edict of cans

hi! my name is DEADNAME
i hear it resonate through my dysphoria i recoil from my body i desperately want to hold a match stick up to my birth certificate and watch every letter blacken into ash, when i grow up to be a tombstone i want you to burn me too ignite all the dresses i wore to church

my name is WOMAN and
no matter how many times i insist that it is not i will be categorized with a quaking punch in my stomach and i will throw up SHE no matter how many times i jam this hoodie into a washing machine it will reek of MISS i am cloaked with words of caution to the public (WARNING: GENDER-NONCONFORMING) in attempts to subdue the truth because if it unraveled i would be myself and myself will shatter minds and destroy virtue because my psyche is a crime scene my humanity is a dangerous opinion and my identity is a car crash it is a siren wailing magenta it wraps around my chest like police tape i wish i could use it as a binder those knuckles feel infinitely more therapeutic than the aftershock of FEMALE i would much rather be bruised and downtrodden and battered and beaten from every centimeter of my body than to submit to the declarations of GIRL i want you to punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please

my name is DELUSIONAL and
i heal paper cuts with bow ties because it’s as close as i can get to a suit when me and my wardrobe are confined within the same nine square feet of wooden floor and i still come close to weeping when i get my flu shot but fill that syringe with testosterone and by god you can slay me like a beast, skewer that needle through my skin like a katana and i will embrace it i will live for the torment, pretty hurts and by god i am a masochist, to mask the sting by god i will sing like a gospel, a gospel who gets called handsome by strangers and owns a voice deep as a goddamned ravine

my name is SNOWFLAKE and
i hope i give you hypothermia, asshole.

my name is PUSSYBOY and
i drank too much lemonade at the movie theater so i must make a choice whether to get scolded and renamed PERVERT or to get pummeled until i piss myself so i decide to just wait until i get home, i look in my desk during a geometry lesson and i discover a sticky note that threatens to make my name another hashtag, the beginning of a dozen breaking news articles titled TRANNY TEEN TO BE SCROLLED PAST (followed by either victorious chuckle or exhausted sigh)

my name is YOUNG LADY and
while filling out my passport application i flooded the box with an M beside it with ink and never told my mother and i smiled to myself for the first time that week and i still don’t regret it i will never regret it because no matter how many times i hear edicts of DAUGHTER she can never take that precious M away from me

my name is SINNER and
i am a disgrace to faith a mutant a freak an abomination a monstrosity not a man just a girl who aspires to mutilate herself into an excuse for one i am a shapeshifting sorcerer you see LESS THAN HUMAN little do you know i am a FUCKING DEMIGOD and i may be the owner of weeping willow twigs for arms and i may be left on the brink of passing out when i climb up the stairs but i will grip you by the collar of your shirt and haul you into hell with me on the other side of this mirror, by god

my name is MATT.
i found this out at age fourteen. i deciphered myself at age fourteen. it’s just one syllable. it is a firecracker mistaken for a gunshot and i will leave cisnormativity riddled with bullets and the pistol’s name will be MATT, a kid from middle school will run into me on the street and tell me they can’t quite remember what my name is and i’ll shamelessly rewrite history and remind them, it’s MATT, a lady at starbucks will ask what to write on my cup and i will say MATT and she’ll spell it with one T instead of two because you know how starbucks is but i honestly won’t give a shit, it’s good enough, i will scream my revelation from my fire escape at four in the morning in triumph MY NAME IS MATT and someone will yell back from their car HEY MATT, SHUT THE FUCK UP and i’ll take it as a tribute, MATT is a MAN and HE sliced his body open and poured ecstasy inside when a cashier called him SIR that one time at walgreens, MATT is yet another piece of proof that the assignment received by some fucker in a lab coat doesn’t have to be a prison and you don’t fully understand these boxes we’re crammed in until you break them yourself, MATT’S individuality is authentic HIS love is authentic HIS reflection in the mirror is authentic and its name is MATT, MATT found out the life expectancy of a transgender person is around thirty-two years old and you better believe that MATT will live to be thirty-three and HE will give a little bit of hope to trans youth who don’t even think they’ll be able to wake up to sixteen and HE will give a big ol’ fuck you to everyone who doesn’t think HE deserves to breathe in their world for that long, by god, you better believe that MATT will live to be thirty-three, you better believe that MATT will make it to thirty-three, you better believe that HE will make it to thirty-three, you better believe that I will make it to thirty-three

