#but effectively a gender wake up call as i shouted at the top of my lungs:

[super-done-dead]

love seeing users who are friends interact on posts. would like to interact with a user whos a friend one day, on a post

[thatwildnya]

haha riddle v-card go poof

hi

this is my first smut

please give feedback thanks-

quick explanations:

Loki is one of my oc’s, they have the ability to change their gender on whim which is why they/them pronouns are usually used. They’re half snake but can only transform their lower half.

Their “boys” and “girls” are a herd made of many variations of horses and their mythical variations.

TW: naughty adult time themes, it’s hinted at rape has occurred in the past but otherwise nothing that’s not consented to happens

“So. Who do you want to top? I’m fine either way.”

The book in Riddle’s hands landed on his face with a tiny thud, earning an amused snort from the body underneath, “P-pardon?”

“What, did you really think I wouldn’t notice?~” Loki singsonged, lifting their head to bump it on the back of his own “I’m much more experienced in this field compared to most from my homeland, I know all the hints. Plus I overheard the conversation about ways to help relieve stress. And the return of bedtime fidgeting? It was a dead giveaway~” they laughed at his muffled grumble to shut up.

The redhead didn’t answer immediately, opting to keep his face hidden in the book. Loki didn’t press for an answer awaiting his response patiently. They reached back to cup his cheek after a few minutes. Riddle leaned into their hand on contact from habit. He smiled softly feeling their thumb poke his cheek. He retaliated the playful gesture with a gentle pinch on the arm, an unspoken exchange said through their actions. “There’s no rush. Take your time.” “Thank you.”

“I-is it alright if we… do that thing couples do...” he wanted to bang his head against a table. Superb job Riddle. Excellent work. Speech 100. Just thinking about it was enough to make his cheek flush redder than the roses in the dorm’s garden. Now having to say it outloud? To the target person of doing said activity with? Anyone would think he was sick if they saw his face. And Loki’s response did not help to calm his speeding heart.

“What ‘couple thing’ are you referring to? I’m gonna need you to be more specific.” “y’know that... intimate thing they do…” “bunny there are multiple things befitting that category.” “You know which one I’m talking about!” “do I?” “you-!” “Riddle.” his mouth clamped shut. His head turned just enough to look at their face. Loki’s chin rested on their forearms, eyes closed, no signs of continuing evident. This… discussion wasn’t over he knew. Certain changes (big or small) in one’s tone can send various different messages, removing the need to say it outright.

A minute later an eye opened to meet his gaze, “I’ll be done soon, just gotta check in with the boys and let the girls loose. It’d be a real mood killer to get a distress call from my boys for more backup, wouldn’t you agree?” flashing him a lazy smirk, their eye closed again, “then I’m all yours~”

While waiting he attempted to calm his speeding heart by counting. Unfortunately this had the opposite effect. With each number meant Loki was getting closer to finishing. Then their talk would resume. Riddle was certain Loki could feel his heart beating, they were laying back to back. Should he roll off? Would it be weird if he did so suddenly? It’s not like either were uncomfortable. When did it get so hot, are only his hands getting sweaty? What about his back? Being sweaty isn’t the most pleasant feeling he should move after all-

“-ddle, hello?” The perfect was brought out of his thoughts “time to return from lala land~”. In a single movement Loki flipped their positions so they faced each other. Riddle’s arms moved to rest around their shoulders from habit, Loki’s own wrapping around his backside as he straddled their lap.

At first nothing was said, only gazing at the other. It was peaceful, soothing. No sounds of shouting, items being knocked to the floor, music blasting from the next room, nothing. Just silence. Neither wouldn’t mind being stuck like this forever, leaving all worries and duties behind to be together forever. A wonderful dream, it was. Alas, every dream comes to an end when it was time to rejoin reality once again.

“I want to make sure you are 100% confident you are ready to lose your virginity,” the one to wake them was Loki, “when I lost mine I didn’t have a say. I didn’t have the option of refusal.” their voice cracked at the last few words. Riddle rested his head on his love’s shoulder, giving their cheek a kiss as his arms hugged them tighter. It took a few moments for Loki’s voice to be found again. Taking a deep breath, they continued.

“Until you can look me in the eyes and tell me you are ready to and want to have sex with me I refuse to partake in any sexual activities with you.”

Riddle wanted to slap himself.

Loki trusts him enough to share a part of their past (something that no one should have to experience) and other secrets very few or none knew. That was how much faith they had in him, how much they loved him. And here he was, being a horny teenager thinking only of himself.

“But it’s okay,” he reminded himself, “Loki has already forgiven me. I made a mistake and they’re aware I’m taking responsibility.” 

Gathering up all the courage within him, he straightened up locking eyes with them. In the most confident voice he could muster, Riddle gave his answer.

“Please take care of me.”

It felt like an eternity passed waiting for a response, anxiety increasing with every second ticking by.

“Safe word?” he exhaled deeply letting the breath he’d been holding out, falling forward and burying his face into the crook of Loki’s neck.

***~~~***

Riddle’s body stiffened as Loki began kissing his neck, starting at his collarbone continuing up to his lower jaw. He let out a squeak when Loki nipped his ear. A violent shiver wrecked through him as a hand slowly creased his belly upward. A second squeak escaped him when the hand reached his chest, thumb rubbing circles around a nippel.

Why is it getting warmer? When did the temperature start rising? These hands are familiar but the touches are foreign. Should he return the touches? How should he do that? What should he do? What are the rules he should be following?

“Boo, that’s not very nice bunny~ Your attention should be on me~” Loki suddenly pressed their fingers into his side causing Riddle to let out a third squeak. “H-hey!” he curled inward and tried to wiggle away, “q-qu-quit it-!” his struggles were in vain, the legs and arms trapping him were too strong. All he could do was flail trying to escape the fingers pressing into his sides, laughing.

The red bunny was able to escape the snake's hold with all his wiggling and tried to hop away. However the snake had plenty more agility and strength compared to the smaller. The bunny let out a squeal when the snake had him coiled in their grip again.

“Ah ah ah~” the reptile tutted, a devilish smirk gracing their lips “you’re not getting away that easily~”

The snake ruthlessly assaulted the bunny, laughing with its prey. Soon tears brimmed the prey’s eyes and he struggled to breathe, begging for mercy. The hunter chortled but decided to grant his wish. While the bunny wheezed and caught his breath the snake was pulling him close.

“I love you, Riddle.” his breath caught in his throat and Loki chuckled at the look upon his face, “you heard me. I love you. I love you, Riddle Rosehearts.”

“I love your grey eyes, red hair, and squishable cheeks. The way your eye color softens with your gaze and becomes fiery when you get competitive. I love the difference in our height, you fit perfectly in my arms. Having you snug within my embrace fills me with unending happiness. I love your voice, your singing soothes my mind after long days of work. When I hear you laugh my lips never fail to curl. I love your sleepy voice when you begin to drift off, your morning voice when you’ve just woken up, your strict yet gentle scolding voice, your cute cooing voice, all of them.” they just kept going on and on, listing thing after thing they loved about him, gaze filled with love.

Riddle could feel his face flushing with every word spilt from their lips. He attempted to hide his face in his hands. Loki, however, wasn’t having any of that. They gently pried them off with their own, their smile and gaze so soft and genuine he couldn’t -didn’t want to- look elsewhere. He was so fixated he took no notice of the other slowly maneuvering their body to hover above his own.

Cupping his cheek, they ran their thumb across his lips with their final statement, “I am deepy, utterly in love with the man known as Riddle Rosehearts. I wish to spend the rest of my life,” they leaned down to rest their forehead on his “and every life after that with him. His soul is the one and only soul I wish for mine to meet over and over again and again for all eternity.” lips centimeters away from touching, Loki whispered one last thing before closing the distance.

So much. Never before had Riddle felt so loved, appreciated, wanted. It was almost overwhelming, all the emotions swirling within. He wanted to cry, laugh, and scream. More. He wanted more.

He felt his partners smile widen when he chased their lips, pulling them back together with a tug on their shirt. This wasn’t enough, he wants more. He needs more. And he’s getting just that.

“Tongue.” was the demand when they parted for air. “Hm?” Loki blinked innocently “what was that, bunny?~ Did you say something?~”

His breath was coming out in short pants, hands tightly gripping their shirt. “Tongue.” he repeated, mouth hanging ajar slightly as an invitation, “I want kisses with tongue.”

Loki was taken back, the little bunny asking for a kiss so bluntly? A french one at that? “Shit,” they cursed, fulfilling the smallers demand “can’t say no when he looks at me like that- {*#*#*}.” Loki cursed in their native language hearing his soft moan. Adorable yet lewd. Meanwhile the only thought cycling through the others head was a ‘more’.

“T-tight,” he whined between kisses, “p-pants, they’re too tight.” Loki grinded their body against his pelvis with a smirk. “Hm?” they teased, smirk widening at his wanton mewls “your pants are too tight?” he nodded vigorously, whimpering “Well, that simply won’t do! Here, let me help you with that~” he hissed once his hardened cock was freed, slick with precum.

Loki leaned down to kiss his face, lower body shifting into a snake tail, “How do you want to do this, bunny? You better tell me quick,” they added, using their tail to open a drawer of the nightstand “I won’t need as much prep as you and I might lose it at this rate.” Riddle barely registered their words with how clouded his head was becoming from pleasure. “I-I want you in,” he gazed up, panting and half ladened eyes swirling with lust “I want to be taken by Loki. Please take me Loki, please please.” Loki groaned, “this kid will be the death of me.” “did you remember condoms and lube?” Riddle’s stomach dropped.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Loki snickered. “Sh-shut up!” his already flushed face turned a darker shade of red. “Did bunny get so excited he overlooked some things?” they poked his cheek. With a pouty “humph!” Riddle flipped onto his front side, hiding his face in the pillows. “Aw, don’t be like that bunny~” Loki cooed, “I’m just teasing~ I’ve got lube, but no condoms.”

“What’s that?” Loki’s smile softened into one that was more reassuring. Pouring the clear contents inside the glass vail in their hand they answered, “it’s a type of lube made specially for virgins and the inexperienced. In case you start getting scared or nervous it will cause your body to send stronger distressed signals so the pleasure doesn’t completely hijack your mind.” Riddle shivered when Loki started massaging his lower back with the liquid, “it also acts as a stimulant making you wetter quicker and heightens your sense of touch. In other words,” he shivered at Loki’s hot whisper next to his ear, “you’re gonna experience some top notch pleasure soon~”

***~~~***

Riddle felt like he’d come any second now. His cock hasn’t been touched yet everything felt so good. If he’s on cloud nine right now, where would he be once he and Loki were connected? He shuddered from anticipation at the thought.

Meanwhile Loki kept a close eye on their partner, looking for any signs of discomfort or anxiety. “Riddle, bunny,” tracing a finger down his side Loki gently grasped his hip “lift your hips a bit.” he didn’t need to be told twice.

“Remember the safe word?” Loki bent their body over him, their chin resting on his shoulder. Using their tail they poured more lube in their hand. Reaching back, Loki rested a finger on Riddle’s taint and gently pressed against it.

“Patience Bunny,” they softly warned, pulling away when he tried to push back “I don’t want to hurt you.” he whimpered but did his best to keep still. His body tensed when their finger finally entered however.

“You need to relax, Bunny,” “easier said than done.” they chuckled lightly at his words but didn’t respond to them. Using their free hand they took a hold of his chin, guiding their mouths together. Their slit tongue slipped in his mouth as a distraction. It wasn’t a surprise how well this worked, given they were very skilled at french.

***~~~***

“This should be enough…” they thought, fingers pulling out, “that should do it, are you rea-” “Lokiii,” Riddle began whining impatiently, “why’d you stooop? Don’t stop, it feels so sooooo good.” they blinked.

“C’mooooooon, hurry up!” the whining continued, “it doesn’t feel good. I don’t like this feeling of emptiNESS!” Loki flipped him onto his back. “Eager, eager, are we now?~” they slowly traced a finger up his cock which was practically crying with precum, “I mustn’t disappoint then~” Lifting his hips, Loki’s tail slid under to wrap around his belly once.

Riddle’s eyes widened seeing their cock for the first time that night. He’d seen it before (they’ve been living together for months after all) but it was a LOT bigger now. Loki smirked following his gaze, “enjoying the view?” “will it fit?” their lips softened, leaning forward to give his forehead a kiss “yes but if it’s too much we can stop. There’s a safe word for a reason, remember?” he couldn’t help but gulp.

Lining them up, Loki waited for the okay. Riddle let out a loud gasp as they entered, hands clumsily searching for a grip. Loki adjusted their position so he could hug them.

A few times he had to ask them to pause so his body got used to the stretch. His breath was coming out in short pants by the time Loki bottomed out. He felt so full, almost to the point it was painful.

“Riddle? Riddle, bunny, are you doing okay?” Loki moved to pull back but went still at the grip on their shoulders tightening, “Don’t m-move…”

A handful of minutes ticked by of them staying like that, Loki murmuring sweet nothings and soothing words to help Riddle relax his body and mind. They made small talk about their day, assignments due once the break was over, anything.

