#don’t you dare edit out that waggling tail in post so all I see are puppy dog eyes

[funky-brainedwhaletransgender]

It’s just a little bit soul crushing when I come across trans men talking about how much they hate men. Apologizing for being one. Like ‘haha I guess I’m a trans man yep that means I, as a man, suck, just like all other men haha feel free to vent your frustrations about the patriarchy at me. I can’t help being a man I hate men why would I choose to be one?’

I remember being there. Hating the gender you belong to is exhausting. It’s worth deconstructing I promise, even just for your wellbeing. Here’s a start:

Manhood isn’t inherently tied to misogyny and violence. Misogyny and violence are choices. Just choices that men are disproportionately conditioned into making. Men can and do rewrite that conditioning all the time. Manhood isn’t the problem. The problems are misogyny and violence. You’re not a bad feminist because you let go of the hate you have for the manness of yourself. Your manness doesn’t make you violent or misogynistic, being violent and misogynistic make you violent and misogynistic make you violent and misogynistic. Testosterone HRT doesn’t turn you into the archetype of male violence. Testosterone isn’t the driving force of misogyny and violence. Do you understand what I’m saying? Misogyny and violence are not inherent and inescapable to anyone, regardless of identity. Being a man doesn’t make you evil.

Treating misogyny and violence as inherent to manhood excuses men for being violent and misogynistic. Accountability is real hard when you consider doing bad things a fundamental nature tied to an identity. If men are sexist, can you blame this man for being sexist? That’s just how men are. Do you see how this is boys will be boys hidden behind a couple layers of pseudo feminism?

I spent years dancing around manhood because I believed the second I labeled myself a man I was the enemy. The number of ways I found to describe my masculine identity that weren’t man. The number of times hearing ‘at least you’re not a man’ set me back. The number of times I came so close to manhood, but ran into an explicitly trans inclusive ‘I hate men’.

I think the best word for how manhood feels to me is settled. Being a man feels like home. Masculinity feels so gentle, in a big ol’ teddy bear sort of way. Growing a beard and letting your little cousin stick flowers in it. Making sure none of my students think it’s okay to make fun of the kid who cries a lot. Answering ‘boys don’t cry’ with ‘I’m a boy, and I cry every single time a dog in a movie is sad’. I want to be so kind. I want to be the man someone chooses to start working on their dog’s fear of men with. I want to be trusted to watch a drink and to walk with people to their cars at night. I want them to find a cure for cat allergies so I can get that patting-tiny-animal-with-hairy-hands gender euphoria without eye irritation. Cardigans and top surgery scars. Wrinkled hands injecting testosterone. My dream life closes on sweet if eccentric old man.

I may have tangented a bit, but just… you don’t have to hate the man part of you. It doesn’t do any good. It’s not a moral responsibility. You can let that go because ‘man’ is just a gender. It isn’t a fundamental evil that exists deep within your being. The only evil masculine urge I’ve ever felt is the desire to wear athletic shorts in the middle of November. You’re not doing anything wrong by existing as a man I swear.

[chaos-ineffable]

Snakeskin

I’m a tad bit late but here’s some snuddles (snake cuddles) for the Great Good Omens Snake Off. I haven’t written in a bit and forgot how much fun it can be so this was a nice reminder!

Edit: I thought of a better name while posting to AO3 but I still like Snuddle Time

                                                ____________

Aziraphale likes to consider himself a patient man. He has dealt with a lot over the last six millennia and humans, in all their chaotic beauty, have taught him that patience is indeed a virtue. But even he has a limit.

And that limit is currently being poked, prodded, nudged, pushed, and elbowed sharply. By his darling husband, no less.

“Angel, why do we have to go again? I thought we were going to have a bit of a lie-in. Do the whole lazy morning lie-in shtick. Cuddle, snog, get some well-deserved rest. Maybe even fuck, if we felt up to it. Why are we not doing that?” Crowley whines, following Aziraphale out of the bookshop and tossing their overnight bags into the back of the Bentley. He leans against the car and folds his arms over his chest, practically radiating displeasure in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Dear,” Aziraphale sighs. He inhales slowly, reminds himself that he is, in fact, in love with the demon, and releases a calming breath. “We have been over this. Anathema and Newt need someone to watch over their cottage while they are visiting Anathema’s family in America. It is only right that we lend them a hand after everything they did to assist with Armageddon. Now, please, stop asking. We are going, whether you like it or not.”

Crowley’s face pinches in anger and he grumbles something under his breath but he doesn’t try and argue further. He pushes off the Bentley and stomps back into the bookshop.

