#sorry just yelling names

[uselessnocturnal]

me, holding all the fear entities and their avatars close to my chest: i just think they’re neat.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[egophiliac]

Ernesto Foulworth and Gino… it wouldn’t surprise me if they had fake identities

I accept this explanation

(the problem is that I had a very regionally-specific immediate thought and I could not get it out of my head)

(sorry this is messier than usual, I refuse to put more effort into it than it deserves)

[smileyobrien]

COUNTDOWN TO LOWER DECKS SEASON 5 1 WEEK – Everyone* else (*not really)

[hikarry]

I've been writing so much fucking fanfic material that I just yelled "AZIRAPHALE!!!" when my cat jumped onto the table 😭 the brainrot is becoming too real

[buwheal]

I wanna give him a blanket. Can it maybe just materialize outta nowhere?

(I know fabric wrinkles suck to draw. You don't gotta 😵)

[toxiccaves]

Just revealed: Metal Cardbot season 2 will feature a fresh new design for our protag, Blue Cop S!

There have also been closer looks at the other new character's we've received sneak peeks of so far over on SAMG's Toy Dev Twitter, including their alt modes:

[team-118]

chemical override

2.4k words, buddie, buckley-diaz family, first kiss, getting together (for realsies this time!), rated t

With blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes over a criminally well-fitted red suit, he could almost be mistaken for Buck, if not for the way he takes Eddie in, slow and savoring it. When their eyes meet, Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

Two strangers meet at an LAFD celebration themed as a masquerade ball. They already know everything about each other.

read it on ao3.

for @prettysophist from the halloween prompt list for the prompt 'masks'

Despite what recent events might lead you to believe, Eddie does actually know that he's attractive. He's never really leaned into it, but he’s not unaware.

Unlike Buck, who is unaware. Buck who broke up with Tommy alarmingly quickly once Eddie quietly mentioned his sexuality at breakfast with the 118 two weeks ago. Who had dinner warm and waiting on the table when Eddie flew back from El Paso, Christopher in tow, one week ago. Who kissed Christopher's forehead and hugged him as tight as Eddie had as soon as he saw his son again, who met Eddie’s gaze over Chris's disgruntled head. For a split second, Eddie had almost let the thought in. Maybe Buck…him and Buck…and then the moment passed, and then a week passed, and nothing happened.

And listen, it's been two weeks. Actually, it's been at least six months. Well, if he's honest, it's probably been something like seven years, and if it isn't going to happen, Eddie will get over it. If Buck isn't attracted to him - if Buck doesn't want him - that doesn't actually change anything.

At least, that's what Eddie tells himself as he takes a razor to his mustache, gentle but vicious, and gets himself dressed. Sharp line of his shoulders, deep red shirt complementing his skin, and Carla even helps him out with his hair, because she's better than Eddie could ever compensate her for.

Stepping back to admire her handiwork, she holds her hand out for a high five from Christopher. “Not bad, hm?” she asks him.

Eddie poses with his hands out, eyebrows raised.

“Don't do that,” Christopher says immediately. He hands Eddie the masquerade mask that matches his suit. “And don't forget this.” Chris leans into Carla, returning her high five before fixing Eddie with a stern look. His smile gives him away, though. “Win something cool, Dad.”

“Yessir,” Eddie salutes, and then it's hugs and kisses and out the door.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

Buck wishes Eddie were here. Doesn't matter how cool the staff events at the LAFD get (ha), they're always better with his best friend next to him. Buck got tickets way late, though, and he’s sure Eddie is busy with Chris tonight anyway. After Eddie came out, after El Paso, Buck didn't see the point in lying to himself anymore. He thought…well, if there was any time for them to finally fall together, it seemed like the right one. But Buck wasn't going to pressure Eddie into anything, especially on the heels of the summer they just had. And when Eddie didn't make a move, Buck tried to get it through his head: he doesn't want you. He doesn't.

But Buck wants Eddie. Buck wants Eddie smiling over dinner, wants him sitting across from Christopher, wants him next to Buck at staff events, wants him everywhere and every way he isn't.

