#and this feels like an experience many people share

[notherpuppet]

Alastor is a complex character!

Despite being one of the few characters in Hazbin with confirmed identities (his ethnic background and sexual orientation), those identities are in of themselves, complex experiences.

There’s seemingly nothing about the character that is Black or White.

I think that’s why he is such a compelling character! Also, it’s probably one reason why he is such an attractive conduit for folks’ creative expression.

His identities are not necessarily why many people may gravitate towards him, but they do offer a chance for people to investigate him and explore a character—as unique as he is—into avenues they may not have considered before.

I can commiserate with feeling defensive of a character who shares an identity with you—ESPECIALLY an underrepresented one. Discourse is natural and completely fine! (And very educational sometimes in my experience)

But I don’t think it’s fruitful to police a fandom in these matters. Some folks come to my inbox (I delete the really rude ones) or comment sections with a very cop-like attitude to a space that’s supposed to be creative and/or fun *airhorn*

That’s my take as just some guy on the internet 🤓🛜 have a good dayyyyy

[neon-ufo]

Can anybody attest to a perfect description like the ones we used to know? We were younger then. I'd like to think I'm realistic, still I'm never satisfied. Too afraid of what might come along, too uptight to make it mine.

Song for June: All Good People by Good Luck

~~~ In the past months I've been almost haunted by restless thoughts about my identity & how I've treated it. My closest ones all know I'm trans, but it was something I've kept private from most, as I didn't feel like it was anyone's business. I've repressed it, and I've repressed the art that might've come from it in order to keep it private.

But I recently started to come to terms with the fact that being trans is in fact part of my identity. For the longest time I haven't really felt it was, I kinda just transitioned and moved on. To some degree I still feel like it's much less 'important' to me than it seems to many other people here, which makes me feel a bit alienated. However remaining private about it has started to gnaw at me a lot. I wanted to share it. One's views of oneself can change surprisingly a lot with time.

I had a chat with a fellow transmasc friend not too long ago, about how differently we experience our identities, and it moved something in me. I suddenly felt so much awe for the fluidity of gender expression, in a different way than how I've already appreciated it. Like it just hit me that what I considered a mundane existence wasn't all that mundane after all. I'm trans, and it feels good to say it. (:

Predictably, this piece was very hard to draw. Expressing myself in art doesn't come easy to me, and I can't help but wonder if the two issues might be connected at the core. I took photos of my scars to use in this image, for an additional personal touch <:

[kittenintheden]

Smut Writing Tips

I could go on for 600 years on this so I cut myself off at seven basic tips for improving your smut writing. I don't know how to name this something that isn't suggestive so fuck it we ride at dawn etc. If you're having trouble writing smut/improving your smut writing, here are a few things that might help? I'm not the ultimate authority, do whatever you want, take what serves you and leave the rest, etc.

1) Get in touch with what turns you on. You can take this literally or figuratively. You don't have to be sexually active or even sexually aroused to write smut! It's not required. But you should know what gets you going, you know? Because whatever you're into, there are other people out there who are into it, too. Writing the things you're passionate about translates to the page. If you're disconnected from what you're writing, it's going to read that way.

2) Practice by translating a personal fantasy to text. THIS IS FOR YOU ONLY. Unless you like it enough to share? But this is an exercise to get you past the initial discomfort and embarrassment of writing sexy scenes. Many of us have romantic or sexual fantasies, even those on the ace/aro spectrum. When they live in our head, they feel safe. When we put them to the page, they suddenly EXIST in a space where someone else can theoretically perceive them. Getting comfortable with that takes a little bit of work/practice.

3) Try writing from the POV of the subject of the reader's desire. When I smut, I write from my OC's POV sometimes, but more often... I write from Astarion's. That's intentional. It's hot to feel DESIRED, to feel WANTED. Being in the subject's head means that the reader is experiencing that desire for themselves. There's power and sexiness in knowing you're making someone feel that way.

4) Physical description and positioning is great, but how do they FEEL? If you've ever heard the term "male gaze," you know it's frequently applied to visual media, especially where the subjects are treated as objects to be observed rather than people with interior thought and feeling. Smut WRITING gives us the opportunity to both describe the actions taking place and also the internal responses of the characters. It's not just what goes where, it's how that makes the body feel, the mind, the heart. It deepens the scene. Not everything needs to be "making love," but the tension and character interaction are still vital.

5) Realism is a fine base but it's not required. Look, there are a lot of smut tropes out there that are not REMOTELY based on reality and we love them anyway because a big part of this style of writing is the FANTASY of the thing. Like, yes, it's going to take some readers out if you're describing a position that's not physically possible. That's something that should be workshopped. But like. People come here for sex pollen and knotting. It's okay to be a little weird. Just consider the fantasy logistics.

6) Sometimes a little humor or awkwardness adds to the experience. Not everything has to be peak romance of the highest order, you know? Sex is messy and weird. If the participants can be a bit messy and weird together, it's both character-building and endearing. Don't be afraid to be like, oh this resulted in fluids and now we have to take care of that.

