#im fond of it and would rather keep it and not have the recovery of phallo

[faithisland]

its extremely frustrating that I'm very happy with the size of my pumped dick, and very unhappy with the size of it normally. it means I can't decide whether to go through w metoidioplasty or not

Id rather get meta, in every way. but I just don't know if my dick is gonna grow any further, and at this size, it won't be long enough to stp, which is a big part of it for me (well,, the whole thing is. actually)

so I'm just in this limbo state of pumping every day for dysphoria and growth, and just hoping against hope I'll get another growth spurt

when do I just bite the bullet and book a phallo consult?

[sleepymccoy]

year in fic

i saw a couple of these around and i love the idea! so yeah im taking part too <3

Heresy

Rated: General

Word Count: 2,524

Posted: 15/6/19

3000 years on from the apocalypse have been pretty chill for Crowley and Aziraphale. Gabriel and Beelzebub took their posts after they quit their jobs as reps on Earth and now are trying to get in touch to discuss personal matters. This is basically a short fic that’s jut a hella awkward conversation with some possessiveness, it’;s sweet. Side note, this was my first fic and I wrote it up before we knew Beelzebub uses they/them pronouns so I used the actresses pronouns for it. I mean to fix it up but haven’t got to it yet, so, apologies

Needed a break, gone to France x

Rated: General

Word Count: 8,808

Posted: 28/6/19

About a week after the apocalypse and Aziraphale leaves Crowley a note on his door explaining his absence. Crowley goes into a tailspin trying to decode it for like two months. Light miscommunication fic, but it’s made up for with some nice fondness and some letters at the end that are pretty cute tbh 

Try On Some Pride For A Day

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 20,614

Posted: 4/8/19

One night, two months after the apocalypse, Aziraphale challenges Crowley to a competition. Will Aziraphale get Crowley to inhabit the seven heavenly virtues, or will Crowley get Aziraphale to enjoy the seven deadly sins? It’s all very cheerful with much sexual tension and a couple of squabbles. This is a friends to lovers sort of fic. It’s also asexual Aziraphale, pretty outright, so while it gets steamy there’s no sex in the fic

Summoned

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 12,635

Posted: 21/8/19

Heaven and Hell decided that as they have their Worst Employee of the Forever sorted, they could shimmy the worse parts of the gig off to them. And being summoned sucks. Crowley finds he keeps getting summoned by different people, more often than ever before. This fic is the roughly year and a half period after that failed apocalypse, told only through scenes where Crowley (and one time Aziraphale) have been unwillingly summoned by someone. I will say the real joy of this is that Crowley is pissed off most of the time and Aziraphale is appropriately protective. The last chapter is full blown sex. This is another friends to lovers fic

Is It Worth It Yet

Rated: Teen

Word Count: 10,935

Posted: 22/9/19

Around abouts the 1000AD mark, in what would become Turkey a few hundred years later, Crowley sat down, took a breath, and told Aziraphale how he felt in a total trainwreck of a conversation. Chapter 1, that conversation. It’s pretty angsty but I fix it all, don’t worry Of course, Aziraphale would then expect Crowley to bring it all up again after the apocalypse, and when he doesn't he decides to take matters into his own hands and broach the topic himself. It doesn't go as well as he'd hoped. Good ending tho, don't worry guys. 

Soft.

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 9,178

Posted: 10/10/19

Crowley has had one thought going about his mind for a while now, and that is that he really likes Aziraphale's body (highlighted by how he comparatively didn't enjoy seeing Aziraphale in Madame Tracy). But how does one tell their friend of 6000 years that he's got a hot bod? Awkwardly and with great difficulty, is the answer. He accidentally dredges up a Gabriel-related issue Aziraphale has been holding on to. This is a very consent heavy fic, there’s a lot of “are you sure?” and “what do you want?”

the kind of thing one says easily

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 15,496

Posted: 15/10/19

Kind of my take on an au where Crowley just straight up told Aziraphale pretty early on that he loves him, so it was a fact of their dynamic for centuries before the apocalypse. I call it the "if they actually communicated" au. Fits in with tv canon, I've done a prelude or a run on from one or two major scenes in the show, you'll almost certainly catch it. But yeah, snapshots of them talking about feelings, sometimes very serious (mostly pretty serious actually) but sometimes quite light and lovely. Classic lads. Still don't get together until post apocalypse cos, ya know, it be like that. Runs from like 2000bc to 2020ad with 12 segments of story, although three of those are 2019 cos like that's when shit really went down

Not Quite Human

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 10,398

Posted: 26/10/19

Crowley and Aziraphale had both quit their jobs for each other and returned home after the apocalypse, tumbling rather helplessly towards a relief-filled romance. But old habits die hard and with nothing left to keep the pair from expressing their feelings, they created their own barriers to hold themselves back. And so years passed with pointless desire, self inflicted wallowing, and miserable restraint. Luckily for both of them, the angel was fed up. He’d been stewing too long and had decided to give it a go. This is kinda an exploration into a different writing style for me, it's not a dedicated pov and it's full of little flashback style (sort of, not like serious flashback, more like mulling over the past for context) vignettes with ideas i wanted to include. 

