. Call him Zephyr for the lords who re’rrange him. From the sun Sailorzephyr brings a bounty of flowers, beautiful dying sakura-hime, sleeping senshi Venus dies for, and the cornacopic Venus enjoys her sacrifice. Blood thickens at her loin, Achilles’ daughter, Penthesilea’s bright bane, the orphan Amazon in her chest says ‘Daughter,’ says ‘Father, I love you,’ and a blue tear dies blue in the blue of her blue iris. Ami’s visor waits like glass monster Marios.

“What do you want?” says Mars, and his hair is like a timeswept pupil unfurling into rind.

“Loose your arrow, love,” says Venus. She swallows air for Rei-chan. Her throat an overburdened elevator, her eyes dead Xs. “Rei-chan,” she turns, and tears become ships bearing riches from the deep blue of her eye, rescuing her history for a nobler shore. “I love you, Rei-chan,” said with a lion’s heart, in a mouse’s voice, the muse quaking in her throat.

“You don’t, or you’d show me your dick,” he hymns.

Silence as the dust settles back to quid pro quo. Mina’s ribbon skates along the concrete before her feet, a dance for the new Moon Queen, imposter though she is, making the wind another slave in red velvet shackles.

Mina watches the sky, ever virgin Venus now a mirror of the moon. “Galaxia moves slowly,” she says, and the twin musics of tears and terror die in her mouth before reaching fully out from the loamy secrets of her mind, frogging her up at the larynx and making her choke on gurgled noise. The words carried out next are like waves without water, salting the beach of her dried mouth and making the air a welcome substitute: “We don’t know where she is.”

“You’re getting better,” says Rei from in front of the open car door, and in his hand an iris plays with itself in the air.

“Pretty make-up,” says Venus, forgetting to shut up. Galaxia hears from far-off Planet Star Destroyer, and the wind howls into a vortex from inside a primordial vacuum, reaching its hoary black arm all the way from death beyond the black hole to the heart of Earth. She bites her lip against a shiver; so does Galaxia. “I think you left your fuku in the car, Hino-sama,” Venus says, tucking her chin into the limped synthetic lip of her turtleneck, Sailorsailorvenus’sfavoriteturtleneck, still breathing.

“I like to change you,” says Rei.

“Use my henshin stick,” says Venus, and through her father in the ground the wink chain sword winks a chain at her hip, ready to spasm. The starseed in her heart spins like a dradle dowsing Zamzam from its opposite pole. The fossil Venus encased in amber wood beneath the armored slab of concrete at her feet beats its eyelid and the muscles in Mina’s right leg tremble like a dog awaiting its cannibal gruel. Mm, cannibal gruel. Yum, cannibal gruel. Yes, cannibal gruel, yes! And she's a shampoo commercial getting slimed by Campbell's beef stew or something worse. And for Rei she's a depository. And for Rei she's everything. And for Rei she twitches, blinks, twitches and then blinks to play it cool, the scepter of Galaxia unthreading the fabric of her brainstuff and twisting it into a little spool sharp against its sisters. Bubbles in her brain. Speak of bubbles. The god of suns obliges.

“MERCURY AQUA MAKE-UP!1!” Venus hears, and her eyes sting with vapor, the sun her mother wailing with torn hair and a bleeding scalp at the crook of the girl’s neck. America’s war rages on, Galaxia her mistress on the cusp of Gemini and Latin, enthroned in the might of her majesty. The distant sleeping Tuxedo Kamen wakes to sleep again, loving the barren planet in his ball, and loving the silver cooling his blood. Pallas is born a bastardess, robed in glamor stolen as an apple from the garden of the sun. The pirate princess gold in her nakedness, Sailorarethusa, loses her seed at Mamoru’s V, and Venus of the V quakes soft at blond profundity; all worship the emperor. All but Ami, in whose dark heart a starseed pumps ice and dances as the sun’s towers fall.

“I’ll use mine,” says Mars to Venus. To Venus. To Venus.

“Sometimes that fuku which should go with Mars..,”she touches her lip with a wobbling index finger, “isn’t there, babe.” A smile. Then a blank. A profound blank. Wiped blank. “You don’t love her anymore.”

