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usagisbanexd · 2 years ago

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #08 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.008

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Fanfic. LGBT+. Mature.

1.0.008 SAILORGANYMEDE RESCUES MAKO~CHAN FROM HELLFIRE INFERNO // GANY IN THE DESERT BORN FROM HIS MOTHER MAKOTO

“I love your tongue,” says Ganymede, watching Mako from her ill-gotten vantage, watching as she picks a flower for springtime, watching her green felt velvet couture space dress skirt flap like a flag longing against her leg. Mako the god. Mako the justice warrior. Mako with the smile.

All the little wives of Jupiter dance through her fingers in waves of blossoming straw. ‘We love you, goddess!’ says the Daisy, thinking in her own green mind to hide her roots from prying claws. No love of Jupiter’s alone should make it out alive. Her tenderness does strangle us at root.

Ganymede longs for love, the crown Furuhata-san wears the milkman’s cap, neighborhood cuck, neighborhood madman, neighborhood hero, arboreal wheat, weatherbeaten, his hands sweaty on the knife, planting flowers of his own, seeing clearly through time it is her voice which calls him, her voice through fair Ganymede. Come to Jupiter, she says, winnowy, arboreal, helium-high, hysterical aerial Erica.

“I’m the flower in the pot on the kitchen sill! Teehee!” says Ganymede to Motoki’s brain, and inside Jupiter’s own mind Minerva’s born splitting from the tissues like the bloom of a gun from a metal spout, the bloom of bullets grandly arrayed like a symphony in soaked and slobbering flesh tone. Motoki masturbates. Jupiter calls.

“Hello,” says Motoki.

“Moto-chan!” says Haruka, diving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. The world is ending and Makoto needs to make a phone call, needs to knit a another bootie for a friend’s cousin’s baby, needs to rearrange the flower pots on her sill, ninety five little senshi all in a row, little cartoon-faced flowers cooing always to their mistress ‘Stay! It’s a fright to go outside!’ Makoto feels it in her gut. Motoki stays.

“Hi,” he says, his voice estranged, her weirdness palatable in the gloom. Why ninety-five monsters? Why not ninety-five birds?

They like weeds ensnare me to this earth, thinks Makoto, her eye upon Ganymede, her youngest and most gorgeous rose, vestigial blood vestigial perfume on the color of his outermost petal, a song against his cheek, so delicate, so beaut, so unresponsive to the touch of men. So monks do climb their towers in prayer. So boxing gloves. So charm bracelets. So Makoto’s bane, playing a timpany. Ami knits her guts together like a glass Circe from a metal enclosure, presaging famine. Does Galaxia sleep? Usagi is gone. Does she forgive? We are all dead. Such beautiful flowers. This is how we live. The waters of the twin rivers, such beautiful senshi, beckon us onward. Elysia’s hair is everywhere, and we the fair Elysians surfeit on small things that dine on birds of paradise, dine forever on warriors’ gloom, live entombed, liberate that which hearts consume.

She clears her throat.

“Hi,” he says again.

“Hi,” it’s more than high it’s sigh. Relief. Love. Hearts in eyes. Stars on shoulders, a capelet ascending, beautiful dresses handmade in European workshops, couturiers bustling downstairs, pearls like nipples on the breasts of satin jackets. She feels so lush her stomach muscles weaken. She could crumple. She could fold. Motoki and his adorable eyes take all.

“Call me,” says Moto.

“You did. I mean, I did,” says Mako, and Ganymede topples from his sill and shatters his pot, red baked plaster cracked in four gorgeous pieces on the floor. “Oh!” says Mako, and Gany’s broken body like a hyacinth unfolds death on the floor around her, and jungle music plays.

“I can help,” says Motoki. “Let me come over.”

“No,” says Mako, nervous, heart brimming, butterfly winged heart trilling, ascending, lifting her off the ground, and Gany the ancient rose with two foot roots curls around her ankle a beautiful sandal and tugs her back down to earth. ‘Go heavily,’ he says, ‘with guilt.’

Mako holds the phone between the divet in her shoulderblade and the twinkle of her jawbone, bent neck straining, and says in a lowered voice: “I think I’m going insane.”

“You are,” says Moto. “But I can help. I’ve been through it. I’m a senshi.”

‘Oh,’ she mouths, her lips wobbling, the phlegm in her throat catching the gold come up from her gut, all her children swallowed. Should she eat the rose? No, but he still loves her dear, a song recorded in her ear. We all drown. We’re all okay. Peacetime, even into death, even through death. We’re sailor senshi! We live again.