So he slips into a suit he hasn't even seen since poker with Eddie, he spends entirely too much time on his hair, he pulls the masquerade mask over his eyes and challenges himself to thirty consecutive seconds of thinking about literally anything except Eddie for the night.

It's not going well.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

It's almost impressive how quickly Eddie gets used to the mask. Then again - he contemplates the last twenty something years of his life and almost wants to laugh, morbidly - maybe it isn't. Unlike the one he's been wearing his whole life, though, this mask is freeing. He could be anybody, in a crowd of anybodies - but he's Eddie, and he knows it so well now, sees the full picture so clearly. He catches his reflection in the doorway, and he feels powerful.

The LAFD's Recognition of Excellence awards are held in some lavish building in downtown LA this fall. Eddie thinks the masquerade ball theme is kind of cheesy, but he does have to admit that the crowd showed up and showed out. Light refracts through crystal and bounces off the metallic masks packed into the massive ballroom, making everything feel brighter.

“Damn, if I'd known the competition was this steep, I'd have tried a little harder,” a voice drawls from behind him.

Eddie turns, looks the man up and down. With blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes over a criminally well-fitted red suit, he could almost be mistaken for Buck, if not for the way he takes Eddie in, slow and savoring it. When their eyes meet, Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

“No competition here,” Eddie replies evenly. Then he takes a deep breath, lets himself say what he's thinking. “And if this is low effort for you, I'm in trouble.”

Red Suit's smile turns a little wicked. “You can have as much effort as you'd like.”

Fucking hell. Eddie clears his throat. “You're a firefighter?”

“What, you think I snuck in?”

Even his laugh sounds like Buck’s, but darker, coloured by whatever the hell is happening between them right now. Eddie’s so fucked. “Just trying to judge how hard I'll need to work to impress you.”

Red suit gets closer. “Stick with me tonight, let's find out.”

What the hell. Eddie grabs his hand and pulls him to the bar.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

Buck spotted the guy the second he walked in - the lethal cut of his pants, shoulders set with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs. When he turns at Buck's words, Buck blinks away the image of Eddie. He drinks in the warm brown eyes and feels himself slipping into a comfortable, old stance. Someone Eddie never had the chance to meet. Thirty fucking seconds, he reminds himself, and lets himself be dragged to the bar.

Brown Eyes is a remarkably good distraction, so long as Buck doesn't let himself think about why the first guy who caught his attention could be Eddie’s identical twin. He keeps pace with Buck, pushes and pulls deliciously until all Buck can feel is the warmth of the lights, the crowd, the brown eyes on his body. He pops another button loose. Sue him.

“Craziest call,” he challenges, leaning forward to keep that warm gaze on him.

He's met with a huff, an exasperated kind of laugh. It sounds like Eddie’s. Buck loves it. “There was that plane landing on the highway last month.”

“No shit?” Buck asks. “We were there, too.”

“Yeah? Maybe we passed each other by.”

“Talk about fate.”

Brown Eyes snorts. “Half the LAFD was there.”

“And you're the only one here now.”

“Arguably, half the LAFD is here, too.”

This guy. Buck laughs, despite himself. “Let me have this, man.”

“Oh, sure,” his new friend smirks, and Buck wants to bite the corner of it. “Take what you want.”

“Dangerous words.”

When the stranger looks up, his eyes are dark and a little wild under his mask. His cheeks are flushed, and it matches the mask so well. Buck wants to know if it extends under the mask. If it extends anywhere else. There's a little mole under his eye. Fuck, when did they get so close? They're nose to nose. Buck can hear his own heartbeat.

“I'll risk it,” the stranger breathes, and he hesitates for a second longer, opening his mouth to speak.

Buck kisses his next words right off his tongue.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

Eddie’s already pushing Red Suit up against the pristine marble bathroom counter by the time his brain comes back online.

As far as ideas go, he's had better - making out with a colleague whose name he hasn't bothered to learn at the edge of a staff event probably doesn't make the top ten. But then broad hands are covering his shoulders, pulling him close, and when long legs hook around Eddie’s hips he kind of forgets to worry about it.