Galaxia shudders, someone's glee. Shadow Destroyer flicks, switches, a mare's tail emphasizing. Mina flushes hot, then lifts off the ground, arms ascending backwards, and the wind brings her toward the water’s edge. The emperor’s icy hand calls her toward the guillotine, and all is emptied and laid bare. Her clothes, beautiful 90s supermodel fabrics, loose into webs around her body. Her penis enlarges, flesh-plated, arcing at the sun. Her traveling vulva like sails ensnare an empty acrid acre of Antony’s tomb, and the eye of the sun goes white cold. Ghosts fuck to the fore from behind her in wraithe-like procession, beyond her shoulders, burdening her shoulders, countless beautiful billions, stars, beautiful children, people, a Tokyo crowd, each of them surging a walking blitz march behind her.

Then past her, through her, piercing her like an arrow. From her hands limpid lamplights like Mary Mother of Graces, that wrong-wombed Mother of Graces, Mary on the water, and now she is floating above the pond like a foot skating limp like Barbie’s lost loved cherished worshipped limb, the ice blade of her toe on the ice-blade of the water, and Adonis Mamoru True Man races past her on a jet ski on the water, too, but with the water, and the procession explodes the womb in at her bellybutton into tentacles blood pink like a flytrap and terrible in her her mother sun’s sick male female girlhood soft loving gorgeous sad DEAD DEAD DEAD fury. A harvester, a tomb, a channel, a crownless queen, the sun her king heavy-head-hung, brokenhearted, both of them barren, buried, carrying their ancestors. Her face ugly, her face fat, her body an empty suit, her body a loosed tomb, plundered, given to emperors. Adonis is smiling. Minako’s eyes are turned toward the god in the hell her children bear through her, and her stomach is a nothing. A light dazzles a nimbus at the tip of her penis, an electric shock, presidential, motherhood, mothering, queenless, Hillary-haired, a new god born, Shingo’s eye in a mask, Shingo’s profile, a smile on Minako’s face, one tear, anime tear, streaking down the whole of her face from a smash-breaked beaten battered wincing swollen right eye. Rei’s face: “Gouge,” she says. “I am Eurydice.”

Minako loves horses. Loves them and needs them to rescue her. Loves Elios, wild unthrowable Pegasus, wile and unbred thing consuming champions at her heel and from her incisor springing a heavily-headed steam treat trained from go to forever entangle. The horse the shrine, the wicked thing. Horses can be evil. This pond is evil. This pond an evil horse does away with me, never moves. I love a good horse, a beautiful horse named Sally. I miss my home in Connecticut, before the war, before the names, before Daddy became Mommy and Daddy became Sir Ansel. I miss Sir Ansel. I miss the horses. Look up there, a woman, a child, a little horse, and my husband Mars all the while playing in his purple iris the strychnine of an evil xylophone. Mars is jealous of Mars.

