crew titles

darling, you are the one
born with galaxies and supernovas like fireworks in your eyes.
your fingers hold strength that mine will never know.
your bones carry prophecies that mine does not dare dream of.

i was only born
     with flower petals staining my cheeks pink
     and strange songs murmuring faintly in my heart. 
i was only born 
     with snatches of fool’s good trapped in my hair
     and gossamer tangled somewhere between my lungs and my ribs.

and darling, i do not mind
if your light is brighter
   your voice is louder 
   your steps are stronger

i have always known, after all, 
that your fate soars much higher than mine ever will
and it does not do to envy a demigod
                                               or an angel 
                                               or a hero
                                               or a friend. 

but darling, this i swear:
when they come for you
     (and they will, my darling,
     let’s not lie to ourselves
                          to each other)
i will grind my teeth into bloodlust fangs.
i will file my nails into tigers’ claws.

darling, this i swear:
i will make poisons of the flowers in my cheeks
and spiderwebs of the gossamer torn from my chest.
i will teach my heart to beat to the rhythm of a battle drum.

and this, this i swear:
i will make them all face 
the thin-edged broken glass
     s h a t t e r e d  p i e c e s
          of myself.

—  gods should fear when pretty little things goes to war ( j.p. )
Bad Day (Connor M. x Reader)

Publicities says- can i request a connor imagine where the reader is feeling a bit down that day and connor takes care of them? just lots and lots of fluff?

This became more of a drabble, sorry! I hope you like it <3

Words- 490 (I am so sorry haha)

Warnings- Nothing but fluff

Things have been just peachy.

You didn’t get a ton of sleep last night, and nearly everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. There was a surprise project for your history class, and a test in your math class that you didn’t study for. You also accidentally spilled your lunch all over Evan, and you thought the kid was about to cry.

After that, you decided to just stay in the bathroom all day, which didn’t work since Connor dragged you out. Typically, he would just sit there with you, but he also knows that you will stress over school work.

You continued your day, doodling in your notebook, barely paying attention to your classes. When the final bell rang, you ran to locker. After you put everything in your locker, you felt skinny arms wrap around your waist.

“Connor, can you carry me home?”

“Get on my back.”

Your eyes widened as you turned around. “Dude, really?”

Without saying a word, Connor turned around and crouched down. You smile and carefully climb onto his back. Connor places his hands under your knees and trudges out of the school. This isn’t the first time he let you do this, but it was defiantly not something Connor does often.

Before the two of you made it home, Connor stopped by the local ice cream shop. He made sure that you stayed on his back, paid for everything, and ordered your favorite ice cream. You could tell people were put off by your position, but at this point you couldn’t care less. The fact that Connor was doing this for you made your day worth the pain.

By the time the two of you made it to your house, Connor’s hair had quite a bit of ice cream in it. Luckily, either he didn’t know, or didn’t care. You’ll probably help him clean it out later.

Connor walked into your house and carried you to your bedroom, placing you onto your bed. Before you could say a word, Connor walked out. You waited there, making room for him for when he came back.

When Connor comes back, he is holding different blankets and pillows. He places them on top of you, and crawls into the bed next to you.

You bury your face in Connor’s chest, while he wraps an arm around you.

“Wanna talk or sleep?”

You smile and lift your head slightly. “Can… Can we just sleep?”

Connor smiled softly at you, and gently pulled you closer to him. He sighs and places a small kiss on the top of your forehead.

Your smile widens as you close your eyes and listen to Connor’s heartbeat. It was a comforting feeling, knowing that Connor will be there in the morning, hopefully still sleeping. No matter how horrible your day is going, you’re glad that Connor will stay by your side, taking you out for ice cream, or snuggling with you.

Why is blood red?

There is a scientific answer, but it is a cold one.
Cold like ice. Hard like steel. Unfeeling.
It reflects nothing of the blood itself.

Blood, which is —
Warm, like fire. Fluid, like water.
Red, like anger. Passion. Fury. Love.

Emotion.

Yes, that is why.
It is the emotion of the body,
the language of the soul,
the tears of the flesh, of the heart.
For when you strike it cruelly enough,
it weeps, it cries, it burns.

A burn that screams:
‘YOU ARE ALIVE,’
and demands you stay that way.

—  in us, there is liquid fire | m.a.w
THE GOOD LOVE

They tell me love is beautiful
                            is good
                            is pure
but my love, we
were never beautiful
                   or good
                   or pure

we are just two tired souls
trying to survive
only survive, nothing more
     side by side
     in lockstep

and every time we kiss
     i swallow poison from your lips like the nectar of the gods
and every time we touch
     my skin blossoms blisters under the heat your fingers
and every time we speak
     another star fades away like a candle blown out by our cold breaths

but perhaps
     in the background
     hidden away
     in the darkness
our shadows held hands
like they cradled the entire world in the nest of their joined fingers

and perhaps
     that is beautiful
               and good
               and pure

and perhaps
     that is
          enough

Why do people speak so highly of angels
but despise the devil?
Have they forgotten that, he too,
once dined in the great halls of Heaven?
Have they forgotten he was once amongst them?