“I love you,” says Moto. “Seriously.”

“I don’t know where I’ve been,” she says.

“You do,” says Moto. “To hell.”

“I’ve spent all day watering this flower. This single flower. The other ones tell me he’s the most important, and I know from the blood in his eye he doesn’t know what to do. He calls me Father, then Son, then he thinks I’m a messenger from beyond the cosmos. Is Usagi. . . dead?”

“Yeah,” says Moto. “I told you I’m a sensh.”

Her carpet pales. The rose unblooms, winding up to her skirt and blossoming between her legs, Marilyn-powered, must and perfume, the rapture of a little witch’s innocent afternoon at tea, no one there to judge, no one to lay hands on, no raised voice. She’s never fought a boy nor girl in her life.

“I know,” says Moto. “I read your mind.”

“He is the rose,” says Gany from her womb, and she shoves a hand between her legs to snatch him from where he does not belong.

“You don’t know anything about me,” says Mako.

“Yeah, I do,” says Moto. “I’m Gany.”

She wretches petals from her skirt, the flower bleeding each bright bleeding page through fabric into fabric, an ascended being mounting a staircase of time. She feels her womb underpowered, bleeding, a throb, an ancient ensign, and thinks of the moss of Ami’s hair, her little bare chest at the swimming pool, that dirge that plays for water spilled, her mother smelling sweetly buying roses from nearby the check-out counter. Motoki is the check-out boy, robed in a green apron, robed in a smile, and Gany dances a little sunshine melody, the dandelion, the far-off exotica, the flower without heart, the wicked weed, the pink leafed blooming rose. She calls to Io, to Calliope, to Annie Oakley, come presageth me. I am your king. Jupiter fighting moon! Jupiter light! Jupiter rolling thunder! She feels the power in the ring at her fist, feels the electric mandorla a swirling perfect symmetrical egg around her being. Why is she wearing her fuku? Why are there flowers in her hair? Why is she marrying Motoki? Why does she miss her mother, long to be at her breast, and also in her father’s arm, a little babe suckling at the altar of Apollyon, god after time? Does she think of children? Does she think of future? Is her moon in Leo? Does she, God forbid, need a Tarot reading? Hoary winds, hoary frost, protect the floors, deaden every leaf. There are ninety four. Ninety four beautiful flowers. Which one should Motoki take from her?

“I’m not here to take anything,” he says, and picks up the basket.

“You’re here for my womb,” she says, stuttering, clamped, iridescent. In Mommy’s skirts she’d be okay, and she and Mommy both would blow away with the wind. Does she love me? I long for her. I am become Sappho, writing at the seashore. Can he hear me?

“Yeah,” says Moto, and in his voice her father plays guitar.

“I love you!” she says, and in the wist of his gravity she moves an orbit plunging into asymmetry, a perfect picture taken would reveal that all is stillness, all are God, the Buddha holds the answer. Light a candle. Is it Christmas? I love love and her soft hours. Where is Venus, my Mina, my idol? She sings me songs in the shower, sits on the toilet cutting her leg with cheap razors while I dance in bubbles with my arms outstretched to same God laughing. Were only Motoki in that shower, then Mina’s smile itself would be complete. And I ache now, halfling, Galadriel, gone west. Am I a wind? What was his name? Was he an element? I remember another life.

“Oh,” she says, remembering. No suspense, but hammers in her guts, all her children rebelling, and Gany on the floor throbbing, his petals bent, each of them a little mystery, a little fortune cookie. Where is Moto? Perfect man.

“I’m here,” he says. “She’s dying.”

“No,” she says. “He’s all right.”

“I know what he’s doing,” says Moto. “I’m coming over.”

She rubs him softly and specializes in arboretums. They dream of planting him there some day, when he has outsized his little pot. But secretly she knows she’ll never give him away, not while Calliope whispers.

“Phobos! Deimos! Ascend!” says Rei from the master’s terrace, and Makoto feels her shoulders straighten, braced in metal, iron tombs, each assisted thing come together to form a mighty statue of Jupiter Capitolinus ruling all. Sagittarian arrow loosed from its shaft, Sagittarian arrow streaking, weeping, flown from shaft to bend the air and pry the wound in Ami’s leg, the wound from which she sprouts asymmetra, ugly thing, friendless, unmoving. Mako knows loneliness.

“Moto-chan,” says Mako, spinning. Each flower a winking paradise, each little cartoon head swaying to the soft static from the radio, alternative, American, distant music. And somewhere someone Mina drops the bomb on Japan, American girl, blond-haired blue-eyed, uptown girl, seventh sister, presaging doom. Mako watches it descend, eyes wide, and all goes white, and Gany vomits a petal, and she kneels down and considers his blood.