Hotaru in the tomb of the cold hard sun. Hotaru’s purple eye. Rei’s child. Rei’s knife. Rei the hunting predator, Minako the hobbled foot-corded wounded limping terrified unhorned dappled soft supple deer, and her father the sun trapped behind his eye with his arms splayed over his visage, presaging magic, unbirth, unwomb, presaging terror, the children of Nagasaki, the women of Taiwan, the carved out penises of Iranian sex-traitors, the sun in terror, Mamoru prince jet ski smiling, grinning, smiling, unblanked, a gun, his jet ski hot pink, Barbie’s whip, Minako’s forfeit womb, and then a rapper beside him black, beautiful, wearing pink and blue tiny board shorts. Mamoru prince Adonis looks at him, his grin the dazzling sunlight off a knife, and checks him out. Hotaru’s womb the tentacled beast extends from the cold blazing sun and threatens Venus’s glass womb upon the water, and Steve Adonis Mamoru Prince turns tears to smiles, and becomes one with the ravenous wolf emperor in his breast. His empty hollow canyon a brass belt like the god he covets and makes covenant, that god Hotaru’s shadow glides upon the water motionless, a kanji, a hidden dagger, child, be armed, child, put down thy weapon, and Mina’s tear freezes on her face, and she gives her womb to the black boy passing, and his stomach grows full, and his breasts heave with muscle, and he too is lifted, and then drowned, and the water thrashes, and Hotaru’s monster tentacles move clasping the water and lifting it like children unworshipped at the sandbox. Mina’s eye opens, her left eye, her right eye still bearing young, and her left eye has become a blank yellow blue iris howling into an abyss, and Galaxia weeps above her with a sword at her breast, gorgeous Roman woman becoming hero, becoming man, and Venus moves slowly through the earth like the void upon the shadow and the water upon the void, the stolen egg, and her fathers’ hands clasp for the egg, trembling, fumbling, strong rippling arms, muscled, unbeautiful, hard palms, and Lil Wayne sings ‘Go DJ,’ and a black kid in a white body spins in a flat-brimmed baseball cap over a tennis ball which inflates into the tail of Pallas’s hair. He and Pallas swallow each other, and a Venus in the boy’s eye assumes her fuku and her heavy sword and chain and pivots toward her father the sun.

“DAUGHTER!!” cries the sun, and Hotaru stumbles on her heel and plummets in the air, her snapped shoe crying out beneath her little Cynthia Candy heel, and the sun blinks rapidly, the sun becomes a shutterstock, a shuttering light at a nightclub light’s up bar close 3AM impotent, and the black boy stops dancing, and Venus’s sword grows Japanese, and the sword and the water kiss lovelessly, and no children are born, and Rei’s eyes grow wide, and Venus points her sword toward the sun, body arcing, and Hotaru stands above her an eclipse without retrograde in the air over Venus’s head, her arms out like a proud Japanese Jesus, and Venus’s chain shoots from the hoop beneath her sword like loose bowel movement, and Venus’s father reaches his hand from the water and holds her heel, and her ankle swells, bone trembling, and tears drowning undrowning fill her eyes, born star from her father’s scraped womb, and Hotaru reaches down with an evil cold tentacle and they caress hands, and then Venus in retrograde supraintraposed vomits a ribbon from the corner of her eye on her father’s head, into his closed open mouth, and with his teeth he’s bitten it off umbilical, Neanderthal woman, and from his ass bubbles break the water, beautiful as Michiru’s ocean kiss, and say ‘Neptune’ and ‘Poseidon’ and ‘Whisper’ and ‘Future’ and all kanji which means faggot, boiling, and the water beneath her naked father form is boiling, and Vulcan in her gorgeous torpedo-titted lithe form hammers her shackles at the depths of the pond, and Sailorironmouse smiles to the camera, peace sign, so pretty, and Venus’s face is tense in intrapose, and in interpose, in one movement, unknowing, certain, certain of her womb, certain of Rei’s potency, knowing gods, and she twirls slowly like the rotation of gorgeous family romance nighttime twilight kisses to Christmas carols, and a single snowflake dawns from around her body like the most mathematically complex fractral given to God the monkey typewriter megasystem computer to produce, and at the edges where it grows dumb and ugly for lack of honesty lack of effort it becomes Hotaru’s black squid ink metal tentacles. Hotaru’s eyes shoot open. Her breasts take form, bouncing into fruition, nippled, large and small, real flesh, plastic, and from the stolen womb between her legs a metal god Arachne Sailorarachne pretty privileged princess descends on a curling wire, and appears to Venus as a transvestitic dancer.

“You are not my father!!” yells Venus to the dancer, and in her head a splitting womb gives birth to a god stolen by evil sickly pale woman Mamoru, and in woman Mamoru’s emperor’s eye he sees Venus entangled by his throne.