He felt small. Yes, he wasn’t the tallest guy around but that wasn’t it. It was more of an emotional feeling than physical. None of that mattered though. He liked this sensation of tenderness. It was like he was being gently cocooned in silks spun specifically for him to make a perfect nest of safety and warmth.

Eventually, muscles relaxed and breathing steadied.

“Y-you can move…”

“Are you sure?” “Mhm.”

“Alright, let me know if you want to stop.” “M’kay…”

Loki adjusted so they could see Riddle’s face better. They pulled out halfway before sliding back in, setting a slow and steady rhythm. They kept their eyes trained on his face, searching for any hints of discomfort or pain. Riddle closed his own as he sank into a bliss of pleasure, moaning softly. That is, until a certain spot was tapped.

Soon Riddle was crying from pleasure, nails digging into Loki’s shoulders making the other groan. “There” “faster” “Loki” ran from Riddle’s mouth like a faucet, spurring Loki on to increase their speed. It didn’t take long for him to see stars as he reached his climax.

Back arching perfectly, Riddle let out a long, loud moan. Falling back into the sheets panting heavily, he waited for his vision to clear. “You doing fine bunny?” Loki kissed the corner of his eye, tongue slipping out to lick off tears spilt from pleasure. “Y-yeah,” realizing they were still hard he asked “aren’t you gonna finish?” they smiled and gave him another kiss. “I’ll take care of myself, do you want anything? Perhaps a bath? Maybe tea?” he wrapped his legs around Loki when they tried to pull out, “more.”

Loki blinked, “eh?” “more,” he repeated, “I want more of you.”

Capturing their lips with his own, Riddle nibbled at their bottom lip kissing them. A second later he was, once again, flipped that night. Hoisting up his hips, Loki draped their body over his. “Normally I’d settle for teasing but I’ll be merciful this time.” they purred slamming back in.

***~~~***

Riddle stared at the ceiling, eyes wide and speechless.

“Someone seems to have enjoyed themselves.” he gripped the covers, eyes still on the ceiling, answering “it was- you just- it felt- everything-” he was at a loss for words.

Loki laughed, pulling him closer while leaning on their arm, “good to know I still got it. I’d feel terrible if I couldn’t satisfy my mate-” “again.” it wasn’t often Loki got taken by surprise, but this was one of those times. “... eh?”

Ignoring the dull ache in his lower body, Riddle threw off the covers and straddled Loki. “I wanna go another round.” Loki stared up at him with genuine shock. Once recovered they cleared their throat, “um, no.” They pulled Riddle down, tail wrapped around him while he whined for demanded an explanation.

“Because your body is already fragile and I don’t want to push it.” caging him in their arms, they ran their fingers through his hair, “sorry bunny, but you’ll have to wait awhile before I truly take you to town.” they pulled at his pouty face “don’t give me that look, you know you can’t take anymore right now.” Riddle let out a humph when they let go.

“Aw, don’t be like that bunny,” Loki started covering his face with sloppy kisses, “that face makes me want to tease you til you’re so red a tomato couldn’t compare~” he half-heartedly pushed their face away, still pouting.

“Get some rest,” Loki pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. “Your body needs it,” they said, breaking the kiss, “and I have some things that need to be checked on anyway.” Loki reached over to pull the covers back up.

“What about you?” “I’ll join you soon,” they booped his nose, “until then make yourself comfortable.” with a swish of their finger, the light went out.

***~~~***

The following morning, a snake was awoken by a bunny sitting atop its belly, begging for it’s carrot. It was a good thing the break had only just started.

[thespermicidaljellies]

Hi

I'm going to shout into the void and tag this post properly because I feel so emotionally heavy the words can't come out in real life outside of doctor's visits.

This is how many pills I take a day, some of them twice. My doctors have told me that I've tried just about everything I can, nothing has worked. I have been a fighter my whole life, but I'm running on the last dregs of fumes.

I recently turned 25 years old. I have nothing to show after a third of my lifetime, besides who I have grown to be as a person. I try to recognize the many external factors beyond my control that have caused this, and how I've managed to fight keep going through adversity, but even thinking positively is beginning to hurt because I feel like a victim of chance, time and time again. It is hard when you finally realize that you've been in a serious, persistent depressive state since you were a young child--much too young.

Recently, I was accepted for experimental treatment at one of the top neuropsychiatric institutes in the United States. The head the program decided to take me as his patient after reading my case file, and his sense of urgency has finally put to rest the guilt and negative skepticism that I had been exaggerating my health concerns due to mental weakness.

They are going to try a relatively new form of electroshock therapy on me. It's highly effective but it's likely to have some effects on my personality. I've made peace with that, medications have already kept me alive but changed my temperament in ways where I no longer recognize some of my emotions and behaviors. I've lost a lot of friends because of it, but it's the price to pay for giving it all you got to try to get better. If you're reading this and you resonate with any of these things in some way, please do not interpret this as something to instill fear and caution you against trying these things.

Above all, know this: they are worth it. You are worth it to keep trying, and you can make it through even if there are parts of you that you can't feel or recognize. You can relearn those parts, and make something new from them once you have the room to breath. Those that care most for you will stand by you, and will place patience and empathy over any resentment they may feel. I am trying to forgive myself for my inactions and neglectfulness, and my erratic behavior since I started serious treatment the past half year. I'd be lying if I didnt say that trying to separate my behavior and thoughts from myself has been easy due to empowerment. I can barely feel a 'me' inside of my flesh anymore.

Grappling with my struggles to function and the disrespect and judgement I've received as a byproduct of it all has ruined my self worth. I need to get off my chest that for the first time in my life, I do not like myself. I've been told to kill myself, I've been called a sociopath and manipulative, and a liar. when you are expected as a young man to be steadfast, strong, and self-sufficient. A friend pointed out to me that I was experiencing gender discrimination and it blew my mind. Being a white dude is like a lottery ticket to typically get what you want when you want it. Young men aren't supposed to be sick, fearful, or emotionally overwhelmed. I see why the suicide rate of males is so high now. Neither men nor women respect you when you are a young man in that position. You are dismissed and given no respect (a statement my roommates have enjoyed reminding me they have none of for me). I'm so sorry to anyone of any gender that's experienced the power dynamics of sexism.

I'm having trouble piecing together sentences and I'm sure this is way too long, but I need to get the last thing off my chest, even though I don't have the energy to elaborate on it.

Every day I wake up and fear for my future

I am too sick to be poor

I am too sick to be poor

[cheshiresense]

For the headcanon thing if I'm not too late. Headcanons for FemIchigo/Kisuke ship?

Lol you didn’t give me an AU? Guess I could throw them in the canon verse but the events wouldn’t be much dif imo. But let’s see how this goes.

Edit: Welp. This got long.

1. Ichigo keeps her hair long because of her mom. Masaki had long hair, and even if it’s not the exact same colour, Ichigo grows her own hair out in her honour, as a reminder of the one time she failed to protect her precious people and just because she’s never met anyone with hair as pretty as her mom’s.

The first time she gets into a serious fight with Shinigami, that dick Renji uses it against her. He grabs her hair, and taunts her with it, and in the end, she kicks his ass, but then his dick boss shows up and just about kills her. When she wakes up at the Shouten, she’s half-naked, wrapped in bandages, and her hair’s been sliced ragged, left in uneven strands around her shoulders where before it had reached her waist. Urahara is nice enough to cut and style it for her. He tells her he only knows how to cut it one way because a good friend of his used to wear her hair short. It’s cute enough, and at the end of the day, Ichigo would much rather keep her life than her hair, but she also locks herself in the bathroom later that night and has a good cry about it. It’s stupid, it’s just hair, it’ll grow back, but it still feels a little like losing her mother all over again. She gives herself twenty minutes, and then she gets her shit together because she has to go save Rukia, and Urahara promised to make her strong enough so she needs to get some sleep more than anything else right now. When she gets back to her room though, the rest of the Shouten is still silent but there’s a tray of tea by her futon, still hot, and too sweet to have been made by Tessai. Ichigo doesn’t even like tea, but it’s a surprisingly kind, amusingly awkward gesture from a man who knows too much and tells her too little. She drinks it all, making a face at the taste but appreciating the warmth that spreads all the way to her fingertips, and when she lies back down and closes her eyes, sleep comes easier this time.

2. Kisuke’s the one who carries her back to the Shouten after she defeats Aizen and subsequently collapses in the aftermath. He thinks it would’ve been easier if she’d been born a boy. She’s tall for her age and gender, but she feels more fragile like this, her shoulders narrower than her usual larger-than-life personality would suggest, her frame less sturdy. Even her bones feel more delicate. Then again, she’s still only sixteen and she’s already lost half her soul in a war she should never have had to fight in the first place, and a good chunk of that blame can be laid squarely at Kisuke’s feet, so maybe boy or girl, it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. She’s light enough that Kisuke can carry her without difficulty, but her weight still feels like shackles around his wrists, tied to an anchor at the bottom of the ocean, like the worst of his sins given life, and Kisuke hadn’t ever thought that would be something he’d have trouble bearing until now. But the least he can do is carry her home, so that’s what he does. He takes her back to the Shouten and cleans her up and heals her– it’s a routine he’s uncomfortably familiar with these days. He doesn’t know if she’s ever consciously realized it, but he’s seen her naked enough times to feel like a pervert. He was Onmitsukidou, and he’s seen Yoruichi change in front of him enough times that the female body doesn’t make him blink, but Ichigo’s young - old enough to have developed curves, young enough that his hands shouldn’t be anywhere near her (figuratively or literally) - but there’s nobody else to do it, Yoruichi is always inconveniently away, so Kisuke keeps his eyes and hands well within professional range, runs a bath for her that takes care of most of the dirt and sweat and blood so he only has to make sure she doesn’t drown, and then whisks her off back to bed where he can bandage up what his Kidou can’t heal before settling down to monitor her reiatsu levels.

She remains in a coma for a month. Kisuke is the one who takes care of her, from fresh bedding to sponge baths to IV-fed fluids, even trimming her hair when it starts looking too shaggy (she’s growing it out again, so he doesn’t cut more than what he has to). By the time she opens her eyes, Kisuke’s just relieved she wakes at all, and it doesn’t seem like she’s (physically) much worse for wear so at least his caretaking skills aren’t terrible. All the discomfort in the world can be tolerated if it means Ichigo remains as healthy as she can possibly be.

3. Ichigo doesn’t see or hear from Urahara or any other Shinigami for the next seventeen months, and she tries not to let it get to her. She still sees her human friends at school, even if she’s no longer welcome in a large part of their daily lives, and Shinigami probably don’t think a year and a half is all that long. Besides, at the end of the day, she knew most of her Shinigami acquaintances for a handful of months tops; that’s hardly grounds for eternal friendship. She’s hurt by their absence, but she keeps herself busy with school, with homework, with the part-time job she finds just to fill the hours in-between. She gets good at ignoring the fact that she knows where her friends go after school, knows where her sisters go, and that she can no longer follow them. Urahara doesn’t wear a gigai after all, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask him to. He probably has better things to do too now that the war is over and Ichigo has done her duty.

So it’s been seventeen months of mind-numbing (soul-wrenching) monotony, and then she gains a stalker. She would never have chased that thief down if she had known Ginjou Kuugou was so… greasy. She doesn’t just mean his hair either; everything about him oozes an oily sort of charm that sets off every alarm bell her mom drilled into her head about Stranger Danger, Female Edition, and it becomes clear very quickly that Ginjou is exactly the sort of man who just won’t take no for an answer. He follows her around, flirts like he thinks she finds him attractive, keeps inviting her out for a meal, even tracks her down at work, and Ichigo’s just about had it with him after he “bumps” into her while she’s walking home from doing the grocery-shopping, because she may not be a Shinigami anymore but she sure as hell still knows how to defend herself and kick a creep in the balls when he dares to sling a too-proprietary arm around her waist, as if he has any right.

As it turns out though, she doesn’t have to. Ginjou gets about half a second to touch her, still blathering on about having something interesting to show her if she lets him treat her to some ramen, and then he’s being ripped away from her, abruptly enough to tear a shout from him, and Ichigo spins around just in time to see Urahara twist Ginjou’s arm behind him at a painful-looking angle before slamming him face-first into a nearby wall.

Ichigo doesn’t think she’s ever seen Urahara so… openly violent before. She can’t stop staring for a long moment, because that casual, effortless strength is… not something Ichigo would mind seeing again. If nothing else, it’s clearly effective (and pointedly ignores the voice that says she isn’t staring because it’s effective). The look on his face though is positively serene, if you don’t count the ominous shadow that his hat is somehow casting over his eyes.

“I do believe Kurosaki-san has asked you to stop harassing her,” the shopkeeper says in tones so airily cheerful only an idiot would buy the act. Ginjou doesn’t reply anyway. He can’t. Urahara’s yanked his arm up high enough to let him simultaneously choke the life out of the guy, his hand about as movable as stone as it pins Ginjou’s wrist to the back of his neck and his neck to the brick wall.