(He, who was God’s favorite)

I suppose, 
no matter how much humans worship something
it always loses its appeal
when it falls
—  pride and prejudice and angels | d.s.
that girl isn’t fire, or steel, or ice;
she is the warmth of morning rays,
the softness of freshly-spun silk,
and the slow ebb of gentle rainfall.
her edges aren’t jagged and sharp like yours,
but smooth and rounded; a stone unmarred
by the cruelties of a world that would fashion it
into a weapon, into a monster.
(into you.)

she is no warrior, but something far more rare.
those beautiful eyes have seen the ugliest things
within you, and she has never looked away.
those delicate hands cradled your heart,
never minding the threatening thorns it bore.
she could have crushed it, could have broken it,
could have held it hostage or torn it apart.
instead, she brought it up to her lips and kissed,
smiling with blood running down her chin:

‘if you are made of thorns my dear,
then i will be your flower petals—’
—  and together we shall become a rose | m.a.w

Golden Boy calls them gods, 

 Laughs as ichor escapes 

His veins. The rest will scoff 

But will not disagree. Their 

 City lives in fear of them, 

And really, what is a god 

But someone who holds 

The power of life and 

Death in their hands?


Golden Boy forgets what 

It means to die, gilds his 

Hands in crimson blood and 

Calls himself immortal. He 

Sweeps through the city and 

Nothing can touch him; 

Death is but the last truth 

His silver tongue will twist.


Golden Boy cups the city 

In his palms and wishes 

 He was Midas. He settles 

For the orange-gold of 

Flames. He is not a king 

But something divine, and 

 He laughs as he watches 

His worshippers burn.


He does not mean to be 

Cruel, but he is so full 

 Of holiness, there is no 

 Room left for mercy.

- vengeful gods demand sacrifice, A.B

of pirates and/or princes

I had to do something for CCF, in anticipation of Sunday’s finale. I’m on mobile so no formatting, and I apologize for no cut. But thanks to @shipsxahoy for looking this over!!

———————————

Another night, another tavern. In the days since their unexpected and undesired arrival in the Enchanted Forest, David and Killian had sought out any means to get back home to Storybrooke—and, most importantly, Emma and Henry. It was a position they’d been in all too many times, and Killian especially was near-frantic in his need to get back to his wife.

(Wife. David’s daughter was a wife. His best friend was now a husband. There were times that he had to pinch himself because he was just so damn happy for them—and all the more determined to see them reunited.)

After exhausting the normal routes—fairies, generous witches, Regina’s vault—Hook was quick to suggest that perhaps they turn their attention to the less-than-legal ways of acquiring magical items, with which he was all too familiar. Which was how David found himself accompanying the pirate to all manner of disreputable dive in their quest for something—anything—to let them travel realms. He generally let Killian take the lead, as he was the one who actually had any skill in dealing in this apparently convoluted black market that David didn’t even know existed. But all leads thus far had ended up dead ends.

Tonight, they found themselves near the docks of one of the coastal villages. David was having an odd sense of deja vu that he actually had been to this bar before, but that train of thought was interrupted by Killian’s cursing.

“Bloody hell…he made it back.” He was staring across the pirate-filled tavern at a dark corner, where a rowdy group of men looked to be playing dice.

“Who did?”

“Blackbeard.” The disdain with which Hook uttered the name was only rivaled in level of disgust when he was addressing the Dark One. David’s hand instinctively went to his sword; this man couldn’t be good news. Before he could say anything, though, Killian plowed on. “Come on; let’s talk to him.”

“Are you crazy? You just sounded like you wanted to murder him.”

“Aye, I do. But he has unusually sticky fingers when it comes to magic beans, and the last I saw him, I’d left him in Neverland. He has to have something.”

David let Killian take the lead, following closely behind, as had become their plan of attack. The name Hook still rang fear into the hearts of many of those they encountered, and even if it hadn’t, his profound skills of charm and intimidation did the trick. If anyone noticed that a fearsome pirate captain was now accompanied by a prince, they didn’t dare comment on it.

“Jones, is that you? Manage to fight off the little boys, I take it?”

“At least I fought, instead of running off like a coward. What cockamamie scheme got you out of Neverland?”

“Seems unfair to mock my methods when they work. Especially when something tells me you’re after one again.”

Though David stood behind where Killian had taken a seat, he could see the tense set of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw. And he was really starting to hate this Blackbeard bastard, too. He cautiously stepped closer, not because he didn’t trust Killian to keep his cool, but because he was concerned what the other pirate might do.

“Tell me how you did it,” Killian demanded through gritted teeth.