Gold Dust Woman

As requested by a few of you, here’s a “jealous kiss” ficlet - Modern AU -Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album is an essential soundtrack to the end of this fic… (1980 words, M rated)

He has to set the pint glass back down on the bar before he crushes it in his grip, each breath he takes becoming measured in an effort to conjure an unaffected facade. It’s too slow tonight, amplifying every interaction, her laugh too loud from her end of the bar. Beyond frustrated with himself, he grabs a dishtowel and wipes at the polished wood before him in hopes that he can rub away this idiotic infatuation with the one woman he can never have. Emma Swan, the lithe blonde with the sharp tongue and impenetrable force field with whom he shares his Wednesday and Thursday night shifts. 

He’s half in love with her. Well, maybe more than half. 

The tiny hairs along the back of his neck rise and he knows she’s approaching, his own body defying his minutes-old mental edict to relax. 

“Hey, can I steal your Goldschläger? I’m all out.” 

Not trusting himself to look at her at the moment, he nods and continues to wipe at the nonexistent water rings on the wood with his rag. 

“What’s mine is yours love, you know that.” 

Cringing at the seriousness tinging the ends of his attempted flirtation, he closes his eyes in wait for her inevitable retort. 

“Everything okay with you?” 

He forces himself to look over his shoulder, too curious to see if her expression matches what sounds like honest concern in her voice. She’s regarding him with an unexpected softness and he forces a smile to curve his lips. 

“Aye, just tired, Swan,” he lies, hoping she won’t press him any further.

Her eyes narrow and then shift to his hand still moving the rag absently over the bar. 

“Right…well, I’ll just…” 

He watches as she slides behind him to grab the gold flecked cinnamon liqueur on the shelf, her short tank top lifting to reveal a strip of vanilla cream colored skin he longs to know the taste of on his tongue. The confines of his jeans feel suddenly too tight at that errant thought of his many fantasies and he snaps his head back forward, mentally shaking himself at his complete lack of control. 

“Hey Killian, you keep rubbing at that same spot, you’re gonna take the polish off.” 

Heat burns the tips of his ears at being caught, but he still manages to conjure up a salacious comeback. 

“Swan, sometimes it takes a lot of rubbing to really…get into it.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

The edict that no one can adopt Naruto folds like wet paper in the face of Minato's and Kushina's various friends claiming that it's not adopting if they are married to Naruto's father/mother/both it's their right and duty as Naruto's step-parent to have raise him. However this leads to a rather large custody fight between all the various step-parents over custody.

The best version of the Naruto-gets-adopted fix-it I have ever encountered.

…Fuck now I really want to write this. *headdesk*

With All Due Respect

They both want the last copy of a book at the library. For bookishbeauty13

(aka teenaged Darcy and Loki in the palace library AU)

No children are allowed in the east wing. Not since the incident involving the baby bilgesnipe in Odin’s study.

Loki and Thor are widely believed responsible, but the young princes fervently deny having anything to do with it, resulting in the Allfather’s declaration that the entire area is off-limits.

This would be a great punishment, indeed, if anything of consequence to a young boy stood in that part of the palace. But Thor holds little interest in the elegant drawing rooms and curved balconies, and Loki has already found a way to sneak into the great library that lies just beyond the Allfather’s refurbished study.

After all, an edict can hardly come between the younger prince and a room full of books: books on runes, books on spells, books with stains on their spines and yellowing pages, books from other realms, books from Vanaheim, from Midgard… If Odin or Frigga notice that their books have developed the habit of disappearing for weeks on end, neither one comments on it.

Someone else is in the library. A girl.