“Hey,” Ichigo says, and then stops, because on one hand, this guy probably doesn’t deserve to be straight-up murdered, but also if anyone in Ichigo’s life can kill a human and make the corpse disappear, it would be Urahara.

But Urahara glances at her, then shrugs a little and releases Ginjou, only to knock him over the head with his cane, hard enough to send him crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap. There’s a moment of silence after that, and then Ichigo remembers to be irritated because she’s no one’s damsel in distress. “I could’ve handled him, you know.”

It comes out sharper than even she intends, but the sight of him reminds her of how long she hasn’t seen him or any of her other Shinigami friends, and it’s hard to remain mature about it when one of them is suddenly right in front of her again. Urahara, because he’s Urahara, just rakes a too-discerning eye over her like he can see right through her annoyance to the root of it. His expression tightens with something Ichigo can’t name, but all he does is incline his head in acknowledgement even as he smiles in a way that makes her want to punch him. “Of course, Kurosaki-san, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t interfere?”

Ichigo gives him the flat unimpressed look that deserves, Urahara’s smile twitches into something more genuinely amused, and for a second, it almost feels as if no time at all has passed since the last time they’d shared an actual conversation. Then Ginjou groans, Ichigo bristles irritably, and Urahara’s smile fades.

“Kurosaki-san,” He calls out before Ichigo can do more than turn away. “There are some things you need to know. But perhaps we can take this off the streets first? Come back to my Shouten; I will explain everything there.”

Ichigo turns back, scowling suspiciously at the blond, then down at greasy stalker. Great. She should’ve known; of course it would be Shinigami business that actually dragged Urahara out of his shop and into his first interaction with Ichigo after seventeen months of radio silence. But… if Urahara is willing to explain just what greasy stalker wanted to drag her into, Ichigo would be an idiot to turn him down.

“Fine,” She grumbles. “I’m using your fridge though. I’ve got ice-cream in here and it’s gonna melt before I get home at this rate.”

Urahara beams at her and hefts greasy stalker over his shoulder before ushering her to the Shouten. True to his word, he tells her about the Fullbringers who’ve invaded Karakura, and he tells her that the Shinigami have been monitoring the situation, and then he tells her he has a way to return her powers and soul-spirits to her. He shows her the sword, engraved with a bunch of intricate symbols she can’t even begin to decipher, and it thrums with so much power even she can feel it. She has a sudden epiphany that it must’ve taken even a genius like Urahara quite a while to make something like this, because she’d asked around, before she’d lost the ability to see Shinigami, and she knows for a fact that fixing her soul should’ve been impossible. The realization that Urahara must’ve been working on this for the past seventeen months goes a long way to soothing any fair or unfair feelings she had towards him, even if she also thinks he could’ve just told her. But she thinks that, and then she thinks that Urahara probably didn’t because he hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up for nothing. It’s stupid, but so is the way he eases the sword through her chest as gently as possible, as if it makes a difference at all when that first jolt of foreign reiatsu to her system still hurts like a bitch. She thinks she can forgive stupidity though if it’s coming from him. Not that she’ll ever tell him that.

In the aftermath, the Fullbringers disappear one by one, and nobody says anything but an increasingly manically cheerful Urahara gets a lot of wary side-eyes from the Shinigami trooping through Karakura over the next couple of weeks. It’s Rukia (Rukia who never so much as passed on a how-are-you, and Ichigo doesn’t blame her, but she’s never going to forget it either) who tells her later about Urahara kneeling in front of all the Gotei’s captains and lieutenants and begging them to help, who bowed his head through the Captain-Commander’s orders to keep the sword back until a powerless Ichigo has drawn out all the Fullbringers, only to immediately disobey as soon as he got the reiatsu he needed from them.

Ichigo asks, of course, just once, why. True to form, Urahara doesn’t give her a straight answer, he shrugs and lies instead, “Well it isn’t as if there’s anything else they can do to little old me in exile, is there?” But for just a moment, he also looks directly at Ichigo, his gaze steady and calm and unyielding, like there was never anything else he could’ve done, like choosing Ichigo over the Gotei was a decision made as easily as he breathed.

Much, much later, looking back, Ichigo thinks maybe that was the moment she first fell just a little bit in love.

4. Somewhere between the Quincy War and Yoruichi and Tessai moving back to Soul Society and the kids deciding they want to experience high school and normal life at the Kurosaki household, Kisuke wakes up one morning to Ichigo cooking breakfast in his kitchen and realizes he’s sharing a house with a twenty-year-old college student whose Gargantas make for the easiest commute to and from school in the history of public transportation. He stands in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her go through the motions that have become routine at the Shouten for… months now. Ever since he survived the war by the skin of his teeth and ended up half-blind because Benihime is only a quick, crude fix when Kisuke doesn’t know the exact makeup of whatever he’s restructuring. He’d had to study that, and then get some hands-on practice, before finally re-restructuring his eyes one more time. Ichigo had been a big help. Kisuke had had difficulties reading, along with dizzy spells and crippling headaches, so even though she didn’t understand everything, she also spent long hours with him, reading out loud and taking down notes for him, cooking for him and keeping his house clean and even manning the shopfront for him when Tessai was busy with the Kidou Corps. And then, once he was better… well, apparently she’d just never moved back out, and Kisuke had liked the company (has always liked her company) that he’d obliviously taken her presence here for granted.

She turns around now, probably sensing him. Her hair’s almost as long as it used to be back when they’d first met, but she’s tied it up into a messy bun. She’s still in pajama pants and one of his shirts because she likes the larger size and she keeps stealing them and Kisuke doesn’t mind, he has more than enough.

Maybe he should’ve minded.

“Hey,” Ichigo greets around a stifled yawn. “Food’s almost done. Could you set the table?”

Kisuke makes an agreeable noise and starts pulling down tableware from the cupboards. The coffee’s also done so he pours a mug, and then prepares the tea with the water that’s just finished boiling. Five minutes later, they’re seated around the table, Ichigo grumbling memorized literature quotes into her coffee because she has finals next week, and Kisuke just… watches her. They’ve thrown the porch doors open because it’s summer and the morning breeze is nice. Ichigo has her back to it, and the sunrise that frames her head like a halo gilds her bright hair gold. When she finally sets her coffee down, she looks up and catches his eye, and even as her eyebrows go up in an unspoken question, the smile that blooms across her face at the same time is as much a reflex as it is genuine, like the mere sight of him is something to be happy about, and Kisuke is helpless to do anything but smile back.

Shit, he thinks, far too late. I’m definitely going to hell.

5. “I’m definitely going to hell,” he moans into the table. Yoruichi, because she is first and foremost a terrible best friend, is too busy laughing at him to console him. At least she came prepared with the sake when he called her in a panic once Ichigo had left for class.

“Took you long enough,” Yoruichi chortles, like this isn’t a Big Problem. “Tessai thought for sure you’d realize she’s practically your wife-” Kisuke winces. “-when she went off to college and still went back to the Shouten every night. But I’ve known you longer so I figured it would take you a while before it clicked.”

“We are roommates,” He hisses vehemently, downing another cup of alcohol before pouring himself some more. “I’ve never- Yoruichi-san, I would never- I wouldn’t-”

“Well that was obvious too,” Yoruichi snorts, but her gold eyes are suddenly a lot less amused a lot more focused, acute and unblinking on his face. “But you know, if she’s old enough to kill for you, then she’s old enough to fuck.”

Kisuke freezes, and then straightens, and he has never looked at Yoruichi the way he does now, but there’s ice in his veins and a knot of flash-fire rage and black-fanged guilt clawing up his gut, and he couldn’t stop the crass words if he wanted to, “She was old enough to kill for me at fifteen; was she old enough to fuck then too?”

Yoruichi doesn’t even flinch, just pins him with a burning look sharp enough to cut. “Well you didn’t wanna fuck her then, did you? But she’s an adult now, and she can make her own choices, and I know you suck at human-ing so I’m gonna go ahead and give you a piece of advice in advance and hopefully save everyone a lot of needless drama - in general, people don’t like it when you make decisions for them because you think you know better. So before you panic even more and start pushing her away ‘for her own good’ but really actually because you freaked out about having feelings, maybe, just maybe, ask her what she wants.” She grins like a tiger that has its prey cornered. “Ichigo’s not stupid. Even I don’t know if she knows about your gigantic crush yet, she’s surprisingly closed off about personal issues, but let me just remind you, Kisuke - she didn’t sit at my bedside, or Shinji’s, or even Rukia’s, after the war, and you know full we were all laid out for days, if not from injuries then exhaustion.” She leans forward and snags the front of his Shihakushou to give him a hard shake. “Are you listening to me, Kisuke? She cares about you, and you care about her, and I have not seen you this happy in a very, very long time.” She glares at him, daring him to argue. “Even if nothing comes from this, even if you just stay friends, don’t you dare fuck this up for yourself. You’ve got a good thing here. She’s good for you, and she makes you happy. And it’s not a crime to be happy, Kisuke.”

She lets him go. Kisuke doesn’t move for a long minute, and this time, Yoruichi waits him out. “…What if I’m not good for her though?”

Yoruichi clicks her tongue and reaches for her own sake again, limbs going feline-languid once more. “That’s for her to decide. She’s got a decent head on her shoulders, Kisuke; if you really were poison for her like you seem to think you are every damn turn of the moon, she would’ve dropped you a long time ago.” She pauses to take a swig, and then she kicks him under the table hard enough to make him yelp. “Now quit being a coward, drink your damn sake, and then go home and be disgustingly domestic with your roommate when she gets back. And if after all this crap you put me through, you still end up hurting her, I’m gonna tell Kuukaku, and she’ll make you wish you were just dead.”

Kisuke thinks about that for a moment, remembers some of the antics Kuukaku used to get up to with Yoruichi, and internally cringes. “Right,” he sighs. Yoruichi rolls her eyes at him, and he sighs again. Well, he supposes he should’ve known better than to get any sympathy from Yoruichi. He also mulls over what she’s said though, and… well. If nothing else, Ichigo’s choices are her own. Kisuke’s manipulated her into a war once already. He can’t - he won’t - do it to her again, for anything.

He downs the last of his alcohol and this time dares to hope.

6. They never actually sit down and lay all their cards on the table and talk about it. It’s not in either of their natures; Ichigo prefers actions, and ninety percent of Kisuke’s words have always been used to deflect and manipulate. But, for Ichigo, the Shouten becomes home. She never moves out (and yes, she knew what she was doing when she packed up most of her belongings and carted them over to the shop), and at first, it was just to help because Kisuke was so badly injured from the war, but the longer she stayed, the harder it was to think about leaving again for good. When Kisuke hadn’t said anything even after he’d fully recovered, she took it as permission to stay, and of course that didn’t do anything to make her like him less. She enjoys his company, likes reading in his labs while he fiddles with his experiments, likes surprising him with new recipes, likes being surprised when he modifies or creates yet another Kidou spell for her monstrous levels of reiatsu so that it won’t blow up when she tries it. She likes that he always tucks her into bed if she falls asleep at her desk studying, and she likes that he trusts her enough to walk around without wearing his hat all the time. She likes that between her strength and adaptability and his creativity and cunning, they’re more or less evenly matched in a spar, and the harder she pushes him, the more thrilled he gets at having to work for his victories. She likes that he comes home one day with something both new and still familiar in his eyes when he looks at her, and a month later, on her birthday, he takes her halfway across the world to a rare book convention with a focus on Shakespeare, and halfway through that, his hand swings out to tangle her fingers with his own.

They never really talk about it, but Ichigo migrates into his bedroom one night and never sleeps in her own room again. They take things slow, honestly more for Kisuke’s benefit than her own, but she doesn’t mind because mostly, she just likes having Kisuke there, with her. He still treats her like glass sometimes, like something priceless he’s afraid to smudge just by touching it. Those days, Ichigo sprawls across him with all her weight and stays there until he wraps himself more firmly around her, usually dozing off while Ichigo works on a draft of her first book.

They don’t talk about it. But they don’t have to, to know what they mean to each other.

[rogersmeadows]

breakfast in bed

Just a little self-indulgent blurb because of that picture. It’s short and fluffy with some sexual tension at the end, but mostly just what happens when you have to deal with your hungover boyfriend Ben after a night out with the boys. There’s no specified gender for the reader.

warnings: sexual innuendos and mentions of alcohol/cigarettes

words: 850+ (she’s a short one)

“Good morning babe,” you whispered into your boyfriend’s ear, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek to try and wake him. 

Ben rolled over with a groan, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the light and the noise, “Y/N....for the love of God...stop shouting.” His gravelly voice was barely audible through the pillow. 

