so i dug this out of the drafts from like 2021 after watching s5 because i needed some silly spicynoodles after all of. that.
can be read as anytime around seasons 1 or 2
780 words
“Catch you at a bad time, noodle boy?” Red Son cackled, clearly revved up for a fight.
MK chanced a grimaced smile. “Kind of, yeah.”
“Well, now you know how I feel! Now, I’ll be taking that staff.”
“What, this?” MK asked, with a silent promise to himself that if he just pushed through the pain for now, he’d be fine. “I don’t think so!”
His promise didn’t seem to be working out, because as that hothead attacked him, MK’s own attacks were sluggish and uncoordinated. His body was aching in pain, and he needed to hurry up so he could get these bandages off and—
MK went flying, landing in a heap, though his staff was still safely in hand.
He didn’t get up.
He didn’t have the strength. Or the energy. Or the will.
“Get up and fight me you coward!” Red Son demanded.
MK just groaned, clutching his free hand to his ribs.
“Ugh, you peasant, I’ll just — okay, seriously, are you okay?”
MK glanced up, surprised to find genuine concern creasing his enemy’s brow.
“None of your business,” MK grumbled.
“Um, it is too my business if it keeps you from giving me your full attention in our battle!”
MK fanned himself with his shirt, sweat dripping down his body without care.
“I can’t—” he wheezed slightly, “I can’t breathe.”
Red Son scrunched his face in that cute way he did when he was genuinely considering something. “Have you tried inhaling?”
“Yes I’ve tried—oh god I think I understand why the internet told me this wasn’t smart now.”
Fuck. If his ribs weren’t already broken, they had to be close. His body hurt like hell, and as much as he hated the feeling, he had to take off the bandages he’d used to bind… when had he put them on, sometime yesterday afternoon?
“What?” Red Son demanded, “what the hell did you even do to yourself?”
MK smiled up at him sheepishly. “Just some improper binding habits.” It wasn’t like he could afford a real one. And he couldn’t burden Pigsy with that either, that would be—
“I don’t… understand.”
Heat rushed to MK’s face. “Um. I’m… you don’t know what binding is?”
“It sounds like a nonsense human thing,” Red Son scoffed.
“Yes yes, nonsense human stuff,” MK agreed, shifting carefully on the ground. “Anyways, not that it’s not great beating you, but can we like… rain check?”
“Psh, beating me, you’re not even moving. Agree that I win today and I’ll be off.”
“But you don’t have my staff!” MK shot back with a smug grin.
“Oh, right.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“So… truce?” MK offered.
“Ugh, fine. But you won’t be so lucky next time, noodle boy!”
“See you tomorrow,” MK grumbled, half waving as Red vanished in a puff of fire.
Now to climb the set of stairs to his apartment — or, screw that. He gripped his staff, essentially pogoing up and right to the door.
As painful as it was, at least he was up.
He fumbled with the keys, collapsing onto his bed the moment he was inside.
He pushed his shirt up, his arms feeling like limp noodles — heh, kind of ironic — and absolutely not having the energy to so much as twitch, let alone get these accursed bandages off.
Most of him would rather suffer the pain and just sleep. But he had a feeling that would only make things worse, and he was pretty sure he would break a rib or two if he kept these bandages on for much longer.
If only one of the 72 transformations included transgender.
But it was what it was. No matter how much it sucked.
Exhausted, he sluggishly removed his already sloppily applied bandages, able to breathe properly for the first time in 18 or more hours.
It didn’t take long for him to pass out, on top of the covers and halfway between mattress and floor. It didn’t matter too much to him. He just needed a really, really long nap.
------
He woke up sometime after midnight to go to the bathroom, trudging through the piles of clean and dirty laundry alike strewn on his floor. Every inch of his body ached like he’d been trapped under a mountain for 500 years.
Damn, that must have sucked.
As he made the trek back to his bed, he noticed, faintly outlined in the dark, something neatly folded on his pillow.
He turned on the lamp on his bedside table, now able to see a note written in an impossibly neat scribble placed atop a brand new binder.
[ID: a drawing that says “how to use ace bandages as a trans person.” It has a drawing of a trans character binding their chest with ace bandages with a giant X next to them. There is a drawing of another trans person next to them with who is dressed as a mummy with a large check next to them. /end ID]
Please don’t bind your chest, instead: become a mummy.
Prompt One / Prompt Two / Prompt Three / Prompt Four
Today’s Prompt (I did not realize I had two that were essentially the same thing... oops. I will try to get to “Ribbons” later today!)
Read this story on AO3
Lemon warning
TW for improper binding, fat shaming
Personal note: I began binding because I wanted a flatter chest, but eventually it became about hiding the other parts of my body I did not like. Namely, my weight. Binding made my self-image worse. If it helps you, that's great! But, please keep a check on your own mental health AND bind safely. Take care of your body and your mind, they're the only ones you're going to get. Be safe, lovelies, the world needs all of us.