She’s pretty, Loki supposes, in a common sort of way. (His mind wants to point out that the curves hidden under that blue dress are very much not common, but she’s trespassing on his library and so he has no patience for her or her curves.)

The boy is careful to take quiet steps, only alerting her to his presence when he’s directly behind her.

“You aren’t allowed in here,” he announces firmly.

The girl whirls around with a squeak, almost dropping the book in her hands.

“N-neither are you,” she says shakily. Not in Allspeak. But she’s too short to be an elf… a Midgardian, then. Loki wonders if he’s seen this girl before. Accompanying Lady Frigga, perhaps?

“But why would one of my mother’s handmaidens be here?” he muses aloud.

“Wh-” The girl stares at him in shock, and Loki takes a perverse kind of glee in her dawning realization that she is speaking to a prince. “Oh f- Prince Loki,” she whispers, mortified. She quickly stumbles into a curtsy, and Loki inclines his head coldly.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Lady…?”

He pauses, waiting for the girl to supply her name.


Loki wonders idly how she would react if he turned her book into a snake, but she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, cheeks pink, and he find that he likes this better.

“That’s my book,” Loki says abruptly, and he tells himself that he isn’t just making conversation for the sake of talking to a (pretty) girl.

“No, it isn’t,” she answers before immediately clapping her mouth shut.

“Isn’t it? I’m a prince,” he reminds her.

Loki has never had to remind anyone of that fact. His reputation so precedes him that he is unaccustomed to being treated with anything less than apprehensive deference. It might have something to do with that rumor about him turning people into mice. (He started that one himself.)


Loki has to seriously question whoever’s decision it was to name her a handmaiden; this Lady Darcy doesn’t seem the least bit cut out for serving anyone.

“I wish to read it.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I found it first.”

She’s either brave, stupid, or woefully misinformed about Asgard’s prince, to be so blunt.

“You aren’t very obedient,” Loki remarks.

“You haven’t asked anything of me.”

“Very well. Give me the book.”


“Why not?”

“Because I- Hey! Give it back!”

Loki almost sticks his tongue out at her, raising the book high above his head.


He’s being childish, he knows, but it’s so much fun.


“Oh, that’s very nice, but you can do better,” Loki mocks. “What if I said you could have the book… for a price?”

“What price?” Darcy asks, and Loki doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart to the door. She’s off-guard, now.

“A kiss.”

The girl blinks at him, like she isn’t sure if this is one of his infamous tricks or not. Loki isn’t sure either.


He smirks, lowering his arms to place a hand at her waist, and she lets out a fluttery little breath. Darcy closes her eyes, leaning closer, her lips only a fraction away from his, and…

Loki hears a laugh, and realizes that the book is no longer in his grasp, and is instead in the triumphant hold of a certain Lady Darcy.

“You cheated!”

“I tricked you,” Darcy corrects him. Then she takes a small step forward, tucking the book behind her back, and presses her mouth against his. “That was for the book,” she explains, pulling back and staring up into Loki’s green eyes.

They both stay perfectly still for a moment, and Darcy lifts her chin hesitantly before kissing Loki again. This time, his lips move with hers; she sighs as he lifts a hand up to cup her cheek, his tongue darting out to part those red lips…

When Darcy steps away, her cheeks are flushed, her hair mussed on one side.

Loki opens his mouth to speak, but Darcy offers only a small curtsy and hurries toward the door.

“What was that for?” he calls out.

She pauses, considering the question.

“Because I wanted to.”

A crooked grin spreads across Loki’s face, and as the door clicks behind her, the prince lazily trails his fingers over the clothbound spines of Dickens novels.

Yes, he’ll certainly be paying his mother more frequent visits, he decides, pulling a book off the shelf and beginning to read…

I always thought it was interesting when reading ancient religious texts like the Bible or the Qur’an, that people needed be told by God that it’s wrong to murder someone, or that there needed to be an official list of relatives you’re not allowed to marry and have sex with. What does it say about ancient people that they needed an official edict from God saying they can’t marry their own grandmother?