Still Waking Up

Rated: Teen

Words: 31,153

Posted: 5/11/19

Aziraphale has noticed Crowley's odd behavior. Since the Apocalypse he has spotted Crowley outside the shop, just watching, like a watchdog that watches and doesn't come in and explain himself. This fic follows a roughly two year period after the apocalypse in which Crowley admits to nightmares about the bookshop and Aziraphale burning and struggles to come terms with it and ask for help. Aziraphale grows increasingly lonely and purposeless and some of his damage from Heaven rears up. They slowly navigate supporting each other as best they can. Main points of interest are probs bed sharing, much mutual pining, kissing, and softly handled trauma recovery.

(omg guys that’s a cumulative word count of 121,741 in six months! that’s a whole lot more than i’d imagined. what a year)

[craftedcoils-blog-blog]

Jerks

At the same time, or slightly before you read this, on a small vessel just outside of the planet Earth's atmosphere, two rather bored looking individuals sat in silence flipping unmarked cards onto a table.  The cards gradually piled up.  

"I win," one of them said.

The other collected the cards, shuffled them, split the deck and started over.

"I win. Thats six.  Im telling you, its all in the wrist."

The other shook his head as he gathered up the cards again. "For you maybe.  But I'm on a whole other level.  I'm working on a special technique," he said looking downward with a grimace-like expression, "a secret technique.  Ancient.  A technique of the mind."

"Well whatever, I've grown rather fond of the wrist technique.  It seems to be effective for winning."

"Its not all about winning, Siggy."

"Actually thats all its about."  

He flipped another card

  "I win."

"Well maybe in the long run, but once I get this down, I'll be winning in my sleep."

"And how long does this technique take to develop?"

"Dunno, probably like another four thousand years.  You just keep wristing about…you'll see."

"Well I don't have time for that."  Flip.  "I win.  I quit."

"You can't quit.  I can't master the technique unless you play.  Just one more, I've almost got it."

"Nope." He got up and adjusted his jumpsuit as he floated away.  "I'm done," he said, "have fun," yawning so it sounded more like 'howl run'.  He floated across the room and brought his ass down onto the rotating stool in front of the control console.  Just beyond him was a window, on its glass surface was a vast diagram of the galaxy, the screen activated automatically as he sat and the Earth appeared.  He moved his palm across the ball in the middle of the board and various index fields opened up.  Lines of glyphs streamed along the fields and he selected a certain parameter of information that he needed.  "Hey Salamander," he said.

"Not now I'm concentrating."  He flipped another card.

"No seriously," Sigfried checked the text once again for verification and then turned around.  Salamander, narrowed his eyes on the target and flipped again.  The card went out of control, catching a maverick pocket of gravity and flew to the other end of the room.

"Shit," he said.

"Salamander you dull witted bastard.  I've got the lock-in.  Lets get dressed, its time to do this."

Salamander shot up from his seat, and immediately found himself in a deep, orgasmic black-out stretch that disabled him even as he drifted into the ceiling.  "Yearrrhhh!"  He announced upon his recovery.  He positioned his feet on the ceiling and propelled himself in the direction of the door.  "Its about damn time.  Im startin' to get space-crazy."  The door opened and he drifted through it.  

"Yeah right."  Sigfried palmed the ball and brought up the log.  He typed something into the field, read it, deleted it and typed something else.  He cleared the screen, leaving only the live video feed of the Earth before doing a backflip that sent him flying towards the door.

Sigfried drifted through the bright tunnel after Salamander.  "Goddamn this lexicon.  It keeps fucking me up. I almost made an entry in English.  The translation would have been something like 'smoking mango bridge platoon'.

"Hey, thats pretty funny.  Yeah I've realized that despite the phonetic similarities in origin, the languages don't exactly translate with the greatest accuracy,"

They reached the end of the corridor and another door flew open.  

"Did you know that the word for jillywog, when phonetically translated into english means 'violent sodomy'?  I think thats hilarious."

They flew over to a platform and, with their legs straight, bent over so that their heads were at their knees and grabbed onto handles sticking out of the floor.  

"Yeah and your name's a lizard," said Sigfried.

The gravity came back on and their legs flopped up which instantly became down.  They fell from the handles like sausages and flopped around on the floor for a while.  

"Wee."

"Ugh," Salamander grunted, "my organs".

"Yeah its like spontaneous obesity."  I feel like an elfant."

They crawled towards the ladder in a similar fashion to the behavior of helpless, brain starved zombies.