“Why? So you can get back to that woman again?” David’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword and Killian sat up straighter. “And what do you even have to offer? The ship that you already owe me?”

“I can get it to you now.”

“Save it,” Blackbeard snarled, standing. David came a step closer, but Killian motioned for him to stop. Why wasn’t he standing his ground? “You come in here, acting all high and mighty and expecting me to help you out again. All that got me last time was chased through the woods by some adolescents and forced me to use my last bean to get back.”

Killian’s fist was clenched and David swore he could see the wheels turning in his friend’s head. He was the cleverest man David knew, but Blackbeard was clearly dangerous, so the prince quickly had to form a plan of his own.

“My advice to you, Hook?” Blackbeard sneered. “Get over the girl, and get out of my sight.”

“Or what?” Killian spat back.

“Or I make you,” Blackbeard answered, drawing his sword and leveling it at his foe. “You soft-bellied, heartsick, simpering—”

“HEY!” David finally roared, charging in. “That’s His Royal Highness, Prince Killian of Misthaven to you!”

The pirates—both of them—stared at him, slack-jawed.

“Mate…” Killian started, shocked and soft-spoken, but he was cut off by guffaws from the other man.

“Prince Killian? Ha!” Blackbeard was laughing so hard, he dropped his sword. “A pirate turned a prince! That’s the most ridic—”

His speech was halted by the sudden presence of a blade at his throat—David’s, and he wasn’t letting up.

“I’m guessing you’ve already probably got several strikes against you, being a pirate. I can’t imagine murdering a royal would look good, should you happen to be arrested by the local law enforcement—who I happen to be in charge of.”

Blackbeard gulped.

“So: can you help us or not?”

“N-no, Your Majesty,” the pirate stammered. “Like I said, used my last bean.” David pressed his blade harder; the man was withholding information. “B-but, there’s a beanstalk not far from here. That’s where I get them.”

Without a word, David turned to leave; he heard Killian’s steps fall in behind him a moment later. They had another mission and knew without speaking that they needed to get to it as soon as possible. But that annoying voice just had to shout out one more time.

“Love made you soft, Hook. Don’t think that you’ll ever be welcome ‘round these parts again.”

They stopped in their tracks, and David turned to look at Killian, who was studying the floor in brief thought. He then faced Blackbeard and pointed. “Why would I want to hang around a group of lonely, pathetic men? Don’t let me see your ugly face again or I will unleash the full wrath of the Royal Family upon you.”

Killian turned on his heel and plowed past David out of the tavern. David glared at Blackbeard one last time before following.

Outside, they mounted their horses and headed back to the castle, settling into a comfortable silence as they rode into the night.

Finally, Killian spoke up. “I appreciate your help, mate; Blackbeard is a terrible son of a bitch and brings out the worst in me. I was ready to slay him on the spot.”

“Hey, what are fathers-in-law for?” David replied, shrugging it off.

“I especially appreciate you making up that bit about me being royalty. I’d no clue that bastard feared the crown so.”

David was taken aback—Killian didn’t know? “You think I made that up?”

“Wait—what?” He was clearly surprised.

“I wasn’t lying about that. You’re married to a princess; that’s your title to use. How do you think I got mine?”

Killian was in silent thought for a moment before finally observing, “I always thought Captain would be my only title; my crew the closest thing to a family. I'm…” he trailed off. “I’m happy to see that’s changed.”

David couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, but he could hear a shy smile. He clapped him on the shoulder, commenting, “I’m glad, too.”

“So. Off to a beanstalk?”

“Yup. And remind me to find you a crown from the royal stores before we head home,” he teased.

He expected Killian to jab back, but only thoughtfully added, “Can you grab one for Emma, too?”

“Of course. But first, Your Highness, let’s get that bean.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

——————

Tagging some of the best BROTP'rs out there: @kat2609 @nfbagelperson @thesschesthair @gusenitsaa @lynyrdwrites @mryddinwilt @xpumpkindumplingx @optomisticgirl @captainswanismyendgame @fergus80 @ive-always-been-a-pirate @fairytalesandtimetravel @laschatzi @kmomof4 and I’m prolly forgetting people but I love you all

Let me just point out (interpret it as you wish) that in the new illustration Corazon is no longer Corazon. He has no hearts on his outfit - not a single one, even the things on his hat are ROUND. 

I wonder if he went back to being Rosinante, or if he uses a new alias, and if Law would be able to call him that. I have a feeling that for him Cora-san will always be Cora-san. <3

Home, he says,
and thinks four-cent apples and six-cent eggs,
and thinks unreliable heat and two beds pushed together,
and thinks dance halls and big bands and steps he never knew.

Home, he says,
and thinks skinny shoulders and oversized shirts,
and thinks bright blue eyes and a wide grin,
and thinks red lipstick and perfect dark curls.

Home, he says,
and thinks gone
and thinks lost
and thinks nowhere.

—  You say you are home but your eyes are so far away (j.p.)