The man under him gives as good as he gets. Eddie pulls back to study his partner’s face, black masquerade mask striking against the thin ring of blue surrounding his blown irises. His lips are spit-slick and shiny, panting. He looks so much like Buck - the thought appears again - and Eddie’s stomach does a fucking somersault. Eddie pulls him in closer by the sides of his face, brushing the fluffy curls off his forehead briefly. He catches a tiny glimpse of pink.

“Take this off,” Red Suit groans, tugging at Eddie's buttons.

Eddie laughs. “Easy, tiger,” he placates, reaching up to get his partner's suit off first. He pulls the jacket off, revealing a tight black shirt to match the mask, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Red Suit reaches for Eddie, gets his shirt unbuttoned enough for the chain around his neck to slip out.

And then three things happen in quick succession.

“Wait,” Eddie says, hands going still as he recognizes the black band tattooed on the arm under him.

“Oh, fuck me,” Buck breathes as Eddie’s St. Christopher pendant lands on his half-bare chest.

“...for extraordinary partnership and exceptional teamwork in times of duress, Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley!” Chief Simpson’s voice booms over a microphone in the distance. There's a smattering of applause, fading into confused silence.

Eddie stares into his best friend’s wide eyes - his best friend, whose tongue was just recently down his fucking throat - and his mouth drops open. “I,” he starts.

Buck gapes back at him. “You shaved your fucking mustache?”

“Buck,” Eddie tries again. He can't remember how to make words form.

“Without telling me?” Buck screeches.

“Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley,” Chief Simpson calls over the microphone again. “That's weird, I have them both RSVP’d,” comes quieter.

Eddie reboots. “Oh my god,” he gasps. He pulls at Buck’s jacket helplessly, trying to tug it back over his shoulders. “Oh my god, Buck, we have to get out there.”

Buck’s still frozen. “But when did you…?”

“Buck!” Eddie grabs his face, looks him square in the eyes. Buck’s breath stutters. Eddie releases him just as quickly, cheeks burning. “Put your jacket on. I am not facing half the department like this.”

He watches Buck’s vision clear, sees him come back online. “Oh, shit.”

As they stumble out the door, Eddie catches a glimpse of them in the bathroom mirror. Hair wild, eyes wilder, shirts rucked up and wearing matching blushes, there's nothing inconspicuous about them.

Eddie grins so wide his cheeks hurt as he pushes his best friend onstage.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

Buck bites the inside of his cheek to make sure he isn't having some kind of fucked up hallucination-nightmare-dream, and then there's a mic in his face and a spotlight in his eyes.

“Thank you, Chief Simpson,” he says like his heart isn't in his throat. “Eddie and I have spent years building and strengthening our partnership. We are forever grateful to our LAFD family for their part in…”

Honestly, he blacks out a little, after that. He adds some stuff about the 118, pulls something out of his ass about taking pride in their work, and tries not to make his heart eyes too obvious. He doesn't look at Eddie, but he is so incredibly aware of him.

Buck stumbles off the stage, who knows how many minutes later, and by the time he’s outside the venue he's dizzy. He looks around, but he can't find-

“Buck.”

He whirls around. “Eddie.”

They sit heavily on the cold stone steps in front of the building. Their shoulders are inches apart. Buck’s never felt further from Eddie.

“Listen,” he starts. “We can just- I'll Uber home, and we don't have to talk about it again, I'll just-”

“Buck,” Eddie says, soft but firm. He turns, goes to put his hand on Buck's shoulder, then keeps reaching up.

“Man,” he laughs lightly. “Can I take this thing off?”

When Buck nods, Eddie lifts Buck’s mask over his eyes until it rests on top of his head. Eddie tugs his own mask off, too.

“Come home with me,” Eddie tells him.

“Eds-”

“It wasn't an accident, Buck. I mean, if I'd known…” he trails off. “I just didn't think you were interested.”

Buck laughs incredulously. “‘Cause I've been so casual about it?”

Eddie's smile is wry. “You've never been as forward as you were tonight.”

“I was trying to give you time,” Buck says weakly, pulling his knees under his chin. “I didn't want to scare you off.”