“I’m here,” says Moto. “But I don’t love you. Nor him.”

“Evil,” says Mako, her palm tightening under her fingers, and the rose inside, and the rose’s limp head a dead emperor, a little liar, a Gany, strung up from inside, knowing no song will save her, him or her or them or it. Never a rose but color. And ninety four brothers with vaginas to take his place. All lovers of Jupiter, all the fairest. Pick another flower.

“No,” says Mako, and in her palm she shocks his spine to straightness. “Hold on, Gany-chan!”

“Imaginary friends,” says far-tongued Beryl, penis-headed, a torpedo sailing from Korea across the sea, Korean-born, a witch in new clothing, thinking all there is to think about life and death and togetherness.

“Slow down,” says Elios to Shingo, Elios to Mamoru, Shingo to the basketball bouncing away from his little hand. He used to be good at HORSE, better than his brother, his lover, his red-haired famine-brained stepchild ingrained in the neighborhood ways. Shingo dies, too. Gany dies. Mako arrives at the edge of a precipice and throws him off. He falls, but through her frown, still in the kitchen, nothing happens. Moto, come.

“Do you love me, goddess queen?” says Shingo to the ape, and Mako rests assured unsure, the balance of a half-man, centaurifugal, half-thing, double-breasted, barrel-chested, man. Her shoulders stricken to the board of a crucifix. Man. Unwoman thing. Tall. Limber. Do you play basketball? Hee. He, not hee, girl things, a ladder ascending, and her beautiful flower who speaks in weepy music to the stillness of the future blown inside her iris dying on the floor in nothing but a rag, the water she had planned to feed his gullet, and together two princesses through the world plunging separate from one another and lose their fingers in the vortex. Alice in the rabbit hole. Goddess-born. She feels nothing. Her tears like ice, like symbol, like Japanese forgetfulness. She drank from that river. She forgot Nipon. The bomb dropped. Didn’t it?

“I’m coming,” says Moto from the receiver, but it’s on the floor, and he the man, the young man silver-headed, is flying down the highway in Danburite clothing, a mask at his head, feeling cool, listening to music, knowing nothing will save her from the divorce impeded by time. Wait. I can do it. I can think. He thinks all things are connected. That gives him a lever. He knows. He pulls it. She doesn’t. She thinks. She thinks everything. And Gany pulls from her her nutrients like a glass thing breaking always into the wind, beautiful monster spinning out of time, all the light collected at his skirt, blossoming kindness, most beautiful satellite, crippled appendage, Mako’s favorite skirt.

What does Gany say?

“Water,” says Gany to Mako. “I weep,” little voice, pathetic voice, a puppy’s voice, weeping over the squeak of a toy, taken unawares. “Call Ami.”

“Shhh,” says Mako, and to her breast she holds the rose. She’ll give it to Ami. Give it to Ami and never look back. Give it to Ami and brave the sole, the mothering sole, the way her mother looks at her, a Japanese manga character come to life, so beautiful in raiment, brown-sleeved raiment, flower petals embroidered on the skirts of her aprons, beautiful music in the foreground like fingers groping blind at all their faces, family game night, a time before childhood, all these things should make her cry. She never cries. Gany cries. Confusion, he says, and she listens. Confusion, she says. He listens. His name is Mako. He punches.

Satoshi on the mantle says confusion. She loves Onyx. She loves to plant a flower on Onyx, in his hair, watch him crack and blossom into Hindu garlands like the thing evolved through space. And Seiya and Yaten and the Goddess and Haruka and Mamoru all dance and play outside her head like hoop skirts thinking about what to do with the future. Does she know she can be anything? Will any man love her? Will she find a future knowing from the past he arcs incredible husking lightning to her door?

And Gany the eternal child sleeps on, twisted root, youngest flower, twisted little slipper, broke-bent little ankle, the slipper’s son, Gany presageth famine, and Galaxia wakes from a terrifying dream, her hair all undone, and Gany comforts her, a little boy on his knees on the cushion, a little princess in his heart, beautiful hair, bows of braids of tendons sinew-streaking down forever from the mountain on which he was wedded to the god. Does she remember? She too drank from the fountain of eternity, she too went to heaven. But his earth is like a cracked and crinkled loam, pock-sparked, little minerals, little Danburites, and she his mother incest-laced the only water offered.

Danburite hates Motoki. He sighs.

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