-
Crowley came back from the very purposeful shopping trip to find Aziraphale pacing manically in their kitchen. He was so focused on his mutterings, his hand wringing, and staring at the floor that he didn't even hear Crowley enter the house. Crowley slid the bags of food onto the counter and approached the angel slowly, but still managed to startle him.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale was backed up to the countertop by the sink, hand over his chest.
“I take it he did stop by then,” Crowley did his best to appear as non-threatening as possible. He slid his glasses down his nose and then set them on the kitchen table, “you really could've come shopping with me and said a silent 'screw you' to Gabriel.”
“He would only have found me later- or, or both of us- at some unexpected time. Better that I be expecting him, I think...” He was still fidgeting with his fingers, looking down at them morosely.
“What did he have to say, then?” Crowley continued his approach, but stopped short when Aziraphale matched his movements, subtly backing away. Crowley wasn't even sure the angel knew he was doing it. Still, a revoke in consent was a revoke in consent even if it was subconscious.
“He wondered why I wasn't responding to his memos. Told me to get back in line, do my job,” Aziraphale's hands waved as he explained, “I did what you told me to do.”
“Good.”
“I stayed neutral. I didn't agree to anything. I didn't argue with anything.”
“That's the only way to be, really.”
“And he left, thinking he had put me in my place.”
“Did he? Put you in your place?”
Aziraphale hesitated only a moment before, “No.”
Crowley felt some of the tension in his shoulders relax. If Aziraphale agreed to do something, then he would to it. He was an angel of his word. Crowley had coached him for days leading up to this meeting on how to appease without agreeing, but he had been a bit afraid that all that coaching might fall to the way side when faced with his old supervisor.
“I wish I could have been here for you.”
“No you don't.”
“Sure, I do. I don't want anything to do with Gabriel, of course, but I would do anything for you. You know that, right?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, meeting his eyes for the first time, “I know. That's exactly why I told you to be gone while he was here.”
“Yeah, yeah... probably for the best. S'been quiet, would be nice to keep it that way.”
Aziraphale hummed in agreement.
The thing was, though... Crowley was watching his still-shallow breathing. Aziraphale didn't seem to be relaxing or calming down. He should be calming down now, Gabriel was gone. Hopefully for a good, long while.
“Would you like a hug?” Crowley opened his arms, but made no move towards him.
“Er, I think I'll go and change first.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes, sweeping them over the angel's body and really taking it in for the first time since he came home. He loved the angel's body, but he had been more worried about his anxious state. He wasn't surprised to find him covered up more than usual. Since they moved out here by themselves, Aziraphale had taken to wearing flowy-er, sheerer fabrics. Things that breathed and shifted when he moved. Silky things, soft things. Things that, on occasion, left very little to Crowley's imagination. But, here he was in his layers again, buttons done up to his chin, bowtie tight and waistcoat covering him like armor.
Only... he wasn't shaped quite the same and the clothing hung differently.
“Did you... have you changed your corporation?”
“No.”
Crowley eyed him in silence. Aziraphale made to leave and Crowley reached out, just two fingers in the crease of his elbow. Not enough to stop him if he really wanted to leave. The angel froze.
“Something's different about you.”
“Crowley, leave it, please.”
“Do you really want me to? If you really want me to, I will. I just... worry about you. You're... my world, y'know? I want you to be okay.”
Aziraphale sighed softly and turned back to him, then unceremoniously started unbuttoning and unfastening his various layers. His eyes were focused on his task, fingers moving in well- practiced movements. He shed the layers as he came to them, dropping them to the floor. Only when he got to his last button up shirt did he hesitate.
Crowley could see that something was definitely different. It was subtle, but unmistakable: his husband was not nearly as... soft- looking as he had been that morning. Crowley had left him early, still asleep in their bed. He had delicately run his fingers along the rises and dips of his belly. A quiet promise that he'd be back in a few hours, though whether that promise was for him or for Aziraphale, he couldn't have said.
Aziraphale pulled his shirttails from his trousers and slowly unbuttoned this last shirt, looking anywhere but Crowley's eyes as it fell open.
Ace bandages, several of them by the looks of it. They wrapped him tightly from armpits to waist. All his supple curves. All the soft, warm flesh that Crowley loved to nuzzle and kiss and rest his head on... It was all tucked tightly away behind the wraps.
Crowley reached out to touch, but pulled his hand back.
“But why?”
“I... just didn't want to hear it.”
“Gab...riel?” Crowley dragged his eyes back up to Aziraphale's face, determined to stop looking for his husband's hidden figure.