Salamander panted, "Oh, I think you mean elephant. Get on it."

"On it?" , he pondered, "mmm.  Oh yeah."  

They managed to make there way to the ladder, but by then they had grown accustomed to the dead air and were walking normally.  

"Better not be doing that when we're on the ground or you'll blow our super secret cover.  Ruin everything."  Salamander keyed open a glass container on the wall and flipped the switch inside.  The door flew open.

"Doubt it.  Are you sure they can even speak they're own language?"

"Language is language.  I guess it doesn't help either that we were tutored in the lexicon of 21st century American English.  "

"Yeah they're already going to think we're crazy.  But whatever.  After a few of these, I'm almost beginning to loose interest in the art of  it all."

Salamander blew out. "Yeah right.  The art.  Good one."

"Yeah.  Right."

Once inside the room they stripped from their white jump suits and stepped into the showers.  Sigfried slammed his hand onto a button and they closed their eyes.  With a high pitched sound, a thousand subatomic sanitation capsules began their molecular fornication, splitting, exploding, and instantly covering them in a fine white powder.

Sigfried opened his eyes back up, "yeah well, we'll only be dealing with Grey for the most part.  But lets keep it classy, he turned around to face Salamander with a hard winkish expression, wish I was the jovial one."

"No way.  You had your chances.  Its my turn.  Plus, with how much experience you have with it, imagine how much better you'll do with the other!"  Said Salamander voluptuously, "and we also have to deal with Tatum this time.  So I got dibs."

Sigfried's preparation for this one was pure documentation.  It still allowed for an equal performance to Salamander's; being directly conditioned through the eyes and experiences of human beings, but Sigfried's was still a more analytical one.  'Participation On Top Priority Of Importance.'  This was not his preferred rodeo.

The refreshers had dried onto their skin and they turned to face the wall.  Spindly little metallic arms slithered out from countless invisible holes , clicking like little spiders and delicately peeled the waxy substance from their bodies like reptilian egg goo.  Standing there naked, shaven and dripping with excess refresher, they looked like a couple of clergy clones straight out of the bed.  

They each stepped into one of the dozen follicle pods that lined the adjacent wall.  As the doors slammed shut, a soothing but relentless vapor filled the tiny rooms.  During their training, Salamander remembered, they had been adamant about making sure your eyes were closed during this part of the cleansing procedure.  But he had realized that if you look down at a certain angle, the retinas don't become irritated, and you get to see your hair grow back.  Salamander enjoyed the show, like plants growing in fast forward.

The pod doors opened up and they each stepped out, rejuvenated, disinfected, and freshly furry with a specific calibration of body hair.  They stepped out and headed back into the locker room.

"Alright Siggy," Salamander adjusted his shirt collar, "should we do some sight seeing first, or just get straight down to business?"

"You know my answer.  I can't stand pre-dhonic human society.  Any period actually."

"Oh c'mon its fun.  Its like…"

"Its like visiting your smelly old grandma's preserved vagina.  What are the coordinates?"

"Alright.  Achille, Oklahoma.  40-00100.  33°50′5″N 96°23′25″W / 33.83472°N 96.39028°W / 33.83472; -96.39028."

Sigfried typed on the key board, it made bloopity bleep blop sounds. "Alright lets do this."  

They stepped into the Fader and Disappeared.

[runeterrasjester-blog]

"How do you view yourself in this meta, Shaco?"

TW: Emotional and physical abuse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“We meet again Shaco, how have you been feeling this past week since our last meeting?”

Silence blanketed the small doctor’s office. The clock ticking away on one of dark brown walls, it’s accents and crown moulding covered in wood made the room feel darker than it was, even with the sun’s bright afternoon beams coming through the shaders of the window still. The small and elderly doctor sat on his large burgundy armchair. His voice loud but calm as he addressed the jester lying down on the longer sofa in front of him, his mind plagued with thoughts as his breathing could be heard under his cracked ivory mask.

“Im doing fine.” A lie as he tried to hide it. His mask made it hard for others to tell his current emotion, but the doctor stopped him before he could continue.

“Be honest with me.” The man spoke, adjusting his glasses as he grabbed his notepad from the table beside his armchair and dug out a pen from his shirt pocket.

“Did anything happen this week to trouble you? Your voice doesn’t seem as chipper as it was last sunday.”

A loud sigh escaped Shaco’s vocal cords as he placed his hands on his chest.

“It happened again Doctor. Just when I thought everything was ok, it all came crashing down on me.” He hated this, he hated sitting in a room, he hated talking about his issues. It wasn’t funny, it killed him on the inside but he knew he needed a proper vent that didn’t involve with him murdering and disfiguring his victims and paying for the dry cleaning everytime. But his psychiatrist stayed silent as he let him vent.