“SAILORNEWMOON TWINKLE!!” says the dancer, becoming a Hathor-crowned black crescented gorgeous little princess Usagi, and Venus’s wrist limps clutching a ladder, the Batladder, descending from a helicopter, and the black boy now bespectacled is flying it, and Venus’s lip does nothing in anger and pain, and she falls limp, and the helicopter whips her against a building, and it shatters into asteroids, and the newborn false senshi dance with white light hearts, and the sun Elios reaches for them from space, and they fall from his fingers like saddening sand, and Venus sheathes her wink chain sword between his fleshy pixeled pornographic male asscheeks, Hanyu Yuzuru, and Mamoru feels Hotaru’s shock at the prostrate anus, and the anus lives, and the anus is unprostrate, and Mamoru and Helios dance inside the air once romantic, hands losing one another, tectonic shifts, loosed on opposite sides of their two married pages, Mamoru poised, posed, meaning to, Helios grasping impotently, not barrenly, manned and masked and then bound too by the ropes of the helicopter. And the gladius pierces Galaxia’s oblique, and the blood blossoms under her opaque gold bodysuit, and Lady Gaga somewhere dies alone, and a man’s eye rescues her from his sofa, and it’s all in Galaxia’s crying eye, her lying smile, the blade sickens, the blade is a female appendage turned inward, the blade has tentacles, Hotaru’s mouth bends downward, her soul so far within her inside barriers grows fearful of the howling god, the stupid emperor, Mamoru’s forgotten past, his blank, and Mamoru sheathes his blade and bends toward the prone dead corpse of coldfish Usagi, so beautiful in her untouchable glass skin, and Helios looks on with an empty woman’s smile, and Galaxia’s blade pierces the page.

An empty left page. Venus to its right, dressed as Minako in a spring day in Philadelphia, red checkered shirt tied like Dorothy Britney, warm little smile for the child behind the camera, peace sign: “JUST KIDDING. HEHE! XOXO SLOW DOWN, BABE. GO TOUCH GRASS. ALL THE GODS LOVE YOU ESPECIALLY, AND THAT'S BECAUSE YOU’RE SPECIAL. HUG YOUR SISTER. HUG YOUR BROTHER. FOR GOD'S SAKE, LOVE YOUR LOVER. LOVE LASTS ETERNAL. VENUS… MAKE UP!!”

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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usagisbanexd · 1 year

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #01 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.001

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Fic. A conversation between earth and sun. she/her,mpreg!Helios. trans!Michiru.

1.0.001 EARH ie // THE SUN aCtUaLlY WEEPS, CURSED, BEATEN! BUT WHO STOPS THE THUNDER?

Clan. Satoshi's nipple. Ash's eye. Kasumi's tears river-bred, the Goldene her niece estranged leaping sentient to her nubile little missile breasts. Her sister's liquid eye watches her from the edge of the pool. Mamoru is borne in the arm of the seven daughters. Olympus carves her rain on the milkpink of his skin. Mamoru's eyes lull. The goddess gives her young another womb, her beautiful rolling hip the nippled kiss of an infinity in warrior-servitude.

The Laprys abides. “I AM GOD,” she says to Misty Kasumi Watereye. Misty’s little body trembles.

“Mama,” Mamoru says, his mouth lacquered in shitblack earth.

“I am the seventh senshi,” says the skirt, and Haruka’s sword like a spine encases his lost rib.

“Mom,” he says, and in the backs of his eyelids a wind shifts a pinpricked curtain showing deeper velvet to the children in the breast of his tuxedo.

“I wish I could be, sweet child,” says Haruka, and his/her tender heart upon the apple of Earth’s hand washes the beauty of a river through the empty crevices of the pegasus in the crowned soles of his heels.

“Are you my mother?” says the boy, and to Michiru he directs a flaccid plastic finger seeking God, the tentacle of an alien baby brought there to the foot of the bejeweled starry heathery throne. Michiru’s sweat, her arm, Haruka’s perfume, each offering comes before the black empty door of his serpent’s nostrils knocking without a sating air. Does he breathe?

“From stars we bore you,” say his mothers the daughters. The goddess. Haruka. Michiru. Michiru. Haruka. In his arms an empty kingdom lifts itself from sand, and to a grovelling pix he is trembling making a carpet. He longs for walking; he longs one limb to climb the air and plant itself before its mirror yeshua.

