sometimes, being trans can mean feeling older than your cis peers - more weathered, perhaps - when you're really quite young, and that's because dysphoria has the power to grind your life to a halt.
when every particle of your being, every ounce of energy you contain, is dedicated to attracting as little attention as possible, either by hiding your trans identity and pretending to be the gender you were assigned at birth, attempting to 'pass' to the best of your ability, or simply ignoring your transness insofar as you can because that's what you need to do to survive, there’s room for little else. it's absolutely inestimable how much brainpower is dedicated to this, usually for years of a person's life. it really does feel like you're stuck, exactly where you are, because any move you make outside of your immediate sphere will cause a ripple that will splash back on you somehow.
when you eventually come out the other side, through social transition or medical transition or a combination of the two, it feels simultaneously as if you are playing catchup with everyone else around you and also like you've aged beyond your years prematurely. it’s a weird one
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when your temper ignites (E, 666 words) - a good omens ficlet
Anger is not something us angels are encouraged, even permitted, to feel. Frustration, indignation, upset, confusion… These all skirt around the rim of acceptability. We can allow them into our work, into our lives, just about. But pure, unadulterated rage? The kind that alights deep within the pit of one’s belly, golden as Hellfire, and spills out as if it were destined to set the world ablaze? That, I have never come close to.Â
By contrast, you have fanned the flames of your undeniable anger with an intensity which only increases as our time on Earth stretches on. Where curiosity and a relaxed sort of stoicism seemed to dominate your will when we first arrived here, it now appears that your discontent with the way things are can no longer be contained. There is no emotion I have witnessed you express more strongly, no feeling you let yourself nurture more freely, than your fury.Â
It’s the reason why you stalk through Soho singed and smoke-shrouded, as if you were just struck by lightning (and, unbeknownst to the human passersby, you are the keeper of the lightning by which you have been struck). It’s the reason why you drive your car dozens of miles above the speed limit, refusing to slam the brakes even for pedestrians. It’s the reason why you snarl at your plants until they tremble, frightened anew into growing better.Â
It’s the reason why you usually storm out of the bookshop at the first sign of trouble between us; why you tend to bow out of our disagreements before they can peak, and therefore before they can dissolve. It’s the reason, I think, why you wait until you’re loose-limbed and hazy-eyed with drink before you beckon me over to your perch on the sofa beside my bureau, legs spread wide and belt already undone. Why you polish off a few glasses of wine before tugging down your tight jeans just enough to ease your length onto my tongue, breath hitching as your fingers glide through my hair without gaining purchase; why you only urge me to press into the flooded heat of your cunt after a particularly long afternoon at The Ritz, with a deep flush dusting your chest and a glimmer in your eye.Â
You must think you are doing me a kindness, in sustaining our intimacies not as an outlet but as something else entirely; a gentle thing, a thing painstakingly restrained. Meanwhile, I have been pondering the manner in which to reassure you that you need not restrain yourself on my account, that I can bear whatever it is you are so hesitant to unleash upon me. That you are truly beautiful when your temper ignites, and I would never attempt to dampen or shrink it; that I wish it was a sensation I had it in myself to nurture, too.Â
So long as you believe that you must cradle your anger with my presence removed from you, you deny me permission to do what would release me temporarily from the writhing labyrinths of my mind – that is to say, you deny me permission to feed off it. You deny me the pleasure of empathising with you, of being counsellor to you, and most of all, of being had by you, being taken with a fervour that needs not hide all that makes it covetous and fierce.
Please intuit the weight on my mind somehow; grant me the listening ear required to tell you that, when you let yourself feel, you let me feel, too. Allow me and my bookshop to be the one place in the universe where you do not starve yourself of your truest, most secret wants, where you can be as angry as it takes for you to keep going with Hell underneath you, Heaven above you and the Earth at your feet.
Your anger is the most human thing about you, and therefore the one thing She cannot understand. I implore you not to smother it.
-
thank you so much for reading! reblogs and comments are much appreciated<3 here's the ao3 link again hehe
this work is a gift for @voluptatiscausa! love you boo
i find it hilarious how crowley so often gets a lot of his undeniable campness removed from his looks/personality in fanworks - because aziraphale is incredibly camp himself, in a more identifiable and 'effeminate' way than crowley, people's need to create binaries and (albeit unconsciously) replicate heteronormativity often seems to dictate that crowley apparently has to be markedly more masculine. actually he is still camper than a tent in a field lol. let them both be camp in their own way!
on a solo holiday in the south downs for a few days! this was so needed and i am definitely considering it my own kind of writers retreat<3 i’m excited to be stress-free and get some words down in my docs this week<3
guards! impregnate that man! is not strictly about actually impregnating the man in question. it’s not really about mpreg or a seahorse dad situation - or at least not solely. the deeper truth is that we must knock him up emotionally, perhaps even philosophically
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sticky, breathless heat (E, 1.3k) - a guess the author eden ficlet by ineffabildaddy
They’ve been doing it for a while now. It’s practically all they’ve been doing over the past few days. Today, however, is the first time they have ever been caught in the act.
An angel and a demon are watching them from the wall. It’s a long way down from there, but it’s a good vantage point if one is merely interested in getting the gist of it.
written for the @gomens-timeaftertime server's first gta event for the prompt 'classic'!
one of the reasons why aziraphale/crowley drives a lot of us crazier than other ships in my opinion is the fact that the only thing more erotic than having sex is not having sex even though you really, really should just fucking do it. to not fucking do it even though there's clearly tension between you for 6000 years, finding proxies for it to content yourselves with instead (ox-rib, oysters, lonely american soldier roleplay, blowing paint off a jacket) the entire time??? it just hits different
at the moment, 3! my two fth offerings and a random first person pov horny regency oneshot that i come back to now and then. i've also got a gta event i want to write for this month but alas i have no ideas yet💔 hopefully one will come to me soon!