“Jesus Ben,” you said with a laugh, “how much did you boys drink last night?” You had tried waiting up for Ben the night before, but gave up when he still hadn’t come home by 2 a.m. By your best estimate it was about an hour and half after that when he finally slammed open the bedroom door with all the grace of an elephant and flung himself onto your shared bed right on top of you, still in his clothes he wore out to the bar that reeked of beer and cigarettes. It took a good five minutes to wriggle out from underneath him and once you finally he had, he looped his arms around your waist to pull you back against his body. He always was a cuddly drunk, not that you minded in the slightest. You woke up still wrapped in his arms.

“Joe said we needed to drink to all the different wigs they made him wear in the movie. There were so many wigs Y/N. So many.” Ben reluctantly allowed you to remove the pillow from his head and cautiously opened one eye and then the other to adjust to the sunlight pouring into your room. You listened to his stories of the previous night as you took in the sight of him. His hair was sticking up in all directions and his usually clean shaven face was adorned with the slightest bit of stubble, a look that you could never get enough of because of how rugged it made him look. As he talked you absentmindedly traced the lion’s mouth tattoo on his bicep with your finger, your eyes flitting between that and his lips  an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Ben. He started to lean in before you stopped him by holding up a finger in between the two of you.

“As gorgeous as you look right now Benjamin, can we pause this until you’ve brushed your teeth? Maybe taken a shower?” He played offended and scoffed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, taking a second to get used to sitting up before pushing himself off the bed completely with obvious effort. 

“And here I thought my loving partner accepted me no matter what,” he dramatically sighed as he made his way to the en suite bathroom. 

“Oh I do. I just prefer the taste of peppermint to stale beer and cigarettes,” you teased back, finally sitting up yourself. 

“Hmm, you know what I prefer the taste of?” He paused in his arduous effort to make it to the bathroom to turn back around and look at you with a grin, “Banana pancakes,” he finished with a wink. You had half expected him to make a dirty joke, but leave it to Ben to be focused on food while you’re trying to flirt. 

You laughed at his adorable attempt at extortion. “Fine. You wash up and I’ll have them on the table by the time you’re done.” His eyes lit up at his victory. 

“Can we eat in bed?” He began in an excited tone and then quickly switched back to his gravelly hungover voice, “I’m so weak babe... I don’t think I’ll make it to the kitchen...” he clutched his chest for dramatic effect. At this point you began to wonder how hungover he truly was and how much of this he was pulling out of his ass to guilt you into taking care of him. He always was king of the “man cold,” the slightest sniffle and he would put himself on bed rest for a week, getting you to make him chicken noodle soup and asking you to play with his hair until he fell asleep. It was honestly adorable how needy he got when he wasn’t feeling well. 

“Ben that’s gonna make a mess,” you shook your head as you got up and started for the kitchen, but Ben was quick to block your path by putting an arm across the doorway. 

“Tell you what love,” he said as he ran a finger over the waist of the sweat pants you wore to bed, “if you make me breakfast in bed, I’ll provide dessert,” his eyes flicked up to meet yours with a devilish smirk on his face. This was the part you lived for. For those moments where he would take care of you. 

“I think we have a deal.” Ben puckered his lips, expectantly waiting for a kiss from you to seal it. You leaned in, but dodged his lips at the last second and planted a wet kiss on his cheek instead, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” you chuckled as you left him standing there, ducking under his arm to get to the kitchen. 

“Don’t forget the chocolate chips!” He called out after you. 

[dorotheian]

@ariaste

#good omens #nesting #wingfic #preening #erogenous zone: wings #escalated quickly #angels ‘making an effort’ #dubiously explicit???

Aziraphale preened—no, not in the sense that he basked in compliments. Though he did quite like giving and receiving compliments, that he couldn’t deny. No, at this moment he was running his fingers through the feathers of his wings with zenlike concentration, looking for any that snagged or were out of place, and plucking the ones that were nearly loose already, until his wings gleamed and the feathers rippled in patterns of perfection. The soothing activity tended to drive out any thoughts that might yet be lingering in his head.

It had taken long enough to become aware that the urge to preen intensified whenever he was around Crowley. He wanted to look presentable for Crowley, of course, but that didn’t fully explain it. Neither did nervousness. Crowley didn’t make Aziraphale nervous, though he certainly could have that effect on other people. It was true that Crowley sometimes gave him butterflies in his stomach, but he also gave him stomach flops, stomach drops, and stomach clenches... Life became very visceral around Crowley, mostly because Crowley had a talent for worming his way into tight spots that no mortal would escape alive, but Aziraphale had no fear of him. Only, when he dared to admit it, for him, sometimes, but it was rarely warranted.

On this afternoon they had eaten a substantial lunch at one of Aziraphale’s favorite cozy retreats that specialized in home-cooking. Aziraphale had started the preening procedure before he was supposed to meet Crowley, but he ran out of time to stall and prepare, and had been forced to stuff the erstwhile white feathers in his pockets or tuck them in his hair or the folds of his clothes. It probably made him look ridiculous, and he felt very flustered, but Crowley had seemed to like it. All he’d said was, “Had a nice molt?” and Aziraphale blushed and stammered “of course” though it was nothing of the kind. It wasn’t even the right season for it, but had Aziraphale told him that? No.

He wondered what he could say in a few years when he next noticed Crowley was about to shed his skin. It was an itchy process that, in human form, made his skin pinken and peel as if he was recovering from a large sunburn, and made Crowley even more tetchy and adorable until it all came off and his skin suddenly became lucent and baby-soft to the touch. On second thought...it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to draw his attention to it... Crowley could be sensitive.

Now Crowley was napping beneath an apple tree to sleep off the heavy meal, and Aziraphale was going mad over the state of his wings, which should have been perfectly, thoroughly groomed already, and hoped against hope that Crowley wouldn’t wake up until he finished. Aziraphale hated being watched. Grooming was personal, and this was getting...this was getting... absurd. Why couldn’t he stop?

When he came back to himself he shook his wings briskly to be sure that the ritual was well and truly finished. He didn’t quite trust the vague, smug sense of satisfaction he felt... the madness was just waiting to pounce on him again. Aziraphale sighed.

There ended up being an alarmingly large pile of feathers beside him and Crowley, who was just lying there on the cold hard ground. Aziraphale felt a wave of indignation. That had to be uncomfortable. He walked around him restlessly. If only he could prop him up without waking him. Well—for that matter, how much could he do without waking him?

Aziraphale pulled out a handful of feathers from his pocket, shrugged to himself, and got to work. He tucked them under Crowley’s head, and edged them inwards all around his body. He had already made quite a foot-wide halo around him when Crowley stirred. Aziraphale froze, feeling as if he had been caught at something deeply forbidden, and fought the urge to run or explode back into the heavens. He hovered.

Crowley picked up a white feather between his fingers and squinted at it. “Errr...what’s this?” He patted the ground around him—soft—and sat up, looking confused. “A nest? Aziraphale?”

The world went soundless and quiet, except for the sound of Aziraphale’s heart beating powerfully in his ears. He dropped the remaining feathers in his hand where he stood, turned his back to Crowley, and drew his wings as tightly in as he could.

Crowley turned his head and said softly, “Angel?”

Aziraphale sat abruptly and wrapped his arms around his thighs, letting his legs cover his face.

A tentative hand touched his back. “Angel? All you all right?”

No, it was not all right. He did not know what he had been doing, only that it was important to him and his heart would break if Crowley rejected it.

The hand drew small circles on Aziraphale’s back, right between the shoulderblades and the point between his wings. Crowley touched with only the soft tips of his fingers. Slowly, Aziraphale let himself relax and he laughed at himself under his breath.

“If you’re done twisting yourself into knots,” Crowley said, his voice affectionate and sounding oddly far away, as if he had been dreaming of this for a long time, “would you let me...touch your wings?”

Aziraphale let them unfold at his request. Crowley picked through them at first rather clinically, rather like a vet, maybe, or someone leafing through pages of books, until he felt familiar and he found the right spot. He put his palm to the spot, underneath the feathers, and Aziraphale’s whole body sagged and tilted to the side. Crowley snatched his hand back hastily and cocked his head. “Perhaps, ah, would you rather lie down, instead? I’ve been napping like an inanimate lump here afternoon; you should make yourself comfortable.”

Aziraphale nodded and lay face down with his hands lightly set on the ground in front of him. Crowley straddled his back, and Aziraphale was suffused by a wave of pleasure. “Just let me know if it’s too much, if you want me to stop, or if you need more pointed pressure,” said Crowley. “I’ve never groomed anyone else’s wings before.”

Aziraphale made a tiny inadvertent groan.

“Yes, yes, of course I’ll get on with it. Angel.” Where Crowley stroked, Aziraphale leaned into the touch, the tips of his feathers quivering unsteadily.

“It shouldn’t feel this good,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve always taken care of—”

Crowley continued to knead Aziraphale’s upper wings and back, and said in a low, seductive voice, “That’s where you’re wrong.” Crowley must have felt provoked, because he pressed his lips possessively to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale twisted and gasped, “No, don’t stop!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Angel.” Crowley pressed a row of kisses into his neck and down his spine, and stroked beneath his primaries at the same time. Aziraphale’s wings heaved and flexed. “I didn’t realize how...dynamic...”

Aziraphale let out a little cry.

“...staying on top of you would be. Ahh, you’re very powerful.” Crowley’s snake tongue flicked out, touching the top of Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale’s hips bucked. Crowley wriggled and rolled with the movement, pushed himself up again, and buried his fingers beneath the feathers, gripping the wings firmly, and rubbed with both thumbs.

“Harder,” Aziraphale gasped, grinding himself into the earth.

“I’m afraid I’m ssstretched to my limit already,” Crowley admitted, “There’s only ssssso much I can reacccch— but I’ll try.” He adjusted his position, and squeezed.

“Unh,” said Aziraphale, collapsing, and seized hold of the grass before he bucked again and his wings nearly threw Crowley when they caught him by surprise.

“Good,” said Crowley, panting. He manifested his own black wings, fighting to stay on top of him. Aziraphale threw himself to the side, briefly pinning Crowley, and flung himself back again, slithering so they were face-to-face.

Crowley gripped Aziraphale by the shoulders. “Are you sssure? At thiss rate we’ll really...”

Aziraphale pulled his face down for a deep kiss and tangled their legs together, wings thumping wildly against the ground, throwing up dust, turning the pure white of his wings a light sandy brown. “Shhh.”

“Ngkkkk,” said Crowley, squirming closer, and scented the air, flicking Aziraphale’s ear again. Arching, Aziraphale threw his head back. “All this trouble... just because you’re nessssting....”

“Is that what they....call it?” mumbled Aziraphale, letting his arms lie limp against the ground. “I had...no idea...”

Crowley nudged a knee between Aziraphale’s legs and grinned, showing his teeth. “I’m home to you. You’re home to me. You don’t....get out of thissss....sssssssso easssily....”

“You fucking rhymed,” Aziraphale choked, with unabashed delight, and blushed. “Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley thrummed his wings and hissed for good measure. “Sssshut up.”

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, and tightened his—her?—thighs around Crowley’s body. Aziraphale was making a special effort, and that signaled a change in intent, or desire…

Crowley’s wings clapped together and he shouted in surprise when Aziraphale flipped them over once more. “Ahh...more slowly?” Crowley said, from beneath Aziraphale, as he awkwardly straightened his wings against the ground.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, beaming, and bent to kiss him. “Crowley, you are lovely.” She raked long curls askew, flinging them back from her face.

Crowley squirmed, more out of acute embarrassment at the compliment, and her attention, than the desire to get in a better position, though he did need that, too. “A-a-angel…”

“Yes?”

“Sssslower….” Crowley squirmed again.

Aziraphale flushed. “It’s the gender change, isn’t it? I-I-I got too into it, suddenly, and…”

Crowley shook his head, cutting her off with a finger against her lips. “Don’t! Don’t apologize.” Crowley lifted a hand to her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple through her clothes, almost tenderly, and shook his head. “One thing at a time.” He felt pensive. “I need to think.”

“And I always said you were the fast one,” Aziraphale laughed, leaning closer, and Crowley brushed his other hand through her lengthening white hair.

“You want kids? Little angels? Is that it?”

“No! No, I don’t know what I want,” Aziraphale laughed. “Just you.”

No kids, then, if Aziraphale did not wish for them and open a womb. “A home, I think,” said Crowley, and kissed her.

“Yes, our home.” Aziraphale sat back, preening. “Where should it be?”

“Traditionally, amongst the stars,” said Crowley wryly. “Where this works better. Easier to concentrate on flying without gravity, or falling.”

Aziraphale laughed, bright and vibrant. “But it’s so much rougher and more rewarding here, contending with gravity! I had such fun!”

The struggle did seem to be part of the point. Crowley smiled. “Show me.”

Aziraphale did.

[marcoacesabo]

Dump of Wips I haven’t gotten around to finishing and probably never will.

AU where Ace is found by shanks when he was on Dawn Island realized who’s kid he was and promptly kidnapped him along side his brothers.

Marco sat up straight feeling unbelievable annoyance build up in his chest for no reason. Which meant one thing. Shanks was near.