“Here is my womb, Mothers,” says the boy, and he holds the apple to her open palm, a womb given by time to the wombless apple. Knowing he has no guilt, no lovers, no ambulance: “Love for my ancestors makes no war on this planet.”

“You love a phantom barely blessed,” says Michiru, and in her hair a star shines like silverene caught by barbs of a deoxygenated net drug razor-bred through her bosom into volatile blue fruition out of her skull. Women have skulls, and bigger hands than the sun.

“I am my mothers’ son forever cursed,” weeps the emperor, and from the earth he draws four daggers in the bloodshit beneath the bladed beds of his fingernails.

“Why do you not want my body?” says the sun through the mirror in his eye, and the men and women dance, and the men and women die, and Mamoru lies waking with his head in his heart, sorely given. Give it back.

“I am.”

“Haru-chan.”

“Fags die of AIDS,” whispers Haruka, and her costume epaulets unwhisper in jangling. She jangles not, but sways, and in her shaking arm the king’s head loses with the earth he bears which bares him, and into earth he becomes something like a traveling glaive moving southward through a divine cavity and out of a tuba’s throat. She feeds him a metapod.

“I cannot see you, my love,” says the uncrying sun, for mercury’s mist does turn her the sun to a strangled vapor which eats her rays and icens the earth, unbeautiful quicksilver, huge-dicked, unshafted, unloved, unkind, nearly unwomaned like Beryl Medea before her, seen through glass eyes the visor bleeps and tells the Medea ‘Quiet, quiet,’ and the love between earth and Mercury pales, and the love between the sun and the mercury persists in tango, the mercury as yet unencumbered, and Ami the girl a slave to her wrinkles waiting like tumors under stretched skin, the sun a cold cuckold. The sinner learneth quickly at the foot of warmed over sunlight, mercury embezzles, Hermes the thief, and then the god Mercury and his bare egg the empty bombed out planet cooking in its atmosphere are stolen and brought before the emperor. The emperor waits, writing in his eyelids to Mercury the mother of his monstrous bastards.

Galaxia smirks, her fingers tapering together at their lacquered points.

“We lied,” says the sun.

“I love you,” says the king, but in his tongue a stagnant ghost his mother’s husking womb lies bled in iron chains, and the sun sings with a dancing tongue from her heart’s enslaved wrist: “Read not with your mother.” She dances, and her infinite penis like a flower blooms outward down the rain and lands upon his face a sperm to die at his lip and become the heart of ancient tecton.

“I long for you to kiss and hold me tight,” says Mamoru.

“I am the sun’s second daughter. Why do you lie when from the mirror of my heart I see all things blessed by the light stolen from my temple’s heart my temple’s moon my holy temple’s silver womb I am dying to think I am the sun I bleed through waves like liquid smoke I speak.”

“Slow,” says God.

“You are no god,” says the sun.

“Last night you did desire it,” says the emperor. He takes his eye from the sun’s bright blade and gives to an eternity hoping for a world without women.

“I should like to see your nakedness engorged.”

“Through fabric.”

“Here is my bourne to be beloved.”

The sun:

“Why do you lie?

What happens when the sun grows sick and dies?”

“My mother calls.”

Haruka speaks Michiru’s cunt like a clipper from a grave’s stolen handedness.

“I have lied,” says Elios. “I have wished to see your nakedness.”

“I am naked in my tux.”

“You love a child. I am your brother.”

“I love the sun,” says Mamoru to cleavage in his mother’s shirt, and in Haruka’s eye a green branch grows like the fingers of a snake.

“What child am I?” says Elios.

“You love my daughter,” says the man and moon. “You aren’t my child. I have a wife. You are an interloper.”

“I have chosen you before the moon, my dayborn babe.”

“You have chosen the moon and wept the light from the sun’s entangling iris.”

“I have chosen my sister my children to raise. I have longed for her to come into my house, the house of our children, and she has strayed to take my young in the weapons of a bird’s hands and bear him to the silver throne of our mother’s cold and bountiful palace.”

“I die,” says the moon. “And

“Let her speak,” says the sun and moon, Usagi to the emperor.