“You could never. Buck, you could never.” Eddie promises. “Not after this long.”

“I just - I thought you wanted -”

Eddie gets his finger under Buck’s chin, tilts it up towards him, and Buck loses his breath again. Framed by the stars and the sparkling building behind them, cheeks flushed from the cold, Eddie’s so fucking beautiful. He’s Buck's best friend. He’s Buck’s whole life. “What do you want?” Eddie asks.

“This,” Buck whispers. “This, forever.”

Eddie smiles. He's everything, he's fucking everything.

“What about you?” Buck says, braver. “What do you want?”

And oh, that's easy. “You,” Eddie grins.

When Eddie leans in again, Buck watches his brown eyes melt until his own flutter closed. Without the masks in the way, the kiss burns Buck to his core, warmth spreading through him like hot chocolate. Eddie’s in his veins.

It takes them ten minutes longer than it should to get home, because Buck keeps kissing Eddie senseless at the red lights.

🎭 • 🎭 • 🎭

Carla greets Eddie with a hug and Buck with a kiss on the cheek.

“Come by more often,” she insists, and Buck grins.

“I think I will,” he tells her.

“You two stayed out of trouble?” She asks Eddie on her way out.

“Don't we always?” He replies, innocent as ever. She laughs all the way down the driveway.

Eddie kisses Buck once more, chaste, just to see him turn pink. He laces their fingers together and pulls him towards Chris's room.

When Chris says to come in, he's already in bed, lights dimmed and Percy Jackson book hastily pushed under his pillow.

“Better not be reading ahead without me,” Buck says, kissing his forehead and pulling the book away.

“Hey, Buck,” Chris smiles. He doesn't look surprised to see Buck, but then again, why would he? “I was rereading, I swear.”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you win something cool, Dad?”

Eddie laughs, kneeling next to Buck. “Sure did, bud.”

“Good,” Chris yawns. “Tell me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“Night, Dad. Night, Buck,” Chris manages, and then he's out like a light.

Eddie steps out and closes the door behind them. Buck starts for the couch, but Eddie grabs his hand.

“Come on,” Eddie insists. He pulls them into his bedroom, Buck trailing behind.

Eddie stops in his tracks. “Shit, wait,” he says, and Buck freezes.

Eddie reaches into Buck’s jacket pocket and pulls out their two masquerade masks. “Okay, all set,” he smiles brightly.

“Oh my god,” Buck pushes him into the bedroom, muffling his laughter in the nape of Eddie’s neck. He kisses the giggles and half-baked defenses out of Eddie’s mouth - and then he spends the rest of the night figuring out what else he can elicit from Eddie.

[muchmossymess]

Like they just did that and moved on

[karlkapri]

― “Landscape,” Louise Glück, Averno.

Hockey Poetry Post 7/?

(Photo credit: Chris Tanouye, Mitchell Leff, Len Redkoles, Jonathan Kozub, Bruce Bennett, Tim Nwachukwu)

[flying-cat]

thinks about bakudeku and falls to the floor

[wexhappyxfew]

thinking deeply about vivian ratcliff. grew up in fort collins, colorado with a good family, a good childhood, filled with many homemade dinners and pastries after meals and flowers in pretty, passed-through-generations vases. her family had a big farm that’s been there for hundreds of years through the ratcliff family and she spent many summers riding horses, tending to the cows, chickens, pigs and her ma’s honeybee farm. they make quite the profit. she’s kind and conscientious, aspiring teacher, and a happy-go-lucky, calm-cool-and-collected type of girl. she’s content with where she is in life. and she wants to do things, see new places, read and learn all there is. and then she meets boyfriend-turned-future-husband when her dad needs a handy-man and james pennington shows up. she attends the university of washington and completes a program for teaching but goes into the military after graduation because of an opportunity to shoot and fly - and, with a war on, she could kill two birds with one stone and see the world and do something for it at the same time. with her parents a little less than happy and her boyfriend shipping out to the navy, viv takes this in stride. heading to utah, she gets a gig on a plane as a turret gunner before being accepted into Silver Bullets under captain birdie faulkner, the first female pilot of the war for america. the crew builds up, the friendships form and Silver Bullets is the finest B-17 there is. she writes to james, she keeps up with her family and friends back home, she goes to the flying club, and takes early morning runs around base. she’s content. things are good.