 He set his cup down, straighten his papers then locked his hands in front of him. The blond put his chin in the curve that his thumbs created, counting to ten to calm down his rapidly speeding heart. His hands were turning sweaty and his stomach was suddenly filled with butterflies

If Shanks was near then so were...his cabin boys slash adopted brothers. 

Oh boy. Calm down. You got time. Get ready. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Pops chanted in his head as Marco took deep breaths.

 Once he was done he stood from his chair, and going over to his wardrobe changed into the best clothes he had. A newer purple dress shirt plus some nice butt lifting blue pants wear quickly but carefully thrown on. A golden necklace that resembles his phoenix tails coupled with golden earrings were added next just beacuse he felt like looking shinier today. The blue stash he wears was tied around his head hiding the bold spots, effectively making him more handsome (hopefully). He stood in front of full body mirror, twisting and turning making sure he looked okay. 

His eyes landed on his unkempt hair. It was the last thing standing in the way of making him look well put together. 

Marco was in fixing it when Thatch burst into his room. The brown-haired man gave his outfit a once-over before a smug grin pulled on his lips. 

wiggling his eyebrows Thatch said “Marco! The Red Hairs are here! Better hurry and finish dolling up if you want to see Ace or Sabo~! Oh are those the good ass pants~? They~will~like~ that ~! Trying to get lucky you old pervert? hmm~?”

“Shut up! Get out of my room yoi!”

Au where Luffy was born with the ability to see the future whenever he sleeps and ruins some surprises unwillingly

“Sabo, when you and Ace get marry, will you let me eat all the meat at the wedding-”  Luffy starts one morning after the little seven years old dragged himself from his side of the tree house. He and his brothers hunted down a giant bear to feast on as breakfast and the taste had him thinking of his latest dream. 

They hadn’t let him in the dream but if he asks for permission now maybe they will. 

 He stops chewing at the strange choking sound that leaves his brother figures.

Alarmed Luffy watches Ace turn an odd color of red while Sabo tries to hide his face under his top hat by pulling at the edges of it.  The two look suddenly feverish, and while Luffy has never been sick in his life before he’s seen some of the village kids and people in his dreams get sick and never wake up again. 

Which isn’t good. What would Luffy tell their pineapple husband if his brothers got sick and never woke up again?

“Luffy you idiot! Don’t say stuff like that!” Ace hissed pounding at his chest to force some of the bear meat that got stuck to go down. Sabo had yet to surface from his hat.  “We aren’t getting married! Sabo is my brother-”

“Sabo kissed you and asked you to marry him.”  

“N-No I didn’t!” The blond shouts one eye briefly peering at the gobsmacked Ace. “I never kissed Ace!”

“You did. last night!” Luffy shouts back beacuse why is Sabo yelling at him? Luffy saw it with his own eyes! Um..well his eyes in the dream but Shitty Gramps said that his dreams are always going to come true and that he shouldn’t tell anyone about them. 

Of course, it was Shanks warning him again that really made Luffy listen, he hasn’t even told his big brothers about his dreams yet but that wasn’t here nor now.

“Sabo what the hell? You kissed me when I was sleeping!?” Ace jumps from his seat, turning slightly green in the face. Luffy is getting worried he's going to sleep and not wake up.

“N-No! I was just watching you sleep I promise!” The blond blurts, dropping his hold on his hat in the means of waving his hands around. His words echo through the clearing while Ace turns greener.  “I- I mean I Um..”

“Pineapple also likes Ace’s sleeping face.” Luffy puts in beacuse hey they have another husband and it’s not nice to leave him out just beacuse he’s not here yet. “He likes watching you two sleep and in the shower.”

“Who the hell watches us in the shower!?”

“Luffy who’s Pineapple!?”

Au where Sabo is a pretty blond online-famous model and Ace is his make up artist.  Marco is a clothes desinger hoping to create a partnership bewteen them to get advertisment for his brand

“What do you think?”  Sabo puts the package they got on Ace’s table mindful of all the eyeshadow panel his boyfriend has set out. The makeup artist stops his latest attempt at making himself look like a mermaid- gosh those gills look so real Sabo can’t wait for the next photo shot- to give the shirt a once over.

“It’s...purple”  Is Ace’s first verdict. He sets down his brush to pick it up turning it in his hands.  “But the folds are nice and it’s soft. I like it.” 

The blond smiles. “Good. I like the guy who made it too.” 

“...Like as in he’s a nice guy or like as in he’s a nice guy I want to corrupt?”

“Both.” 

The model is greeted by a skeptical raised brow. The corners of Ace’s lips, half hid by the blue gills he painted on, lift in a clear indication for an explanation. Sabo presents him with the picture of Marco that the fashion designer sent alongside his application. 

It takes one quick glance for Ace’s approval to shine in his silver eyes.  “Call him to come over. I am inspired to paint that lovely face.”

“Oh, you are?” 

“Yes. Look at him Sabs. He’s gorgeous!”

“Plus he’s line is to die for. He makes gender neutral stuff too and I know Iva would sign him on the moment she sees our latest photo shoot.”  

“Even better.”

[jjohnsonwriter]

“The Children are Our Future”

“When is this going to stop!?” Elizabeth Psomas checked the volume of her bullhorn. “Sarah Cohn, a transgender classmate, was murdered; found dead in a ditch, and neither the police, nor this school’s administration have done anything about it!” The crowd forming around Elizabeth on Appian Way kept growing, and they listened in rapt attention. “It’s up to us; the student body, to police ourselves and create a safe space; an environment where we can all learn and thrive! Right now, every man, woman, and child on this campus, be they cisgender, trans, queer, gender non-binary, agender, genderfluid, or native American two-spirit, should feel unsafe!” 

Her friend Sasha Stilton-Brown asked her, “Elizabeth, is it OK if I put down this soap box for you to stand on?” Elizabeth nodded, and Sasha replied, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to provide explicit verbal consent before I can put this soap box down in front of you, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you for asking for consent Sasha. And yes, it’s OK for you to put down the box.” She placed the REI™ pre-distressed, limited edition Soap-Box™ on the brick walkway. Elizabeth stepped up on the box to address the swelling crowd. “My fellow students, for too long have our transgender, gender non-binary, non-hetero, and other genderqueer classmates been bullied, harassed, assaulted, and now murdered!” The crowd started to cheer and shout in a mindless rabble of positive reinforcement. Some of the passing students kept on walking, while others joined the growing throng.

“I’m calling for justice against this horrendous murder; an end to the harassment and abuse, and a campus where we can all learn and work knowing the end of our journey through this institution will be graduation, not subjugation and death!” They cheered Elizabeth on, and she felt the will to effect change; to expand the rights of her peers, and to increase tolerance in society. She was not trans, but having grown up a cisgendered woman, she knew the struggle of inequality and being told what was and wasn’t your place. The dozens of students now gathered around Elizabeth cheered her on.

The mob clambered over one another to hear Elizabeth’s words over their shouts and cheers, “Let’s march down to the student senate, and demand action!” She shouted and raising her bullhorn into the air, the mob followed her down in Appian Way to the Curia, where the student senate met

In seconds the Elizabethan mob filled the Curia’s atrium past its maximum fire marshal regulated capacity of 75 occupants, and Elizabeth’s consigliere, Sasha Stilton-Brown asked her: “Elizabeth, may I knock on the door to the student senate’s office on your behalf?”

“Yes Sasha, please do that. Thank you so much!” She said with great mirth.

Sasha Stilton-Brown politely knocked on the door three times, waited a few seconds, and knocked again. “I don’t think anybody’s here right now.” She told her friend and LGBTQIA+ inclusive, intersectional feminist ally.

Elizabeth scratched her head. “Um, I’m just wondering, if maybe it wouldn’t upset anyone too much here, or trigger them, if we broke the door down?” 

A young man from the crowd came forward and said “No, I wouldn’t be offended.”, but he was white, and from the looks of it cisgender, so they checked with some of the African-American kids, but they said that ‘African-American’ felt patronizing, and if you had to be so crass as to address their race directly, you should call them ‘black’, and that if you were going to write down the outdated and frankly somewhat racist historical phrase, then you wouldn’t use a hyphen, and that you would write it: ‘African American’, because a hyphen would actually imply that the person was someone born in Africa who had also gained American citizenship. 

Feeling the room had reached a consensus, Elizabeth decided that they should all take turns running at the door, then kicking the handle in an attempt to break the door down. They agreed they had a right to do break down the door because without doing so they would feel more threatened by not addressing the campus’s social climate in the wake of the potential hate-crime murder of their transgender classmate.

They broke down the door to find the room where the student senate held their meetings completely empty. “Elizabeth?” Sasha asked her, with the 112 members of the mob standing behind them. “Um… I’m kind of getting the feeling like that maybe the student senate isn’t here right now?” She said, raising the pitch of her voice at the end of the sentence so everybody would know it was a question, and nobody would feel like, threatened, or like, triggered, because it was kind of a tense situation anyway, and they were all feeling a bit ‘on-edge’, which was the term they agreed to use rather than going straight to labeling themselves ‘triggered’, because they were worried that with tensions running so high one person labeling themselves as ‘triggered’ might cause a massive wave of them all labeling themselves as triggered, and they all decided mutually, as like a co-equal-partnership-type-thing, that they didn’t want to put a ‘label’ on it because they knew that some of the group might not want to be labeled, and they didn’t want to make anyone feel they had been ‘Othered’, especially in such a big group, with so much like, ‘revolutionary steam’ built up.

“Right, I’m also thinking that student senate might not be here right now.” Elizabeth said, and one of the nameless, faceless, and totally coequal and valid mob came forward holding a piece of paper which had been taped to the door they were trying to break down.

A cis white girl wearing a black dress approached Elizabeth and Sasha. “Hey guys, I just wanted to show you that there’s this sign that says the student senate is actually out for the day, do you think maybe it would be OK if we agreed to meet another day, and like, maybe table this whole ‘revolution’ thing until the student senate, or some body of representatives we can actually talk to that might actually want to listen to us-”

Then the mob realized a white, cisgender, heteronormatively gender-affirming dressed girl was making the point, so they started shouting the nameless, faceless cis white girl down, the angriest and most aggressive of which were actually white cis females themselves, and the totally co-equal mob stoned her with their epithets: “White Privilege!”, “Cis-Privilege Must Die!”, and the absolutely fatal: “Heteronormativity is Patriarchy!” The mob heaped more castigations, one on top of another until their words blended together in a meaningless avalanche of anti-slurs, and Elizabeth and Sasha realized that they had lost all control over their once unified and somewhat cohesive group. The two friends pressed their way through to the exit and narrowly escaped being trampled by the mob. 

They had escaped to the relative safety of their dorm, and although neither of them were trans, or even gender non-binary, or anything other than like, totally cisnormative in their look, appearance, and the rest of their overall outward gender-expression, Elizabeth and Sasha weren’t taking any chances given what had already happened to Leah Smith: their trans classmate who had been murdered. Leah had been found buried in a shallow grave off the I-80; her genitals and eyes stabbed over 50 times before the attackers had set fire to her corpse.

“We can’t let this stand; we’ve gotta do something!” Elizabeth said as she cracked into a bag of seaweed chips.

Sasha Stilton-Brown had never felt really unsafe before in her life, but now her rights had to have been violated, she thought. She wasn’t sure exactly what rights had been violated, because come to think of it, she couldn’t really think of what all her rights were exactly, but she definitely got the feeling that somehow, somewhere along the line, they’d been violated. So she did the only thing she knew how to do. “Liz, I got it!” 

Elizabeth chewed the wad of granola to the inside of one cheek before clearing her throat and saying: “Well first of all, please don’t abbreviate my name, because it makes me feel like, less than, or ‘Other’,” Elizabeth used finger quotes when she said ‘Other’, “but yeah, go ahead, what did you want to say?”

Sasha cleared her throat before speaking again; “Actually, please don’t presume to give me like, permission to speak, because it makes me feel like I’m being managed, but yeah, what if we started our own student senate!?” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the insinuation she was managing Sasha, but then Elizabeth’s expression lit up when she realized the implication of all the things she (which she immediately corrected herself in her head to ‘we’) could do with all that power to affect change!

“Sasha, you’re a genius!” 

Sasha cleared her throat. “Actually, Elizabeth, please don’t use the term ‘genius’ because it’s rife with patriarchal implications, and my brother actually has an IEP, so I’d appreciate it if you could just, like, not.” Her brother’s IEP was a stunt he pulled so that he could listen to music in study hall and he didn’t actually have any learning disability except the paralyzing fear of spiders and dodgeballs, and aforementioned desire to listen to music.

Elizabeth immediately began to feel a flood of remorse, and tears welled up in her eyes, which she could barely contain. “OMG, I’m soooo sorry Sasha. I had no idea!”

Sasha fluffed her pillow and sat up in bed, working on her American Civ essay on personal freedom and the Bill of Rights. “But you know, you’re right: we need to make our own student senate. We need something which can fight for our rights on campus!” 