Aziraphale watches him go and adjusts his waistcoat in annoyance. All day, Crowley has been like this – angry and picking for a fight – and Aziraphale cannot begin to fathom why. Life has been good since the failed Apocalypse. They’re finally free to live how they like, to be in love and completely entwined in each other. They’ve been happy. So Crowley’s sudden bad mood leaves the angel confused and more than a little worried. But he already promised Anathema they would be to Jasmin Cottage by this evening, so there is nothing he can do about it now other than ride out the demon’s horrible mood.  

Crowley returns with the box of pastries Aziraphale had put aside for the trip. He places them in the backseat and glares at them, ensuring they won’t dare to be smashed or go stale during the drive to Tadfield. “That should be everything. Get in, angel.”

Aziraphale chooses to ignore the grumpy tone and does as he’s told, settling in for a long, silent ride.

---

No one is there to greet them when they reach the cute cottage Anathema bought shortly after helping stop the Apocalypse. There is a note on the door written in neat handwriting explaining that Newt and Anathema had had to leave earlier than expected because of a miraculous ticket switch that will get them to America at a far better time than two in the morning.

Aziraphale glares at Crowley’s back as the demon saunters into the cottage before him, bags in hand and scowl still in place. “Really, dear? We at least could have seen them off.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, the movement obvious despite his dark glasses, and sneers at Aziraphale, “Yes, right, of course. Because going out of our way to help with their damned cottage isn’t enough, we should have walked them into the plane as well. Sorry I didn’t realize this was a fulltime babysitting gig.”

“Really, Crowley, what is wrong with you today?” Aziraphale admonishes.

Crowley doesn’t respond. He growls and huffs and grumbles his way out of the cottage, slamming the door hard enough to make Aziraphale wince in sympathy for the poor frame. He shakes his head and turns away from the door, looking over the bags Crowley had dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor. With a wave of his hand, they were in the bedroom, tucked neatly under the foot of the bed.

Crowley will be back, hopefully in a better mood. In the meantime, Aziraphale could really use a cup of tea. It doesn’t take long to find all the necessary parts and he’s lounging on a soft couch with a steaming mug in no time.

He’s working on his second cup when the door opens and closes softly. He waits expectantly for Crowley to wander in, an apology on his tongue and a fine wine between his fingers. But all he gets is the even softer closing of the bedroom door.

He lets out a sigh. He can’t deny he’s worried now. It has been over a year since they broke ties with Heaven and Hell, a year since Crowley has been this upset about anything and unwilling to tell Aziraphale what is wrong. He sighs and takes a sip of tea. He’ll give Crowley a little more time.

Two hours later and Crowley has yet to leave the bedroom. Quietly, Aziraphale puts his mug down and stands. He has given Crowley long enough to address what the matter is. If he won’t come to Aziraphale, then Aziraphale will just have to go to him.

He knocks softly on the bedroom door. “Crowley, darling, can I come in?”

No response.

He knocks again and asks the same question a little bit louder. This time there’s a muffled hiss. It sounds annoyed but Aziraphale learned a long time ago that when it comes to Crowley, annoyed doesn’t necessarily mean no.

“Okay, I’m coming in.” The door swings open easily and Aziraphale stares at the sight before him.

All he sees is black and red. Loops and loops of it fill the room, coiling around the furniture, writhing and shifting constantly. It shines in the low light of the setting sun, glimmering in a way only newly revealed skin can. Around the edges of the room, tucked beneath muscular coils, is a dried-up pile of old skin. A pair of eyes stare unblinking from the mattress, a sheath of white-blue scales covering their true brilliance. A blue-black tongue flicks at the air and Crowley hisses softly. He sounds ashamed.

“Oh, my love. You should have told me you were shedding.”

Crowley hisses again, his tail flicking against Aziraphale’s wrist and wrapping gently around his arm. He shifts his head on the mattress, adjusting his coils, each the width of a small child, and pulls Aziraphale towards the bed.

Aziraphale goes willingly. “Do you need help, dear? Water, perhaps? Although it looks like you’ve got most of it off yourself. And how beautiful you look. Your scales are positively gleaming.”

There is no reaction to his praise. Crowley simply flicks his tongue out again and recoils slightly when it brushes against Aziraphale’s trousers. He recovers quickly and presses his head into Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing his snout against his wrist and working his way up, until he is nosing at Aziraphale’s face. He wraps around the angel’s shoulders and squeezes gently, hissing a soft apology into Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“My heart, there is no need to apologize. I should have asked why you did not want to come here instead of assuming I knew. Let’s both promise to work more on communicating and we can forget any of today ever happened, yes?”

Crowley unwraps himself from Aziraphale and hisses in agreement. He lowers himself back down to the mattress and rests the side of his head against Aziraphale’s fingers. This close Aziraphale gets a better look at the eye caps. They’re cloudy with a tint of blue and completely cover Crowley’s eyes. “Do you need me to pull these off, darling?”

Crowley nudges his hand again.