then, captain faulkner is KIA. flying a regular bombing run - freak accident with the shrapnel flying through the air. killing her right in the midst of the sky. viv remembers how numbed and equally freaked out francis was - how’d she manage to land a plane and maintain composure? lieutenant annie bradshaw is the newest replacement and finds herself next as the newest pilot of Silver Bullets. viv thinks things are okay, things are looking up.

then, a letter comes in. james pennington is KIA. her world seems to shatter. everything seems to crack open and equally fall apart. she’s half in a spiral and half trying to keep it together in front of everyone else. no one should see her like this. she hardly wants to see herself like this. annie bradshaw and the rest of the crew seems to pull her through; most surprisingly, so does everett blakely. he was always more in the background, a handshake, a comforting pat on the shoulder, willing to check in and move on his way. an all-around gentleman. then, she starts to notice him. at breakfast, at dinners, before missions, after missions, glances through the interrogation tables, before bed when cigarette butts were stubbed out and last minute conversations were held. everett blakely was always there.

then, the Silver Bullets crew is split across half of europe. and yet again, with 40% of the crew MIA, viv is sent to operations and is suddenly stepping into a world where her hands are filled more with pencils and papers and maps then a gun. yet again - without annie bradshaw and francis montez, who became a pilot for a new B-17 crew with quite an annoying co-pilot, viv feels more alone than ever. until ev blakely is there. always there. again. they grow closer than they ever had - breakfast together, sometimes even lunch and dinner, cigarette breaks, sharing coffee breaks, finding moments to take a glance throughout the operations room. moments viv didn’t think much of. until she was heading out for the night and ev invited her to the flying club for a drink and a dance.

and then the war ended. and everyone went their separate ways. and reality hit. and it hit hard. james pennington’s funeral, the reality that the man she was going to marry is now dead, and her family, torn at the edges, crumbling. she’s hurt, filled with a grief she can’t untangle and is lost between what to do and what else there is left for her. until everett blakely starts writing. and doesn’t stop writing. writing the Silver Bullets girls were on thing, but writing ev blakely was different - in his words, his phrases, what he talked about.

they decide to meet, and everything comes flooding back. like the crash of high waves, just as fast, just as harshly. and she doesn’t feel herself turn away like she would. and suddenly, she doesn’t want him to leave. and for the first time in her life, he doesn’t. he stays.

[egophiliac]

We ARE going to bring up Captain Amelia. You have good taste! GOOD TASTE I SAY! *aka I just rewatched Treasure Planet and got hit with, "Oh yeahhhhh... that explains a lot!"*

honestly, the Meg/Jasmine/Amelia trifecta tells you 90% about me as a person. (the rest is covered by Sailor Jupiter and Sailor Uranus and, uhhh, I'll stop baring my soul to the world now)

and speaking of Amelia, this is tangential, but like -- there's one Twst comic I have been kicking at for a while where I needed an RSA sports/flight teacher and, uh, well

someday I will wrangle this stupid comic into coherency and she'll get to make an appearance (in the background of a single panel, half-obscured by a tall hat) (but I will know she's there and that's the important thing)

[moeblob]

Deacon loves two things: Ymber and digging himself a grave.

Fulj hates one thing: Deacon.

[fallenangelblade]

this kentucky fried motherfucker is Not My Asmodeus. colonel sanders lookin ass

there’s only one Asmodeus for me and it’s this guy

[skrunksthatwunk]

you go to a lesbian blog and find it says women only!! no men allowed!!! and go oh! excuse me, um, what about other lesbians? plenty of lesbians are genderqueer... and they go well, okay, go fuck yourself tim chop off your sweaty dick and stop calling yourself a lesbian. you do not have a dick, actually. you think about that fact often, even though it does you no good. you do not tell this person that.