Four days later, in the hours preceding the next student senate meeting, Elizabeth and Sasha stood outside to gather another group of students to aid in their cause. They marched into the student senate meeting with their posse of like-minded, freethinking individuals in tow.

An official looking white cisgender female stood at the lectern wearing a Bernie Sanders button on her blazer, and spoke into the microphone: “As class president, it’s my responsibility now to open up the floor to public comment regarding the matter at hand: the senate’s vote on whether we should replace tofu in the cafeteria with soy-free seitan or tempeh.”

A thin young man (really more of a boy) wearing a gray cotton shirt with two interlocking triangles, one pink, the other purple, stood up and addressed the president of the senate, the delegation, and the room. “Hello, the LGBTQIAPK (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgener, Queer, Pansexual, Intersexed, Asexual, Pansexual, Kink) Delegation of Students Living on Campus for Safer Spaces and Healthier Eating Options (LGBTQIAPK-DSLCSSHEO) would like to posit that we only offer quinoa, almonds, and lentils as the cafeteria’s protein options, in light of the fact that seitan and tempeh are grown more internationally, and that we can’t be sure that we’re keeping our institutional carbon footprint at acceptable levels if we import seitan and tempeh.”

The class president scoffed and said: “Excuse me, but last week’s referendum was on precisely this issue, and we voted it down, 5-4 against.” She adjusted her glasses and brushed back her hair behind her ear with one finger.

Sensing either a lull in the conversation, or that if she didn’t butt in now the issue would never be heard, Elizabeth stood up and raised one hand, to which every member of the senate, the LGBTQIAPK+-DSLCSSHEO, the local DSA (Democratic Socialists of America) student union, the student Democratic Party, and the HHWOIB (Hula-Hoopers Without Ideological Boundaries), and the rest of the student body in attendance of the meeting who wasn’t part of Elizabeth and Sasha’s mob, or any other affiliated group, all scoffed at the very notion of something as childish as raising one’s hand, because anyone without a social life (which they assumed was everyone present, seeing as how they each assumed everyone else in the room, given that it was thursday at 5:35 PM, and most students on campus didn’t have classes on friday, which made it the university’s campus wide ‘Thursty [sic] Thursday’) was enough of a nerd, geek, or an outright Poindexter to know the basics of parliamentary procedure re. the fact that one never ever actually does something so blatant, obvious, and childish as raise one’s hand, but rather, intimates through a precise and scheming series of influence building tactics and other machiavellianisms to simply ‘make it known’ that one’s intention at present was to speak, and somehow simply command the attention of the room via psychic will towards one’s self and simply begin to speak. But Elizabeth was about to turn everything these coddled prep-school snowflake cucks had ever known about being a coddled prep-school snowflake cuck on its egg-shaped head.

“Excuse me.” Elizabeth said, raising her hand higher in that ‘I have to pee and I am a small child’ foot stepping pattern many people grow out of very shortly after they hit middle school. “Excuse me!” she shouted.

Class president Harper Graves leaned forward, smiled, and said into the microphone: “Yassss?” At which point the rest of student senate, the LGBTQIAPK-DSLCSSHEO, the local DSA, the student Democratic Party, and the HHWOIB started laughing, although a large contingent of those laughing were actually ‘whoop-whoop’ing, and the HHWOIB were laughing so hard that their internal somatic rhythms had taken over, and they’d started to swing their hips in the circular motions they subconsciously made after months of continuous daily ideology-free 8-hour-marathon-hula-hoop sessions. The only people in the room not laughing were Elizabeth, Sasha Stilton-Brown, and the 99 pissed off students they came in with standing behind them. In fact, Elizabeth and her mob stood stone faced and silent with their arms crossed.

“A student was murdered, and you’re all standing here arguing over tofu!?” Elizabeth shouted over the din. Some of the students were still wiping the tears of laughter from their eyes over Elizabeth’s ignorance of parliamentary procedure politics, but by the time they’d made sense of her words and understood what she was actually saying, the jollity of the room’s atmosphere had come to a grinding halt. “A trans woman’s mutilated corpse was found in a ditch, and we’ve done NOTHING to make this a more inclusive, just, and ultimately safer space in the aftermath of this tragedy!” Her words pierced their bleeding hearts and shot straight through. They all considered themselves trans allies, but in that moment of shining didacticism on the hill, the kids had just been forced to put their money where their ideological mouths were.

Senate president Harper Graves sighed. “If you want to raise the issue, file a motion, and we’ll vote on it at the next week’s meeting.”

Elizabeth walked up to the row of desks to the side of the podium and addressed president Harper Graves. “God damnit!” She shouted, slamming her fist down onto the desk, “We don’t have time to wait until the next meeting! Something needs to be done right now, and we need action!”

There was a clamorous chatter of speculation which broke out about the room: voices conferred with one another in private spaces as to what should be done, and Elizabeth’s spine snapped to attention. She realized that this was her moment, so standing at the head of the room, she climbed up onto the table where four of the nine senate members were sitting, and kicked a pile of papers into the air. A black curtain of silence fell over the room, and all eyes were on her.

Had Elizabeth known what the consequences of her actions would be, she might not have been so bold: so hasty: so… courageous! “All in favor of suspending this farce of the student senate, and transfering all the rights and powers of the governing body to a single leader…” She asked the room, looked directly into senate president Harper’s eyes and said: “raise your hand.” 

Sasha Stilton-Brown was the first to raise her hand, but she looked around the room first, and did it slowly. Elizabeth thought she was doing this not to appear like a blind follower, but Sasha understood well the gravity of the situation. Then, more and more hands started crawling up towards the ceiling, until a forest of men and women’s hands interspersed with different colors of nail polish (on both sexes, genders, and every combination of both) shot up about the room like a treetop canopy with pit-stained roots unifying every race, expression of gender, sexual orientation, and all variety of college campus liberalism

“Those in favor of immediately electing a new leader: keep your hands raised.” Elizabeth said, and nobody moved a muscle. It was parliamentary insurrection, and you could hear individual drops of sweat hit the floor.

Elizabeth looked around the room. Drenched in flop sweat, her hair frizzy in the heat. Harper Graves scrambled back up onto her podium and announced: “I nominate myself!”

“All who second the motion?” Elizabeth asked the room, and everyone looked around as if to check that there were no other aspersions: that they had all made the right choice. None of them cast a single vote for sweaty Harper Graves, not even her co-senators. Caesar’s murder was being committed right before their eyes, and everyone in the packed house just sat back and watched.

Knowing to quit when she was ahead, Elizabeth surveyed the room and savored the moment. “Motion passed. The chair recognizes Elizabeth Psomas as new Senate President. Meeting Adjourned. We’ll be holding the next meeting on Tuesday in the quadrangle.”

Some brave, slack jawed moron with an IQ of 120 (which wasn’t really a fair measure of intellect, they all acknowledged, given that the IQ test is notoriously biased towards white European males, but it was the closest thing they had for an intellectual yardstick, aside from SAT scores, which were their own sociopolitical minefield) had the balls (or whatever passed for ‘balls’ around these people) to ask: “What’s a quadrangle?”

“The fucking quad!” Sasha Stilton-Brown shouted, and they all left the room, shaking their heads at their compatriot’s ignorance: a sign of what was to come.

On Tuesday at 8:00 PM, just after the dining commons had closed they gathered on the quad. All the walkways and public areas had been brightly lit at night ever since the series of sexual assaults and brutal rapes had plagued the campus almost a decade ago. The Dean had managed to keep all incidents out of the papers, which was the only reason the college was still standing. But everything was about to change.

“Friends, Romans, country-people of varying ethnicities and gender identities: take back your campus. Take back your safety. Take back your rights!” Elizabeth shouted into the bullhorn, and the hundreds of students all holding hand-painted signs and their smartphones like torches in the night roared. 

Dean Whimple was watching from his office. He called the head of campus security: ‘officer’ (although he held no legal position whatsoever) Erik Goon. “Goon! We’ve got an insurrection!” The dean said, sweating into his suit as he listened in on the other end of the line. “It means get the fuck down here and break this shit up, god dammit! If we don’t get in there soon it’ll be all our asses!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. “And Goon: for the love of god, don’t use force! The last thing we want is some legacy kid getting pepper sprayed, or god forbid, tazed, then they record it on their phone and it’s all over cable news for the next month!” Dean Whimple hung up to call the national guard, but then thought better of it. ‘No, Goon can handle it, and if Goon can’t fix it I may as well just resign right now!’

The Goon Squad reached the quad as fast as their Segways could carry them, and although they had been instructed explicitly by Dean Whimple to show restraint, they all had itchy trigger fingers, which a constant schedule of working out and mentally preparing oneself to beat the living shit out of some stuck-up rich kid who was just about to go off and make at least five, probably more like ten times your annual salary tends to do. Living their lives in a constant state of preparing for war had made the Goon squad ready to use deadly force, not to mention the pent-up homosexuality of spotting each other for all those sweaty, grunting reps in the weight room and the way the students segregated them in their own space, treating the campus security like some sort of crew-cut gestapo, or neon jerseyed SS.

Erik Goon screeched his segway to a halting stop in front of the quad and addressed the mob. “Disperse! Leave the premises and go back to your dorms!”

Elizabeth had worked too hard, and fought too long (since last Tuesday) to give in now. She commanded her army with the implicit epithet she knew would set their revolutionary blood ablaze: “No Nazis, No KKK, No Fascist USA!” She shouted from the center of the mob into her bullhorn, and they all started chanting the words in unison. Each of her acolytes’ warm bodies formed a protective cocoon to guard Elizabeth against campus security. She knew that if the authorities could cut off the head, then her movement would die, but if all they could do was to wound the flesh, then she could survive any challenge the administration had to offer. Sasha was right there with her, and she enticed the crowd to fervor, repeating Elizabeth’s chant: “No Nazis, No KKK, No Fascist USA!”. They locked arms around the edge of the mob so that even if a student on the outer ring should be tazed (which they were), or pepper-sprayed (which they were), a student being held up by all the social justice warriors around them would have no choice but to remain ramrod still and endure the abuse.

The crowd started to chant “We Shall Overcome” when the tasers and pepper spray started to become too much, and they seemed newly resolved, and to Goon’s eyes, totally impenetrable. Then a nameless voice shouted out from the back: “Fuck the fascists: resist!”

They broke ranks and started to overrun campus security. The mob was armed with lighters and cans of air-duster they turned into blowtorches, and students on the outside stood with three ring binders they held onto as shields interlocking in a phalanx, while their compatriots stood behind them and swung down on the Goon Squad using socks with locks in them.

Assistant head of security Mike Felcher turned to Officer Goon and said: “We’re fucked! Let’s go.” and Goon tried to marshal his troops but it was futile, and they all hopped on their Segways and rode away as fast as possible, fearing what might happen if the mob were to overpower them.

The revolutionaries stayed on the quad all through the night, and feeling a strong sense of comradery the next morning everybody went to breakfast together, commandeering an entire section of the cafeteria for themselves. Elizabeth and Sasha at this point saw fit to expand the rights and privileges of the student senate to overtake the position of the actual administration of the college, in the name of protecting the student body, which was the whole reason they’d started this thing in the first place: to make sure that none of them would ever again be made into a Sarah Cohn, or abused, offended, or upset in any other way, even if it was just the lack of a trigger warning or exposed to an idea which they felt triggered them in some way.

“We’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot!” Elizabeth said to Sasha, who this point was not lost on.

“Do you realize, that if we’d been in this position in our parent’s generation, we’d be looked at either as revolutionaries or radicals?” Sasha said, and Elizabeth thought she had a good point.

Elizabeth drank her coffee with a snowflake pattern stenciled in milk on the surface out of an avocado, and as she drank from the avocado, watching the snowflake slowly melt into the coffee, then dissolve into nothing, an enormous dam of rage that had been building up inside her finally burst. She stood up from the table realizing she just couldn’t take the oppression anymore.

“AAAHHHHHHHHH-TRIGGERRR-WARRR-NINGGGGGGG!!!” She screamed, and flipped her tray all over some freshman, covering him in a green slurry of avocado mixed with scalding hot coffee. He ran out of the cafeteria screaming, and covered with third degree burns, but nobody got up to help him or even gave it a second thought, because they thought he was a white, cisgendered male, but was in reality a somewhat butchy African American lesbian with albinism.

“Are you OK!?” Sasha asked her, terrified of what had happened to her best friend.

Elizabeth turned to her, and shouted: “STOP TRYING TO GASLIGHT ME: I’M NOT CRAZY, AND I’LL ASK FOR HELP WHEN I NEED IT!” And upon hearing this the acolytes descended on Sasha and dragged her off to some gulag of their own invention, because Elizabeth couldn’t be bothered to keep track of these things and she realized it was better not to ask such questions. 

“I’m calling an emergency meeting to order in the student senate right now!” Elizabeth shouted as she stormed up Appian Way to the Curia with her mob following closely behind her. They filed one by one in a purposefully random order into the student senate room so that nobody could say any one race, gender, gender identity, or sexual preference was privileged above another.