“He... he always comments, Crowley. That I've let myself go. That I need to, er, 'lose the gut.'”
“But, it's none of his business!” Crowley was trying, really he was, to hold on to his temper. But, it was flaring hot and painful just beneath his lungs.
“It's not. I know it's not. And, I also know I shouldn't care what he thinks. I am the way I am because this is how I am most comfortable... But... I didn't want the comments.”
“Can we...” Crowley felt his voice crack and he winced, starting over, “ can we take them off now?”
“Yes, I am rather uncomfortable, to be honest.”
“Do you want to go do it yourself or do you want my help?”
“I want your help, dearest,” and with that said, Aziraphale seemed to deflate in front of him. He gestured to Crowley to come closer and only then did Crowley place his hands on his husbands sides, stroking upward, at the same time trying to find familiar territory and also the fasteners for the bandages.
“First one's on the left side. No, my left, sorry.”
“Don't be sorry, Angel, not right now.” Crowley's words were quiet, but firm. He found the first fastener and undid it, pulling the wrapping around and around Aziraphale's chest until it dropped away. He found the next fastener and did the same. And the next. All the while watching as Aziraphale relaxed in stages before finally being able to take a deep, lung-filling breath. They didn't need to breath to live, thankfully, but both of them had become rather accustomed to the practice. Crowley spent a few seconds watching his chest and belly move with each easy breath, trying not to wince at the already-fading marks the wrappings had left behind.
He guided the angel backwards until his back met the counter then lifted him up on to it. Lifting his hands he cradled his face like it was made of the most sensitive porcelain and then he kissed him deeply, pouring into the touches all his rage transformed into protectiveness transformed into an all encompassing love.
Aziraphale kissed him back, fervently, grasping his hands and moving them downwards until they sat on his chest. There he left them, his own going to Crowley's face, his neck, anywhere to pull him closer and keep him there.
Thus invited to touch, Crowley's hands took to stroking and squeezing all the soft skin he found. He moaned and broke the kiss, trailing his nose over the apple of the angel's cheek, along the lines and folds of his neck. He kissed his way down the center of his chest and nuzzled his way under the line of flesh just below it, placing a sucking kiss there.
“Beautiful, all of you is beautiful.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale's hands were buried in his hair, neither pushing or pulling, just grounding him and inviting him to be as close as he wanted to be. There was no such thing as too close. If it were possible to crawl inside this flesh somehow and live together, Crowley would. He would, happily.
One of Crowley's hands had managed to move from the soft expanses of alabaster flesh, downwards, to something noticeably less soft, pressing needfully against the front of Aziraphale's trousers.
“No wrappings here, hmm?” He watched as the words found their way into Aziraphale's mind. Delighted in the blush that settled over his cheeks and the tips of his ears and, with his eyes, followed that same color as it spread down his chest, stopping just above his belly button. He dropped to his knees in front of the angel, going from 'let's take this upstairs where I can slowly take you apart' to 'scrap that, I'll have you right on this countertop- right in this kitchen where that monster had the gall to come in here and make you uncomfortable.' He would wipe out the memory with the pleasure he took in his husband's body.
He made quick work of freeing him from his trousers and pants, only enough to get to his prize which he swallowed down without preamble. His right hand wrapped around the angels left calf, gripping, while his left sprawled over the soft expanse of his right thigh, stroking and squeezing. He sucked him hard, leaving no room that this would be quick and only about the angel's pleasure. Distantly he heard the smack of the angel's head as he threw it back and hit the cabinetry- the dishes rattling inside- but the angel's grip on his hair didn't slack.
Little, half-aborted thrusts upward had Crowley dizzy with his own arousal, knowing that it meant his husband was close. He yanked the calf in his right hand, pulling him right to the edge of the counter and throwing him off balance, now completely at Crowley's mercy. And then he doubled down, moving his mouth quickly and with singular purpose.
Aziraphale's breaths came quicker and sharper and then cut off with a sharp whimper and, “fuck, Crowley!” His legs shook under Crowley's hands as he spilled into his mouth.
Crowley sat back on his haunches and peered up at the angel, beyond happy with what he saw: the man was sprawled backwards over their coffee maker, head resting on the cupboard behind him (which was dented in a bit- nothing a little demonic miracle couldn't fix). He was the very vision of pleasure spent. Crowley stroked both of his calves, smiling up at him as he came back from his pleasure and looked down at him.
And then Aziraphale started to giggle. A small thing that grew and grew until it was a belly laugh. Crowley cocked his head and kept smiling up at him. He didn't know what had tickled the angel, but he was happy to see him happy.
“Just,” Aziraphale wheezed, “can you imagine... If I had ignored him and he arrived... for that?”
“Hmm,” Crowley pondered the idea, rising on his hips again to bury his face in his husband's belly, “I wouldn't mind giving him a bit of a show.”