you go to another lesbian blog and it says women only and you try again, and this time they change it to wlw + nblw only (non-men who love non-men :D). and you'll say hey i appreciate that but gender's not really that cut and dry for a lot of people. someone could be both a man and nonbinary, for instance. i just worry that you're looking at nonbinary as a generic third gender, or an extension of womanhood. i mean yeah you include nblw in your tags but all your posts are about pussy-havers exclusively. what's with that? and they say go fuck yourself you pervy man pretending to be a lesbian. you tried to sneak in but i won't let you.

so you go to a lesbian blog with a dozen or so posts about queer people needing to be more weird about it and you sigh in relief. but you still see the men dni. that's odd. hoping for the best, you say hey! i know you mean well but please maybe don't put men dni at the end of the lovely posts on your lesbian blog bc some lesbians are men. and they'll be like ok!! well you're allowed ;) and you say no that's not. no. some men are lesbians not just me. you think about your own dicklessness and wonder if that's why you were given entry. and you add that even if male lesbians are allowed, there's no indication of that. how would anyone know without asking? and they're like ohh gotcha gotcha well men dni + this is for sapphics only!! and you'll be like ok well that treats the concepts of men and sapphics as mutually exclusive identities and i just told you that's not true and you agreed with me so.. i don't think that solves our problem. and they're like. ok. fine. men dni but genderfluid and multigender people are allowed! and you're like no see that's. that's still the same thing.. you're saying the same thing just with different words. if you don't want men to interact but you're fine with multigender/genderfluid/etc ppl interacting then you either don't see them as Real Men (because they don't reach a standard of Full Manhood) or Complete Men (because they're only Part-Time Men), both of which suggest that they are, in some way, not men or less-than men, which is invalidating and defeats the point of the exception in the first place (accommodation) OR that you don't really mean the dni which is confusing and inconsistent and makes guydykes feel weird and uncomfortable and excluded from the lesbian space you're trying to cultivate. and they're like um. ok. so. cishet men dni? and you're like well i think that makes more sense, but what if someone identifies as both a cishet man and a sapphic? again, if we're trying to accommodate the genderfucky populace then that has to be a possibility that is considered. and they say god you people are never happy. what do you want me to do? what am i supposed to say to keep the right men out? and you pause. you empathize with the need for a space free from dudes trying to fuck you straight and feminine. dudes who watch lesbian porn and joke about what they'd do if they were allowed into girls locker rooms. who look at you like a piece of meat, and like someone who looks at women like pieces of meat in the same way he does. you get it. you know. you want a space where you can be sapphic, too. that's why you came to these blogs in the first place. you brace yourself and you say well i don't know that there are "right men" to keep out. i don't know that there's any single label that would accomplish whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. you could go for "sapphics only" or "queers only" and i think that might be the closest thing to what you want, but it's never going to be perfect. creating any exclusive space is going to shut out people you didn't account for, and the broader the label, the more people will be shut out that you didn't want to shut out. and what about people who don't know if they're allowed? what of questioning transbians, where are they supposed to go? and, frankly, i think i might rather my dykey posts get read and appreciated by a gay guy who sees me as a man than a woman who only sees me as a sacred womb, pure from male perversions or violence or whatever. i think community might just be more complex than a dni can handle. and they look at you and say i don't want to not have a dni. i think you're too permissive. you can't just "what about" or microlabel your way into everything. go fuck yourself, i bet you're not even a lesbian anyway. go find a real problem to get mad about.