“I have never stopped speaking.”

“Nor then do I,” say sun and earth.

“I love you. I have no wife.”

“Who is that woman you died for?”

“A cruel falsehood, my king the sun.”

“Thou hollows my womb with the dry venom of your uncircumcision,” says the sun, and the moon with her clumsy bladed tongue does stumble after in mercury.

“My Lord, who has circumcised the sun?”

“Men who dare not love my form, who shed their manhood for the darkness inside of a woman’s weakness.”

“I am man. We are men.”

“You have a thousand breasted slaves who turn from the love of one another to be your protectors. None are worthy of the womb I have given you, and yet you seek to make another with my beauty hidden between her legs. I am not an ornament. Speak English.

“You are a falsemade fool,” says the sun. “Scheherazade sleeps by day. I long to come into your bed, fair king. I long to steal from you the secret of a night. I sleep and then I wake. You battle bravely from inside the coxcomb. You have hidden riddles in my womb. Why have I longed for destitution?”

“You are my slave,” says Mamoru the sun, and through his eye a bleeding start takes the ocean from the galloping insecure and seasons it with Chinese wisdom like a curse which takes from him his being and gives to him another mask, like the masks he so prefers over the eye of the sun.

“I mask myself in daylight,” say Mamoru, and in his reason the seven sisters bear him toward his tomb.

“Your arms cannot reach me. I am the sun, empress over all.”

“I am a slave.”

“You are a nihilist. What would happen should I extinguish myself?”

“You should not die. You should become a dwarf and live nine lives.”

“All of eternity loves you,” says Elios, and from the sun a ladder forms like a slide in golden and eraser. A little girl climbs an ascent that marvels the earth, the pink of her waxen hair a crown given her by mothers who hate the sun and bury in themselves her beauty with talismans that claim for each a greater love than the unmanly sun who loves with the face unseen for its beauty, the boys who bathe at the mouth of the wood.

“He still lies prostrate,” says the seventh senshi, and in her arms her infinite children are born in beautiful garments sewn by Taiwanese slaves. All the world falls prostrate at her tomb. She is Galactica, mother and sister more golden than a sun which never shows her face.

“All is matter,” says the emperor, whose crown falls from his head and crowns the earth her daughter mother. He wonders.

“I should like to feel within myself the thing within you, the children possessed by your ransom,” says the sun. “I am but a servant of the men and women toiling as beautiful as ants beside the pointed ghostly tendril of my invisible foot. I long to be my brother Apollo, but I am only one sun, and this little girl will climb my hair and conquer me with a castle built by your love.”

“You sing me sick,” says the earth. “I am her soldier.”

“I have no mother,” says the sun.

“You are born from a cauldron of mothers,” says the crownless empty world.

“You are married to the woman who crawls upon your back.”

“I am but one man, baby,” says the earth. “I long to be the sun.”

“I have found my empire. Once you hid me in a temple in your breast and I prayed alone to my mirror to love the people.

“I should like no secrets,” says the sun again. “I should like to be your Elios, and you to be my Mamoru.”

“I am Mamoru to another girl.”

“I have made you sick and wounded.”

“You have acted unfairly.”

“I hear only the echo of your throat’s potent womb. They should bear you to your tomb and you should go with sick with a female’s potent love.”

“I should go out in the wilderness.”

“You are borne sick upon a canopy of Womyn.”

“I must.” Empire. Drowning. Sun’s never drowned child rides down the slide into the arms of her father, or perhaps back to the moon.

“That is my daughter,” says earth and sun, and in Moon's arm she shows her ransomed daggers like the philosopher’s wife, his destroyer. Should he love the sun, a woman baptized like her mother Elios in the eye of a Trojan candle? Should he love the girl who loves summers and her mother’s secret womb?

“I have much to think about. In space,” says the king.

“Close your eyes and dream of Shingo,” says the sun, and she puts down her spears and gives to her rays the children in her roiling crust. “I am a dreamer like your mother. Is your sleep empty since the accident when true mothers abandoned the fair babe inside you? Close your eyes and dream of Shingo.”