Aziraphale pulls away enough to inspect the area around the eye, worrying his fingers until he sees a small flap of dried skin still attached to each eye cap. With a mumbled warning and as gentle a touch as he can manage, he grabs hold and pulls each eye cap away, taking his time to ensure he doesn’t cause any harm.

Crowley lets out a hiss of relief when the second eye cap falls to the floor. He raises his head and twists, inspecting the rest of his very long body before turning to Aziraphale. His eyes, back to their full sunflower glory, are enrapturing. He flicks his tongue, waggling it against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Oh, stop it, you old fiend,” Aziraphale laughs, stroking a hand down one of the coils near his hip. “Now, why don’t you turn back so we can do some of that cuddling you mentioned earlier.”

The last word barely leaves his lips before he finds himself thrown onto the mattress with several pounds of snake wrapped around him. Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and offers some more snake kisses.

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly and wrestles an arm free, patting Crowley’s snout before miracling a book into his hand. “I suppose this works too, wily serpent,” he mumbles happily before he settles further into the comfortable weight of Crowley’s coils and prepares for a long night of snake cuddles.

[lavalampelfchild]

And this monstrosity is finally done!  Trying to get Alistair to actually look like Alistair was incredibly frustrating (I hope I did a decent job of it).  

So here is King Alistair, post-Blight, sharing a moment with my Amell OC, Aja.

EDIT: There’s a little ficlet here, below the cut, to explain this moment, but it’s a piece of writing about which I have some mixed feelings, and of which I am not as proud as I am of the picture.  I will leave it up because I don’t want to brush imperfections in my writing career and development under the rug, and I believe in having something of a writing trail to track my progress as I develop. 

I will explain that this entire piece (the art and writing both) was inspired by a piece of Skyrim art that I saw which took an illustration of a single moment and then paired it with writing to give that single captured moment context and nuance.  And that little excerpt, I felt, added so much to what would otherwise have looked like just another piece of fanart.  I wanted to try doing that, but it didn’t exactly end up the way I had hoped it would.  The art, however, is something I put a lot of work into, and of which I am quite proud.

It certainly doesn’t have to be the case for everyone, but I’ve found that I tend to prefer the pieces of art that show a captured moment, rather than a still-life or a portrait of someone.  As a result, when I’m making my own art, I prefer to avoid having my characters looking directly at the camera, and try to portray them in the middle of doing or saying something.  I absolutely love it when characters are showing some sort of emotion, or are in the middle of performing an action in a piece of art.  Anything that makes them look like there’s movement or expression, even if it’s a composition showing just a single character with a particular expression on their face.  It implies something more than just what we see, and that’s what I live for in visual art.

That’s what I tried to show here: a single moment in time with a trajectory and a history that showcases human emotion and expression, and the fic below is meant to show that trajectory and history.  

(And for those who don’t want to read the fic, but care about the context, it’s basically about my Amell using her magic to cheer Alistair up.)

Alistair sighed.  This dinner was awful.  It was painful having to sit through.  Lobbying, thinly veiled insults, sycophantic nonsense.  The food was alright, but he could hardly focus on the flavor with everything else going on.  And the worst part of it was that he was expected to smile and take it all.  Oh, no, we need this trade agreement to not fall through, and then there’s Lord Who’s-It who controls vital whatever, and he gets very temperamental when you insult his cat.  Bastards, the lot of them…

Except they probably all knew their mothers.  

When Alistair finally managed an excuse to get away, he escaped into a quiet hallway and sighed. Who knew this king business was so damn stressful.

He meandered the hall a ways and wondered if they would send someone to bring him back if he stayed away too long.  He scrunched his nose in distaste at the thought, his neck tingling uncomfortably. He brought his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed absently at his nape, thinking up different excuses he could use that would get them to leave him alone.  Maybe an illness?  Something in the meat wasn’t sitting well with him?  Well that might have worked if he hadn’t had two helpings without any issue…

He felt the tingle again and paused, brow furrowed.  Alright, that doesn’t feel too normal… He felt it again, and pressed his hand harder to the back of his neck.  

Suddenly, something sparked against his neck and he yelped, whirling around to scope out the perpetrator because there was no way he was imagining that.

And there she stood, Aja Amell, some distance away from him, her hands folded in front of her, looking innocent as you please.  

Alistair narrowed his eyes.

“Was that you?” he demanded, his voice a pitch higher than he would have liked.  Aja’s eyes widened and she placed a hand gently over her chest as though offended.  

“Your Majesty!” she gasped. “I would never!”  Her expression was the very picture of delicate harmlessness.  

Yeah, no, Alistair wasn’t buying it.

Fighting back a grin, Alistair leveled her with as kingly a glare as he could manage.  “Is that so?  Then, who was it?”  