“He's not much for doing things the human way.”
“Bet he'd still be jealous about what this body can do,” Crowley's hands were wandering again, this time to the bit of space between Aziraphale's back side and his thighs.
“I think it's time, I show you what this body can do, darling.”
“s'that a promise?” Crowley stood and crowded in close so he could feel the effect this all had on him, “Tell me that's a promise.”
OKAY so I need some advice. Desperately. I’m AFAB and have been questioning my gender for as long as I can remember. I’ve been using an UBER tight sports bra as a makeshift binder for a couple years, and lately it’s started digging into my sides and leaving deep cuts. I need a proper binder, but how do I ask my mom for one? As far as she knows I’m a cis lesbian, and I’m not the person to share every qualm I have with my identity. Any tips on how to make it less awkward of a conversation?
Ok so first things first. You need to take that sports bra and throw it in the garbage. That thing is leaving compression cuts??? it’s nasty, it’s probably bloodstained, it’s way too small if it’s doing that to you, there’s no way to donate that, do not wear it again, this is urgent. That’s so, so bad for your ribs, and you should apologize to them.
Some LGBTQ+ community centers do binder exchanges, which means theoretically you can get one for cheap or free without your mom’s intervention. Otherwise, you’re probably going to need to tell your mom the bare minimum about your struggles, even just about your body. Hopefully, she’ll be understanding, but I know that’s not the case for everyone, so if you think it would be easier, maybe frame it more as a fashion statement or just general discomfort with your chest as opposed to bringing up your gender identity.
Seriously though throw that sports bra out, you shouldn’t be wearing something so small.
A trans film that doesn't end in death! Here's my short film that I made for my little brother after he came out as trans. Watch it and let me know what you think! (Trigger Warning: There is some transphobia and misgendering from characters in this film (No slurs are used). There is also many shots of improper binding with ace bandages.) Here's a short synopsis: When his sister walks in on him binding, a young transgender teenager is thrown out of the closet. He must go through the day dealing with intense dysphoria brought on by misgendering and transphobia from his family and peers. Meanwhile also avoiding his sister, terrified of the moment she will inevitably confront him about what she saw. In this story of fear, love, and acceptance, he learns that some secrets aren’t meant to be kept.
UPDATE!
Hello! A few months back, I posted a link to watch my first short film, The Ties That Bind. You guys seemed to like that, so I’d like to invite you to donate to help me make a new short! (Or, if you can’t donate yourself, share, share, share!)
Here's the link! https://www.facebook.com/donate/266225253983373/
Here’s a synopsis of the film, Hell or High Water:
Maggie and George are relaxing at home, when their peaceful routine is interrupted by an Emergency Broadcast. They are horrified to learn that a nuclear missile is headed for their area, and will touch down within the hour. Maggie immediately goes into Crisis Mode, trying to get ahold of their daughter or her wife, while George starts the truck. Unable to get to do more than sputter, George returns inside to learn that Maggie was unable to get ahold of anyone. As their options begin to run out, Maggie refuses to give up, willing to do anything to keep them safe. George, on the other hand, has accepted their fate. He knows that it’s hopeless, but helps Maggie calm down. They decide to make a shelter in their home, and face their last moments in each other’s arms.
Sometimes I think back on my pre-top surgery days and am just like.
Damn.
I was a binding idiot.
I wore my binder for too long, wore it no matter what I was doing (exercise, swimming, I wore my binder while playing fucking roller derby), wore it in really hot weather, wore some of the varieties with clasps and zippers that are less safe than the paneled ones, fell asleep in it occasionally (I never purposefully slept in my binder, but on days when i was super tired and fell asleep before i got ready for bed it just kinda happened), fucking hell, I used ace bandages for a time as well (please don’t do this, I was a young person who didn’t know better and had no trans people in my life to tell me better; I know better now, and I’m letting you know better, please don’t do this, you can seriously hurt yourself).
The actual worst part is, looking back on it, I’m not sure I would change any of my choices (well, I would’ve skipped the ace bandages, because that was fucking asking for trouble). That probably makes me a bad trans influence (ha) but like. My binding made it so I wasn’t suicidal, made it so I didn’t hate myself. There is no fucking way I could’ve gone out in public without my binder on - spent the night with people without having my binder on til the very last minute and putting it back on first thing in the morning. And I should’ve been safer with my binding habits, but. Not to be overly dramatic or anything, my being alive is more valuable than any damage I might’ve done by improperly binding. Sorry.
But thank fucking g’d I got top surgery three years ago, now. (Actually though! The 14th of August marked three years to the day I got top surgery!) And I am so much happier with my flat chest. :)
I am... not even sure what the point of this post is, but fucking have it I guess.