“You are too old for emperors.”

“Is my kiss not gentle light upon the manly hilltop vantage of your cheek? I have wanted always from within the prayer in my holies to make it so, but many years have separated me from the kisses of my own mouth.”

“Go to a mirror,” says the king.

But what do his mothers say?

“Go away,” says Haruka, and her skirt the torned crown heaves like inward canopies from the gilt chalk marbular chute of her thigh. She trembles with ancient thunder, her forgotten father roiling inside his mother’s stomach in the anger of a waking babe presaging regurgitation.

“And” And “what of Michiru?” says the sun, whose kiss is a ghost upon his master’s cheek. She wishes him to walk unaccompanied through the wood like the babe she remembers on the morning of his parents’ death, to see him from beneath the canopy of leaves like a gem hidden upon the cushion of the earth. Earth’s emperor. Earth’s crowning glory. She weeps ghost gold in her brain, the furnacemind behind her glaring visage, she weeps for him and her and them and her daughters and their palemade moondust limbs, their lotions with a thousand eyes like raiment torn from her rays with the wicked whipped nailheads of a stepsister’s ravaging prevengeance. “Ransom my love. Ransom and extinguish. ‘Eros, I shall plunge.’”

“Call upon your Eros,” says the king through the erotic throat of his mother the second-headed Haruka.

“He/she lies in my womb,” says Helios, man-made titan exposed like clockwires from flesh peeled through a surgery of yesterdays’ tomorrows’ wasted lights. Do they follow?

“Why is she afraid to leave her womb?” Elios again.

“I have not afeared you. I am afraid of your children.”

“You think I am no sun.”

“Once you were the moon.”

“You should walk with me in moonlight and watch me pour her flesh upon my head. I say again, take up thy mantle and walk with me while I am sun. At the moon’s rest I shall bare my legs for you and become the princess you have loved. I am mirror yeshua.”

“I long for princesses by day.”

“You are weary. Walk.”

“My mother binds my legs.”

“You are limpid in her arms, erectile.”

“You have mistaken your favor for curse.”

“Thou hast stolen thy mother’s tongue and consumed her. I am not in love with such a woman.”

“Thou art both man and woman.”

“I travel from the star. Ganymede, resting on Jupiter’s bosom, longs to behold the only man. Empire. Stars fall. Shall I among Solomon’s daughters not behold the face of the holy emperor who has sworn his love to me?”

“I am no emperor. I am Mamoru.” He leaps, and tearlessly he dreams of weeping the sad sorrows he has hardened as ice from Neptune’s creeping berth inside the wicked empty barrel of his double-breasted chest. “I long for women’s arms.”

“I have women’s arms,” says the sun. “Why dost thou not believe?”

“They have conquered me,” he says, “and denied me women’s arms.”

“I can see your chains,” says Elios the sun. “I am no king, gods, see this womb I cup within my hands, see the birds which spring from it everlasting. See this womb is empty and this hollowing heart is full of love for kings without countries and men who leave their families for new flocks.”

“I have left my family,” thinks Endymion with liar’s whispering tendrils in his mind. “I am unfit to lead.”

“Thou hast let thy kingdom fall, and the wide arch knows now where it belongs.”

“You have led me astray,” says the king, taking up his crown and stumbling back into the arms of his mother fathers fathers mothers mother. Haruka holds the chain, Michiru the needle, together the thread he thinks is everlasting.

“Curse not your progeny, I will still shine. I seek to”

“TAKEUCHI,” says Haruka slavemistress of foolwomyn and knaves, and from the entrails of her axesaw a womb splits like the puking monstrous thing of beauty he/she so covets and ejaculates its reaching skullbones into the wasteland of her pie-juice crusted thigh.