Once inside the student senate room everyone was too terrified of Elizabeth to address her directly, and much more afraid of each other should any one of them be seen to speak out of turn or break ranks, so they all just stayed, inspecting one another for any sort of ideological deficiencies, making sure to complement each other on anything they could determine as sufficiently breaking with traditional gender roles, racial stereotypes, and the like. All the cisgender white men had started wearing dresses over their jeans, painting their nails, and smearing so much makeup all over their faces that they looked like clowns.

“We’re going down to the dean’s office with our list of demands!” Elizabeth shouted. None of them had taken the time to write anything down or hash any of their ideas out, but they knew what they all wanted in a general way: something about some transgender-something, or something-something. It didn’t matter anymore.

Dean Whimple watched as the mob stormed up Appian Way towards his office, and they could swear they saw his Adam’s apple expand and contract in a very visible ‘gulp’ motion from outside the building on street level. The mob took to the stairs, seeing as how only a small platoon among their swelling ranks would fit into an elevator, and Elizabeth said that if they just showed up one elevator load at a time it didn’t have the same impact, not in a ‘revolutionary-change-type-way’, so they took the stairs. By the time they reached the eighth floor where the Dean’s office was, Elizabeth and the mob had become wily and primal. Something essentially human had left them and whatever was left of them when they got to the eighth floor was just animalistic urge and the bloodlust that drove them forward.

Finally she could see it. All of her sacrifice and effort since last Tuesday: nine long days of oppression in the free-wifi-all-you-can-eat-three-times-a-day-with-two-snacks-in-between gulag, and the constant threat that if she happened to be trans (which she wasn’t, but that was besides the point) that she could be murdered at any point in time was all worth it! Elizabeth approached the door with the words: “RICHARD WHIMPLE, DEAN OF STUDENTS”, stenciled on the pebbled glass. Elizabeth inched closer and closer to the door; justice, honor, and most importantly safety was finally within arm’s reach! Never again would anything bad ever happen to her or any of her beloved classmates. The world would truly be a Utopia, if only the rest of the world could enjoy the same unending rights and infinite privileges that she would soon secure for herself and the rest of the student body! But this was only the first stop! First ----- University, then: The World! Elizabeth reached out to touch the handle of the Dean’s office, but something was terribly wrong! There were shadowy figures looming behind the door’s translucent glass, and something much more dangerous than just one more cisgendered patriarchal male oppressor was lying in wait behind that door.

Then the face Elizabeth thought she’d never see again appeared before her: the best friend, closest ally, and dark confidant: Sasha Stilton-Brown, appeared before her. Confused, terrified, and trembling away from the door, Elizabeth was thrust back into the blinding light of her ex-best-friend’s glare. The subtle manipulations, the Stalinist realpolitik, it was all a clever plot to undermine Elizabeth’s authority, and transfer all of her power, bit by bit, one pernicious deed after the next, until her ‘best friend’s’ authority had finally eroded out from underneath her, leaving her dangling from a precarious ledge, and this was the final push over the cliff’s edge.

“You knew it was going to end like this.” Sasha said as she opened the door, pushed Elizabeth into the dean’s office, and slammed the door shut behind her. 

Elizabeth screamed: “TRIGGER WARNING!” as Sasha Stilton-Brown and her classmates stood outside the room, and saw the muzzle flashes light up the dean’s office. They smelled the burnt air of the gunfire. They all pressed their backs to the wall opposite, blood running out from under the door to the dean’s office and into the hallway.

[theblessedwitch]

Arkham Asylum Survival Tips.

This is from my decaying Quotev account. I wrote this so long ago now, but I thought it might be fun to put it up here.

Arkham Asylum survival tips. As you know there are do’s and do nots to incarceration at Arkham here are some for a slight chance of survival.

Do not think singing the Batman theme song is going to result in any thing other than a painful expierance.

Touch Dr Crane’s books at your own risk.

Asking Edward Nygma if he wants to talk about his ‘daddy issues’ isn’t smart he will kill you.

Telling Deathstroke that Deadpool would totally kick his ass is grounds for immediate medication for talking about fictional characters again.

Flirting with Joker is a new level of stupid but be prepared for a blonde crazed Brooklyn women to try and kill you.

If you should escape and get access to the rogue’s confiscated weapons unless you hundred percent know what your doing don’t touch them and even then it’s likely they will hunt you down and kill you for the inconvenience.

Asking Bane who his dealer is isn’t going to get you any venom.

Please stop asking Copperhead if she can teach you swear words in Spanish, we do have Spanish speaking inmates and doctors it’s not a secret way to insult people.

Yes, Dr Crane is not the strongest person here this isn’t a go ahead to try and dominate him if he doesn’t get you back straight away then I’d suggest sleeping with one eye open for the foreseeable future.

If Edward Nygma should take a disliking to you giving him some puzzle books on the side isn’t entirely a bad idea.

Threatening ivy with weed killer doesn’t scare her, her 'babies’ are quite capable of looking after their selves.

Trying to persuade Selina Kyle to curl up in your lap like a kitten is your own funeral.

Shouting 'CROWS’ around Jonathan Crane just to try and scare him is going to result in a frightening death.

Asking Victor Zsasz to cut your food up for you is inviting trouble.

Asking Waylon Jones where captain hook is, will most likely end up with you missing body parts.

Touch Osito and you risk being broken.

Singing twisted fire starter at firefly may seem funny to you but God help you if he starts one.

Asking Edward Nygma what’s green, purple and black and regularly gets his ass handed to him by Batman is seriously stupid.

Telling Edward Nygma that he can use his Cain on you anytime he wants doesn’t sound sexual he will take you literally.

Asking if Crane wants a new test subject doesn’t sound sexual either he’ll gladly take you up on the offer.

Playing music aloud is permitted as one of your recreational activities but please be mindful of what you play as the last time someone played Justin Bieber aloud a fire broke out, a bomb went off, Bane smashed through two walls and Jarvis tried to initiate a flash mob.

Telling Harley you want to joke and fool around with her is in affect volunteering your head for a game of croquette.

Telling Jonathan crane that he is the grim reaper is only going to give him an ego boost.

Singing I’ve got a brand new combine harvester around Pamela isn’t wise.

If your not afraid of bombs then by all means scream capitalism on the top of your voice around Anarchy.

If you should be unlucky enough to draw the attentions of Jarvis Tetch then it is best advised to inform a doctor or guard and not to tell him your the reincarnation of the red queen or the jabberwocky he’ll take this just as seriously.

Asking any of the female prisoners for nudes may be asking for your phone to explode.

Telling Harley Quinn that vampires aren’t as good as werewolves will put you into a no exit lifelong debate.

Trying to flirt with any of the doctors and asking them if they want to start a 'mad love’ will mean that your doctors may have to be switched to the same gender as you and if you still persist then we will be forced to only use video connection to speak with you.

Asking Batman to bite you so you can join his legion of the undead is going to result in a neck brace.

Shouting to the Batmobile might end up with you being chucked under it.

If there is a break out it is advised to stay in your cell for your own safety and not to try to form teams of your favourite rogues.

Don’t think it’s funny calling Penguin happy feet or Mary Poppins.

Neither is calling officer Boyles Scarface.

Starting sleeve fights with your straight jacket is not their intended purpose.

Cash’s hook is not a kitchen utensil.

Although movies are permitted in recreational time there are some rules to when certain films can be shown as different inmates are effected by different things.

Neither of the Silent hill movies are allowed when Dr. Crane is present. Silence of the lambs is not permitted when Waylon Jones is present. Stephen King’s It isn’t allowed around Joker.

The Saw franchise isn’t allowed around Edward Nygma, he doesn’t need encouragement.

Tim Burton’s Alice in wonderland isn’t allowed when Jarvis Tetch is around, this should be common sense.

Most violence filled movies aren’t permitted around Zsasz, you don’t really need anything to trigger him.

If you find that Dr. Crane is taking a frequent interest in your personal fears and phobias you should immediately tell a guard or doctor and not tell him stupid made up fears and phobias as if he finds out that your lying he’ll make it his personal mission to make you frightened of your own lies.

It’s best to humour Joker when he asks if you want to know how he got his scars?.

Bragging about animal abuse is not only grounds for time being taken away from your recreational time but you may incur abuse from some of the animal loving inmates.

Instigating wheelchair races is not the purpose of the wheelchairs and is strictly prohibited.

Telling Jarvis that the ghost of Arkham is watching him sleep will earn you solitary confinement.

Writing riddles on the walls and then trying to blame Edward isn’t clever, because he will pick so many holes in your argument and ridicule you so savagely that your likely to end up developing a self inferiority complex.

Trying to steal Osito to sleep with at night isn’t going to end well. For anyone.

Please refrain from stealing medication as we regret to inform you that we believe some of them may have been tampered with, if you begin to laugh uncontrollably, start to feel that Jarvis is making sense or ten foot cockroaches are stampeding through the halls please tell a doctor or guard.

Asking two face to flip a coin for every mundane decision you make is eventually going to end up with your life being determined by a fifty fifty probability.

Telling Jarvis that the Grudge is looking for him is again not acceptable.

There are some patients that suffer from insomnia and stress induced sleep deprivation, if said patients happen to fall asleep then leave them alone it isn’t your place to be as loud as you possibly can to try and wake them up, it’s not just really annoying but it could result in them taking it out on the first person to wake them up, so just make sure it’s not you.

We would appreciate it if everyone who frequents the gym to stop trying to get Bane and Waylon to lift increasingly heavy weights, it always ends in competitions turning into fights.

Male inmates who try to sneak into the female showers please keep in mind that the last time this happened his remains was recovered from the drainage system.

And in relation any female inmates who try to sneak into the male showers…are actually non existent, seriously no one wants to go in there. O_O

Please check your personal toiletries before using them, apparently Joker and Harley has an ongoing bet to see which one of them can dye the most people’s hair.

Trying to play whack a mole on the other patient with Harley’s hammer is strictly prohibited.

Please refrain from laughing at Riddler’s green hair, it is being resolved. :?

The rumours aren’t true there isn’t going to be a 'trick or treating crazies field trip’ please try to remember your here for your own rehabilitation.

Hair dryers are very welcome but trying to thaw out Mr. Freeze with them is not.

Please remember that giving medication forms into the doctors that have been signed by either Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane or Hugo Strange are not valid they are patients their selves, there are reasons to why they can no longer practice.

Trying to show Jarvis Alice madness returns the game is strongly discouraged.

please do not touch Nightmare or Craw.

No, you can not have your straight jackets in sparkly pink.

Upon apprehension some patients may have their own personal work on their person, trying to plagiarise or copy their life’s work is going to end up you experiencing the product of their work firsthand.

Please use the doors and not make new exits.

Your sinking to a new level if you ask Mr. Freeze 'is your wife giving you the cold shoulder?’.

Deprive people of caffeine at your own risk.

Music Meister will not sing for you, why would you even want him to?

Killer moth isn’t going to follow laser pointers, he only dresses like a moth.

Touch Harley’s J necklace at your own cost.

The spinach in the canteen is not part kryptonite, and if your stupid enough to try and throw it at superman as a deterrent then on your head be it.

Detective J'onn johnz is not an alien.

No, Vicky vale doesn’t want an exclusive interview with you.

Jack Ryder might have published a paper on his triumph over Floyd Lawton but Deadshot says otherwise.

No you can’t phone Amanda Weller with your phone privileges and ask her to 'sign me up for the suicide squad!“.

Robin doesn’t have to sign in as a minor, stop insisting he does.

Bruce Wayne will not adopt you.

Music Meister will not serenade you, he might perforate your eardrums but he won’t serenade you.

Joker really doesn’t like cream pies in the face, who knew?

No you can’t use Zsasz as a living tally chart board when your playing pool, he might return the favour.

Deathstroke will not teach you some 'really cool Army shit!’ He could possibly demonstrate some 'really cool Army shit!’ On you but he won’t teach you.

The last person to sing Miley Cyrus’s wreaking ball actually ended up squashed by one, I have no idea how they pulled it off but they did, really creatively too.

Yes security levels at Wal-Mart are better, we all know.

Ichobod is not Jonathan’s real name.

Green arrow isn’t looking for maid Marian.

And no he’s not from the legend of Zelda either.

It’s quite easy to swipe Boles’s burbon. Just don’t tell him I told you.

Trying to lift Catwoman up like the lion king isn’t going to work.

Oswald isn’t pingu.

No you can’t redecorate your cell, it’s not meant to be homely.

Bribing the staff isn’t advised but we all know you could probably get away with it.

Batman isn’t into BDSM.

Ra’s al ghul isn’t going to die if you throw salt at him, you might though.

please be kind, I know it’s not the best written piece in the world. I’m resitting my English and maths and trying to improve by writing the subjects I like.

[a-wanderin-whirlybird]

Harry Potter AU

I got a Harry potter AU idea while reading the Dogfather by @nonasuch. It started in my head as similar but then it changed... big time.