you go to a lesbian blog. you ignore the men dni because you know you probably don't even count to them. or maybe you do count and, out of respect for your manhood, they'd shun you accordingly. you try to feel okay about that. you scroll past dozens of posts about mediocre men and gagging at straight friends' boyfriends and how gross and undeserving men are of the beautiful women they couple up with and how all women should be gay so they can get treated right and and and and and. you finally find a post about curling into someone you love and feeling at peace and try to lose yourself in it. you know that feeling is what unites you, what makes you belong. you try to focus on it. you think about carding your hands through a butch's hair or lacing fingers with a femme and feeling warm and loved and more yourself than you ever have before. like this is who you're meant to be. you read about lesboys and butch boytoys and genderfucky dykes and big hairy deep-voiced wonderful women (like you want to be someday, like you wish you could make yourself) and you try to ignore the men dni underneath each and every post. and you daydream about meeting someone kind and earnest at a lesbian bar even though you don't think any such bars exist within three states of you and you can't drink and don't want to drink because you need to be in control of yourself at all times so you don't fuck up like you're always about to and here in the nonexistent lesbian bar you feel wanted and safe and in good company. you picture your ideal, happiest self. it is a mistake. ideal-you has a goatee. not the mascara one you smear on and call drag even though you know it's not drag, not really, the beard you call drag because you think everyone would look at you sadly if you told them it was just to pretend you had something out of your reach. a beard that's soft and that you grew and that cannot be smudged away if you get too comfortable with it. the dream shatters. your people pull away from you, their scoffs mixing with the mind-numbing gay girl bedroom pop you learned to settle for just to have something that almost resembled you, they all pull away and turn their backs and do not look at you. you're too close to being a man now, even though you're the same amount of man as before. and they know you're not supposed to interact with men, not as you would with dykes, at least. and it sours. it's all your imagination, all in your head, but it sours.

you sigh. you think about how small you are. how short, how narrow, how feeble. how your voice pitches up when you talk to strangers because it's easier to speak quietly when it carries more, and because you're nervous. because it's a chore to talk, like everything is. you think about testosterone. you think about how your family would look at you, the questions they would ask, your answers they would only pretend to accept. the uncomfortable glances and whispered questions they'd try to hide from you. you think about how small you are, and how small you will always be. how you don't know of a way to fix it, but even if there was one, no one would want you anymore. you'd be the only one thinking it made you a cooler dyke. you think about how you don't even want a T-voice all the time, how you'll never be able to switch it at will, because you don't know how and can't bring yourself to figure it out. you think about how your throat closes around every hint of your own attraction. how wanting is perverse, how wanting is invasive, how wanting is embarrassing and too vulnerable so it must stay anonymous, as an online witness, and how you can barely manage to form or maintain friendships because your brain makes you pull away, always spinning out and struggling to recover from the simplest of interactions. how they'll all leave you and you won't chase after them at all and how that will hurt them. how stuck you get. how it looks like nothing's holding you back, how that frustrates everyone who thought you were going to be more than you were. the people you love who understand except when it comes to being ghosted, being shut out. how you don't want to hurt them. how you can't tell them that because you're stuck. how you turn to stone when touched, how you never reach out, how you lose your speech and can't look at people, how your autism is fun and sexy until it becomes real and you never see them anymore, how much you longed for someone who knew everything without you having to explain, and who loved you anyway. how unreasonable you know that is to expect of anyone. you think about that not-even-real lesbian bar. you think about how you still can't drive. how you can't leave your home on your own, without dragging somebody into helping you. how you can't leave your body. how you can't leave your manhood behind.

you think about finding another lesbian blog and ignoring everything. about skimming it for the parts you can juice some meaning from. the parts men ignore and don't understand, and how typical of you it is to do so. or the parts where you're not welcome and you should accept that, because it's for lesbians only. how you are a lesbian anyway. how you're meant to choose lesbian or man, how each is a betrayal of some kind to yourself or your people, your family, your lovely strangers, your rare friendly acquaintances. about the parts that tell you you're not wanted, that you're ugly and lazy and gross and insert yourself everywhere without even asking. about the parts that tell you you are hated, and how lesbians are above it all by rejecting men. how lesbians are each blessed miracles. about the parts that say you should be ashamed of being whatever twisted confused freak you are, of everything, of looking and wanting or not looking or not wanting, of picking and choosing instead of taking it all in with a smile. after all, shouldn't you take it? or is your ego too fragile, as men's so often are? aren't you tired? good. we're not here for your consumption. and we sure as hell don't want your company or "community" or whatever. didn't you read the sign? no boys allowed. and if you want to come in you have to make up your mind. as if you haven't told them the only answer you have. you're both. you're both.

you know you broke the rule by interacting.

but it gets lonely sometimes. you wonder if they know.