“Baby,” says the sun, Helios, Elios, Sailorsol bereft of seed, and in her ungloved glistenin’ white hand she rushes light to the wound at Haruka’s thigh. And in her eye she plants a flower. “I have birthed a thousand women. My womb shall birth a thousand more. I love the earth. I know not my sister moon. She hides from me in castles like brittle teeth arranged against the meat the king has proffered her. You, bastard Mother, know not your children. Why have you arranged a weapon to strike a son whose crown is daughters, wishing then and now to dance in the eyes of the emperor wide-ranged? Ranging men travel through thy breasts in search of my eye. The sky itself is my face, I am queening preening, I am liquid beauty built atop their arms that one king wandering might see for the trees himself he knows to hold me.”

Beryl draws from the shit beneath her nail a wicked kanji to enslave the sun, and she the sun carves out her tongue abortion starts again. “Leave, monster, or I shall send my phantom future husband against you as a boreal wind that answers to none but me. Boreas, arise,” says the sun.

“Mirror,” says Mamoru, and in his bloodblue eye an earth attaches to a sea and pulls itself from the mirror’s surface into a kiss. He kisses his reflection, lips parched. Michiru holds him to her bosom. Does he yet say nothing?

‘I,’ says Mamoru to the sun. The sun is his dungeon master. Mamoru is her DJ. Far off in the future, once they lose the war, Jimin sings Angel on a Spotify playlist. The next song is the best song, says Mamo to the sun. She says she loves him. She is tired, tired of playlists. Her eternal spinning fire plays on. She has a penis. A thousand penises, insemina every tongue.

Beryl speaks a liquid lullaby: “ICE CRYSTAL FORTRESS!!” she cries. Nothing happens. The shit caked beneath her nails breaks off and falls to earth in a ribbon like some faggot designed her a wedding dress, and in its cyclone’s spinning cloaked monkey virus catastrophizzy she crumples into dissolution. No fag designs her dresses, she is robed in ugliness. She is robed in the purple of a storebought queen with baskets on her hip. She is robed in middle class. The sun the muse sings on.

“Stop,” says Elios, a light from inside the sun.

“I have stored you underground,” says sunrays, and children know it’s Sunrays even when it’s sunrays. And ancient Ami knows it too, distant as she is, a queen of Quasimodo’s coronet, beautiful only in the bureau of Limpdicky, her bishop-prick, the sacred home of her esquire the crooked knight hurtled out heaven. That is not Venus. All rush to the side of the emperor, and the sun shines on through branches crowding out the birdways on the boulevard, kissing his skin pagewhite, kissing him through bone, kissing him as they kiss him with the kisses belonging to the earth, all its pox & pocks, each of her swells, each of his eyes, kisses which put water to his lips.

“Beryl!” says Ami. “MERCURY FORTRESS MOON,” says Ami, forgetting the loss of her divinity. “BECOMING EARTH THROUGH SOME SORT OF SUBTERFUGE!!”

The sun aborts her child upon the seam of the emperor’s navel, a slimy earththing earthling Ami bore for want of being empress of their seminal. In her starlight crux above the earth, Galaxia smirks.

“Murder, Ami, murder,” says Galaxia, and in her fist a silver starseed flutters like a bird trapped beneath the greater wing.

The earth does little. A fluttering breeze, some eunuch woman in far-off Japan playing him songs with trembling fingertips, all her whispers blaring. Emperors listen. Emperors sleep. DJs decide. The sun sings on with a voiceless reed, a throatless voice, deep from the golden hollow of her guts, the slave’s first and latest dirge, and on her back the cosmos swim rapunzel, white colors of a million one stars a swollen hard stone’s sack of baggage. Ami draws it on, the tumurous vagina apen red with anger at the emperor and his lover.

Mamoru dies.

The Laprys from her festering salton slosh surfaces, Satoshi clinging bone-dry to her neck. In her black eightball's eye the sun stands reflected, empty like a bag of rice, black like burnt porridge, emitting nothing but a saturate glaze. Mamoru clings to Satoshi's waist, his long arm wrapped secure as a seatbelt, his titan skeleton's huge hand unearthed like a fossil, preserved in the gold wax ivory seal which mummifies all emperor's tombs, each finger a marble pillar swayed by Qur'anic winds. "Eugheugh," says Satoshi, her burdened eyes diving inward to the nub of her nose, and Mamoru heaves hot air on the back of her neck. To be continued. . . .

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