So Harry is left on the Dursley’s door step and the Dursley’s say No Thank you and send him off to be adopted. And Harry is, but not by a muggle or a wizard, rather by the descendant of the Celtic Hero Cu Chulain and her friends and family, all of whom are descendants of ancient hero’s and Gods. He has an Aunt Lilac who owns a Gym and gives self-defense lessons and just sometimes has the sword Excalibur and gets into arguments with Oak trees/Merlin often. And his Godfather Mathias, he runs a restaurant and his gender was more fluid that water, being the descendant of Loki, and could catch fire at will. And Harry’s own father, Carter Elmhurst, had non-stop energy and could summon the Gae Bolg when angry. Harry is raised knowing he can talk to snakes, even getting one for his 10th birthday whom he names Mordred, something that makes Aunt Lilac laugh. He grows up arguing with Oak trees with his aunt when Merlin decides to be a Prat. He grows up with an understanding of death. And most importantly he grows up despising using magic for little to no reason and Hating the confines of the Chosen One. Below is a little story of Harry and his family getting ready for Hogwarts,

Harry sighed as he walked with his Dad through the streets of London. Accompanying them was a recently met Hagrid, his Aunt Lilac and his Godfather Mathias. Hagrid looked sheepish and a bit awkward with the three glowering ‘Muggles’ pressing close. Harry elbowed Hagrid.

“Chin up. They aren’t mad at you. I know for a fact that Aunt Lilac got into an argument with the tree in her front yard this morning. Mer was being an extra big Prat since he found out about the letter. And Dad just gets antsy.” Harry tried to sooth Hagrid who simply nodded as the odd group turned into the Leaky Cauldron. 

Getting through to Diagon Ally was easy and once there Hagrid launched into getting Harry set up with his inheritance and his supplies. Likely to lose the nervous energy. Harry watched as Godfather Mathias vanished into the crowd and Aunt Lilac lifted her head and straightened her back. Bringing her regal aura around her like a cloak. Harry felt Mordred, his little Ball Python, stir on his shoulders as they walked the bustling streets. 

“When do we eat?” Mordred hissed and Harry smiled. 

“Later, we have to shop first.” Harry responded, his Parsaltounge impeccable.

“Shame, I see a few fine rats in the windows. Could I eat them?” Harry laughed.

“No, no I think those are pets.” Harry responded.

“Shame, I doubt they would be missed. Wake me when these lugs figure out who your family is, that will be a show.” Mordred then curled a little tighter around Harry’s shoulders and fell asleep.

“Harry, pup, keep up.” Harry nodded as his father, Carter Elmhurst, paused to wait for him. Harry jogged over to him and took his father’s hand. 

Now, Gringotts was a bit of a scene. Aunt Lilac and Harry’s Dad got into an argument with the Goblins about how Minor’s should not be in charge of their fortunes, and why, if apparently they knew where Harry was all along, they did not contact them sooner. Harry has simply watched with a frantic and nervous Hagrid who had no clue how to respond to two ‘Muggles’ arguing with the Goblins. Said argument quickly turned into an outraged call for basic human rights to be respected for the Goblins and then Harry decided to wander off. After telling his Dad he was going to check out the shops with Mordred. 

Harry liked books. He had read all manner of books at home, everything from his Dad’s research, all heavily annotated and corrected historical tomes, to the beautiful fiction of Sir Terry Pratchett. After paroosing the sweets and sights, of course Harry ended in the Florish and Blotts Book shop. Harry happily lost himself in the shelves, eyes trained on the titles and spied one that seemed interesting. Hogwarts a History called to him, perched on the top shelf. Not that a silly thing like heights would stop him, Harry rolled up his sleeves and began to scale the floor to ceiling shelf. 

“Young Man!” Harry yelped as the shrill voice of a woman joined the unnatural feeling of being plucked away from the shelf by an intangible hand. Harry grumbled along with Mordred as they were jostled and lowered to the floor. “There is no need to climb the shelves! If you want to see a book simply ask, or get it yourself.” 

Harry turned to face the elderly woman wearing a large pointed hat with cracked teeth. She had her little button nose in the air and had an air of superiority about her that made Harry seethe. Harry adjusted his dress and pushed his ponytail back into place with a glare.

“I was getting it myself thank you, until you so rudely interrupted.” Harry watched the woman roll her eyes.

“Muggle-borns. Use magic child, there is no need to-”

“Why? I have working arms and legs and it’s a bookshelf. It would take great skill to slip off a bookshelf. Or a considerable lack of athleticism, which you clearly lack.” Harry heard Mordred laugh into his ear as the woman sputtered and walked away, calling for Harry’s Dad. Harry smirked and turned back to the shelf only to find a wild haired girl peeking out from behind the bookshelves.

“Why did you do that?” The girl asked.

“Do what?” 

“Yell at that woman, you could have just used magic! Isn’t that why you’re here? You’re going to Hogwarts right?” The girl asked walking towards Harry. Harry shrugged.

“Well yeah, but why should I use magic when I can easily climb the bookshelf? There’s no need to use magic for everything. I’m Harry by the way, Harry Elmhurst.” Harry held out his hand, which the girl took.

“I’m Hermoine Granger! And I guess I see your point. What were you trying to get anyways?” Hermoine asked, Harry pointed to the book.

“That one, it looked interesting.” Hermoine squinted and gasped.

“Oh! Hogwarts a History! I read that one! It’s so fascinating!”

“Yeah It looks it! I wanted to flip through it before Dad came by with Aunt Lilac and Godfather Mathias. But that woman got stupid.” Hermoine rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Well alright, here I’ll give you a boost if you grab the Codex for Rare and Unusual Lineages for me.” 

So the deal was struck and Harry, boosted by Hermoine scrambled up the bookshelf and nabbed both the books much to the shouting of various old people. the two children then darted off to a quiet corner, giggling with their prizes, and settled down to read. It only took a few minutes before Hermoine asked another question.

“Why do you do that?” Harry cocked his head.

“Do what?”

“You whisper to your snake. Why?” Hermoine asked, holding her hand out to Mordred who tentatively sniffed, then gently wrapped around her arm. Harry chuckled.

“Oh Mordred has some cool things to say. I speak snake, which, this book says is called Parsaltongue. My Godfather Mathias got him for me last year for my Birthday. He is very smart!” Harry said beaming. Hermoine squeaked.

“You are?! could you show me? it sounds-”

“Dull.” Harry and Hermoine turned to the snivelly new voice. A boy with platinum blonde hair was sneering at them, a man who looked like his father preening in the background.

“So what you say you can speak Parsaltongue, only the heir of Slytherin can do that! And you’re just a Mud-Blood.” Harry sighed as Hermoine shrank a bit. 

“Leave us alone, We just want to read in peace.” Harry said, though he knew that wouldn’t happen.

“I just thought I’d stop your delusion before you hurt yourself. Parsaltongue. pah! You should just go crawling back to that pathetic place you Mud-bloods call home and never return. Neither of you belong here, especially you girl. I’m sure there is a zoo somewhere that would love to have their elephant back!” 

“Fight him Brother. I will keep the girl safe.” Mordred hissed rather loudly as his grip on Hermoine tightened and she shrank more. Harry stood up and Hissed back.

“Sure thing Brother. Make sure you actually have our story straight this time yeah?” Mordred laughed as Harry darted forward and decked the boy square in the face. There was a crunch as a nose broke and a thud as snotty boy fell back. Harry was on top of the boy hand pulled back for another blow.

And another blow did land and another and another. The red haze took Harry’s vision before he was suddenly yanked away and flung down the isle. Harry landed with a heavy thud by the store’s door, blood pumping in his ears. He watched as the elder man, possibly the other boy’s father stepped forward, wand raised, and his mouth moving  to form words, but Harry didn’t hear them. But he saw the light, and he saw a familiar figure step in front of him. then sound returned as the burning light of a spell fizzled out.

“Dad?” Harry gasped, his ribs aching.

“Harry, darling, sit still a second yeah?” Harry recognized the kind and soothing voice of Mathias squatting next to him. Standing in front of him was his dad, and Aunt Lilac and a deadly still store.

Aunt Lilac had the blonde man that had hexed him, sword at his throat, wand lying upon the floor cut cleanly in half. She held herself perfectly, her very DNA moved her into the stance of a knight holding back a foe. And before him, smoking from the after effects of the hex that had been cleanly cut, a jagged thorn wreathed spear in hand was his Dad. Teeth sharp and eyes glowing red in rage. Beside him, his Godfather sizzled, a fire burning in his belly that poured smoke from his mouth. Harry smiled and turned to Hermoine who looked shocked.

“Right. I suggest you stand down Sir. Don’t want this to get any uglier.” Mathias drawled. picking Harry up to his feet as he to stood. Raising to a full 10 ft tall much to the awe of the store.

“Stand down?” That boy attacked my son Draco!” The man hissed and Aunt Lilac laughed.

“And for picking a fight my son shall be punished. By me. Not by you and not by trying to throw him through a window.” Draco’s father snorted.

“Says the man whose Whore of a wife has a sword to my throat.” Harry laughed as his dad, voice heavy and monotone spoke.

“Lilac is my half sister dumbass also your king, technically. Mathias here is my best friend and ten times more threatening than you. and Harry here is my son.” His father pointed at the man. “Now walk away, and we will stand down. Comprende?” 

“I will have your son expelled before he even reaches Hogwarts!” The man spat, and Harry laughed. “Whats so funny Brat?”

“What’s funny is that you couldn’t expel me if you tried! I don’t want to go but Dad’s of the opinion that you need to learn to control power not ignore it.”

“Harry. Now is not the time.” Harry stopped laughing as his Dad turned to him, and nodded.

“Sorry Dad.” 

“Now. Leave.” Draco’s Dad began to speak before Lilac barked.

“Leave now, that’s an order!” The man and his son Draco were helpless as they were propelled out of the shop by the strength of their own legs, but not of their own accord.  Lilac then turned to the shop at large, the authority in her voice still present. “The rest of you back to your business!” 

And with that the store returned to normal, Hermoine crawled out of her hiding space, clutching the forgotten books and Mordred wrapped tightly around her forearm. She raced over to Harry as his family returned to normal, and slammed down the books.

“What was that? I’ve never read anything about magic like that!” 

“Friend of yours Harry?” Mathias asked as Mordred slithered back to the boy.

“Erm, Hermoine I’ll explain but uh, are you ok?” Hemroine scoffed.

“Am I ok? I’m fine! Are you ok is a better question! That, that, monster could have killed you! All be cause you stood up for me.”

“And myself to.” Harry reminded. H gasped as Hermoine hugged him. 

“Right. Harry, I’ll get your books, why don’t you and your new friend go with your Dad back to Olivanders?” Aunt Lilac offered the sword vanishing. 

“Uh sure, Hermoine do you want to join us?” 

A few minutes later, Hemroine was walking with Harry and his Dad. Harry listened as his Dad reprimanded him, rather gently, and checked to make sure he wasn’t to badly hurt. After a little while Hermoine spoke again.

“But really Harry, what was that?  I’ve never heard of any kind of summoning weapons spells. I also thought Muggle’s weren’t allowed in Diagon Ally, even if they were with their children?” There was a snarl and a whispered curse from Harry’s Dad at that.

“Well, My Family aren’t muggles, but they aren’t wizards or witches either.” Harry said. “See they’re Divine Descent.”

“Divine Descent?” Hermoine asked.

“Yeah so they each have an ancestor who was divine or a mythical hero. My Godfather is a Descendant of Loki. Aunt Lilac is King Arthur’s successor and Dad is... Dad, do you want to tell her?” Harry asked. For the first time since getting to Diagon Ally Harry saw his dad give a big smile and he struck a pose, pulling the Jagged spear out of thin air.

“I am a proud descendant or Ireland! The Heir of the Ulster Cycle’s greatest Hero! The Hound of Ireland! Child of Light! I am the Heir of the Gae Bolg, a warrior and a noble soul! I am the descendant of Cu Cuchulain!” Harry laughed as his Dad’s theatrics came to an end, he even heard Hermoine giggle a bit. Harry’s dad cleared his throat, sending the Gae Bolg back to the Aether.

“In short out family, Minus Harry here, all have divine blood that has manifested as traits similar to our divine ancestor. There is a form of magic with it, but it’s not the same you will be learning. Our magic is based on the power of our own creation and our hard work. Lilac had to train herself to have other obey her orders with out question and in doing so became a respected member of society. I trained with a spear for years before I could summon Gae Bolg.”

“What about you Harry? Are you secretly Merlin? or Morgana?!” Hermoine asked, turning back to Harry who shook his head.

“Nah, Dad Adopted me when I was a Baby. The police found me with a letter that gave my first name and not my last, so Dad kept my name the same. I’m just Plain old wizard Harry.” Hermoine shook her head.

“No you’re not! You’re Harry my friend and the boy who can talk to snakes!”  Harry smiled as Hermoine pet Mordred in the doorway to Olivanders. 

Friends. He like the sound of that.