Aja looked around as though making sure they were alone before taking an earnest step toward him. “Oh, Majesty, it was terrible!  A sneaky witch thief has made her way into the castle, and it seems she’s running amok causing trouble!  I tried to stop her before she could get to you, but I fear I was too late…”

Alright.  So the grin won, and Alistair lost.  He turned to face Aja more fully and crossed his arms, warmth blooming in his chest.  So she was playing it like that, was he?

“Uh-huh, yeah, right. I know it was you.  You’re the sneaky witch thief.”  I’m never going to live that down, am I? “You know, what you just did is technically high treason.  I could have you… I don’t know, thrown in the stocks or something.”

Aja’s eyes were sparkling, her grin as wide as Alistair’s, and Maker, how he loved this woman.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aja challenged, planting her hands on her hips.  Alistair waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”  He sighed dramatically and held himself up in the way he imagined all kings did, metaphorical tail feathers puffed and everything.  “These are the consequences for assaulting royalty, and you really should think about that before you—Agh!”  A tiny bit of static zapped his cheek.  He turned to glare at Aja.

She smirked threw a small ball of sparks his way.  He just barely managed to scramble out of the way.  “Hey!  Stop that!” Aja boldly ignored him and sent more sparks his way.  “You—!”

“I’ve no intention of going quietly,” she declared, preparing another spell.  Alistair outright laughed at that.

“Ah, so I see drastic measures are required.  I think I can handle that.  Get over here, you!”

Aja bolted down the hall and Alistair followed, dinner forgotten.  It didn’t take him long to catch her, and when he did, he pulled them both to a nearby alcove, holding her tight as he pressed playful kisses to her laughing face.  

“You’re awful,” Alistair declared, smiling against her cheek. “Absolutely awful.”  

Aja laughed and reached her arms around him.  “Well, I learned from the worst.”  She pinched.

“Ouch!  Will you stop harassing me!?”  He supposed his command might have carried more weight if his smile didn’t currently threaten to split his face in two.  Aja didn’t answer, but looked up at him instead, and held his gaze. For one long, breathless moment, Alistair was caught by her expression.  

Sometimes he still couldn’t get used to it; how could someone – anyone – look at him the way she did?  As though he were everything, everything in the whole world, the one thing on this blighted land that the Maker got right?  It awed and humbled him.  

He wondered if his face looked like that when he looked at her.  Doofier, maybe.

Eventually, Aja sighed and rolled her eyes, the moment passing.  “You’re thinking too much.”  Alistair flushed and buried his face in her hair, an awkward chuckle escaping him before he could stop it.  For several quiet minutes, they simply stood there, basking in each other’s presence until Alistair grudgingly remembered why he was even there in the first place.

“…I suppose I’ll have to go back to that dinner, won’t I?”

Aja didn’t answer immediately, and really Alistair could hardly blame her.  The nobles who attended these events – especially foreign dignitaries – made no secret of their disdain for mages, or for mages occupying important positions in a royal court, or for mages sleeping around with kings.  Alistair winced at that.  

Well, they should just consider themselves lucky that he couldn’t rightly marry her because then they’d really have a problem.  Ooh, the king of Ferelden took a mage as his queen!  How scary!  How indecent!  That was one Alistair heard a lot.

“I certainly wouldn’t object if you decided to stay here,” Aja finally said, drawing him out of his thoughts.  He looked down at her, noting the uncertainty in her voice.  He opened his mouth to reply, but Aja continued, her tone one of somewhat forced cheer.  “I should hate to think of you being accosted by our sneaky witchy perpetrator—”

Alistair huffed impatiently. “Alright, really?  It was one time, and I – okay, so it wasn’t exactly the smartest thing I’ve ever said, but I hardly deserve t—”

Presumably to shut him up, Aja yanked him down and kissed him, Alistair’s surprised yelp muffled by her lips.  

His reaction was immediate. Pulling her closer, Alistair deepened the kiss, ultimately deciding that if it came down to a choice between Aja and some stuffy dinner full of impossibly annoying nobles, there really was no contest.

After several moments – Alistair didn’t really care to keep track – he pulled away.  Smiling, he set his forehead against Aja’s.  “You make a compelling argument.”

Aja winked.  “I have been told that I’ve a clever tongue.”  

“Hm.  Must be all that lamppost-licking you’ve done while you were still a saucy young apprentice.”  

“I beg your pardon!”  

“Acting all affronted, are you?  Well, that won’t work, my dear, I know all your dirty secrets.”

Aja squirmed in his hold, playfully smacking his shoulder.  “I have no ‘dirty secrets.’”  

“Is that so?  So you’re not the one sneaking around with the king of Ferelden making free with his virtue?”  

“Well, there is that…”

Alistair grinned and swooped down to steal another kiss.  Let the stuffy nobles deliberate or be scandalized or whatever the hell it was noble people did at parties.  

He had a sneaky witch thief to deal with.