“I found something I was good at again. It made me do really well in the rift. The stats were good, it was easy to build and it made me excel. People loved me again and found me fun….but Daddy Riot found out about my new toy, a duskblade and told me it wasn’t ok, that it was overpowered and unbalanced, like all the stuff I had previously.”

Shaco’s expression turned somber, his bright blue eyes becoming half lidded as he remembered about his past. His grip getting tighter on his arms.

“It’s always that. “You’re too strong, you’re too bursty, you’re too toxic.” I’ve heard it all from him and his friends. Ever since I was young, they always told me that I was too strong, even if I was doing fine, or if I made it out on my own, and succeeded, he’d put me down.” The jester’s throat constricted from the stress of retelling his upbringing. As if all of the air in his lungs were sucked out.

“I just want to be a good champion, one that people love and enjoy and that daddy Riot would look down at me and say: “Shaco, my son, you’re doing so well! Im proud of you!” but no...i’ll never hear that from him. He never wants to admit when he’s wrong, he rather tell me, and the others that we’re bad champions, and then compare us to Warwick, the family dog. He compared us to a god damn dog! A dog he wants us to believe is the same dog we’ve had since we were young, and not the one he shot in the yard last January in cold blood.” He scoffed. “The only idiot who believes that is Lee Sin, but he’s blind.”

The old man crossed his legs as he stopped his pen and flipped the page to his notebook.

“I see...Can you tell me again when this all started?”

“Well, doc, that’s going to take a long time, but fine.” Shaco sighed as he tried to explain his family life again to the old man, not sure if it was part of their psychiatric routine, or the man had gone senile in a week.

“We were a happy family I guess. We had fun, we got along, but since daddy Riot married with Tencent, I became the black sheep of the family. I was doing too much damage? I was punished. I didn't pick up the slack for others? I was punished. I excelled at what I do and what does he tell me? That im toxic and he locked me in my room, tied up..." Shaco felt nauseous again, his memories being dug up.

“Tied up?”

“Yes, All tied up. Like an asylum in-mate.” He shivered as if the room turned cold, “No fun allowed, beside my knives and some wood to make boxes with. But they took away the little mechanism for them that shoots out knives. Now all they shoot out is small BB pellets. Not very fun.”

He was thankful that nobody would see him like this. Alone, emotional and vulnerable. He removed his mask and cowl, letting his pale face be shown and his shoulder length red hair loose. His blue eyes looking exhausted beyond belief and with black bags under his eyes. He placed his mask and jester’s cowl on the floor.

“Was he the only one in your life who caused you problems?” The shrink asked, his words soft to try and not offend his patient.

“No, we had a lot of uncles and aunts who caused us problems. They had their favorites, the ones they’d spoil and give treats everytime they’d visit, but we also had the bad ones.”

“Bad ones?”

“Yes, Like one named Meddler who found out I was having fun with Daddy Riot about my new toy, the Duskblade. I found it so much fun and the other assassins did too, but they found it too strong, told us that they’ll fix it for us….except me. They told me I wasn’t allowed to play with it anymore. Then...he left me alone with Meddler and I...I don’t want to talk about it.”

"The first step to recovery it to let out your memories that are plaguing you Shaco. Were you the only one who had this happen before?"

"No, others were touched by him. He has a fondness for marksmen more than us assassins. He'd give them nice items, gifts, some new numbers to make them feel good, then he'd lock you away in the pbe room and have his way with you, saying it was 'for the other's sake"." His voice turned soft as he choked on his own words, he wanted to bite his tongue but continued.

"I will never forget Rengar's screams...we all heard it, just like they heard mine. Everybody all over the house. Daddy Riot knew it was happening and allowed it until all we heard from that room was a pained mewl from Rengar. Once he came out, his claws we're gone. It wasn’t funny…it wasn’t funny..." Shaco’s cheery smile disappeared as his lips quivered in despair, His eyes watering, ready to cry as he tried to keep it together.

"I....I don't know what to do. Everybody laughs at my jokes, but inside, I know they are actually laughing at me." He wailed “I just want to be noticed, to be praised! But all I get is hate."

The doctor softly put his book and pen down as he let the abused jester sob into his hands. Tears and snot rolling down his face as he dug into his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, and another, and another, all linked together in a chain to wipe away his tears.

“I think that’s enough for today Shaco. I’ll give you time to recover, but you’re emotionally drained. Our next meeting is in two days, at 3 in the afternoon. We’ll start building from there.” Shaco nodded silently. He sniffed, blowing his nose to get the rest of the runny snot out before putting back on his mask and sitting up from the sofa.

“One day, someone will see how great of a champion you are and how misunderstood you are. You’re no black sheep or the red headed stepchild of your family, you’re Shaco: The demon jester. One day you’ll show them that they we’re wrong, and not you.”