7) The tension is as important as the cumshot. Yeah I said that. An important piece of writing burning-hot smut is properly building tension. You can do that in a few words or many words. The ANTICIPATION, the WANTING, the not-quite-there-but-god-I-wanna-be of it all. It makes the release that much sweeter.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Okay okay okay i swear pussy steve has been rotting my brain for the past week because imagine Stevie getting fingered for the first time after the serum. Bucky's guilty of sleeping around so i'm sure that he'd had experience that's more than enough to make his baby feel good. Imagine Stevie on the brink of hyperventilating barely minutes after Bucky started to shove his hands under where his soaked underwear stretched across his body. The touch of Bucky's fingers so precise- so overwhelming as it curls up inside of poor ol' Stevie's dripping pussy. I'm sure it takes a lot for Steve not to scream bloody fucking murder when they have sex— not when he loves nothing more than for Bucky to go hard on him. Even with so many warnings from Bucky that he is about to push in, cooing at him, praising him, Steve still always tremble and hold his breath because the mere stretch and heat of Bucky's cock is almost enough for him to fucking burst.

Before we get started, you'll like this art from faun-songs of Steve (I believe in their art the depiction is specifically trans Steve rather than just generally pussy Steve which I've left open to interpretation as trans, intersex, or just, y'know, magic or whatever one might imagine)

Immediately, my mind went sprinting away with pussy Steve so this is related to your prompt but also... I'm just off the fucking rails, clawing at the walls of my enclosure over him, so this is what it is, lmao:

I'd like to imagine that Bucky first discovers how sensitive Steve's cunt is after the serum by accident.

Night fell a few hours ago, curtaining the army's base camp in darkness but not complete silence no matter the considerate quiet hours. They aren't out on mission with the Howlies, nah, of course, not. Naturally, they have to be in the fucking middle of an army camp crawling with soldiers, nurses, commanders, and many more shuffling feet. Privacy a rare commodity. It might be the middle of the night, but war stops for no one, and there are still many people who could find them. Patrolling, trading out, pacing, tending to wounded, anything could bring someone by their tent.

It's not like it's intentional, though. Bucky isn't trying to draw attention to Steve's captain's tent when he finds himself waking.

The distant sound of marching feet is never too distant, but Bucky's grown used to that. So, that couldn't've been what woke him. For once, he wasn't dreaming. And... turning over onto his side, Bucky finds that Steve's asleep, that didn't wake him up either, then. What did th--

Steve's asleep.

Bucky knows because he's lying next to him. Their cots are pushed together into one big bed, entwinded together underneath their regulation bed rolls opened up and spread over their bodies like a thick quilt. Maybe Steve just shifted too much? Bucky sleeps light now, after Azzano, so he wakes up regularly to Steve rolling around like a big log, blissfully unaware of how heavy he is now, practically flattening Bucky with his extensive bulk if shifts too far. That's probably it, Bucky decides. Shutting his eyes to trick himself into falling back to sleep.

After a while, though, he blinks. He stares toward the top of the tent, trying to block out the ringing in his ears, the German chatter, and the sound of buckling restraints. Focus on the camp, Buck, the boots of soldiers, the soft voices of the nurses, and low moans of pain from their patients, he tells himself, not unconvinced his mind is imagining it all. There's no way he should be hearing all that from the other side of camp. But--

Suddenly, his eyes wide in the dark, he's listening to Steve whine under his breath.

Soon, the soft, high sound is drawn out and melted down into panting. Heaving, struggling panting, just a few inches away.

Unthinkingly, Bucky rolls into action, turning over and scooting closer to the body he's sharing his bed with, just like always. This is intimately familiar. It's instincts, guiding Steve so he's on his back and then pressing his own palm flat to his best guy's chest, ready to wake him up and steady his breathing back to normal, staving off an asthma attack, a coughing fit, or anything of the sort, when...

Woah.

Steve is hot.

They had just been brushing before, barely touching in their sleep, but now that his hands are curled around his big, huge fuckin' shoulders, Bucky coughs on his own inhale.

He's so warm! Hot. Boiling, more than his new normal, burning with his shiny, new metabolism and enhanced healing factor. It's not just his shockingly boiling fever, though, rapidly, Bucky senses how he's sweating, too. Another bizarre occurance considering how Steve doesn't sweat much anymore. Not unless he's exherting himself enough to make a dent in his super-sized stamina, and that's only happened after being out in the field. Yet, he's feverish and sweaty now.

Bucky's so caught up in the slick pools of sweat suddenly underneath his hands and the burning of Steve's skin that he almost misses how his big sleeping body arches when Bucky absently reaches up to brush his blonde hair back from his forehead, pressing the back of his hand to the center of his head. While he's at it, nuzzling unconciously into the touch, he makes a murmured, soft sound, his plush lips falling open. Just barely parted. His pillow of a bottom lip looks obscene even in the dim light of midnight. Full and pretty.

Bucky is struck, all over again, by his beauty, but his heart races in another way, too--fuck the serum and what it's done for him thus far, Steve has a fever. He's sick!

His own cheeks are hot because of how Steve looks, skin flushed, sweat catching stray beams of moonlight, emphasizing his chistled face and body where their bedroll blankets have slipped away, but he's sick so he pushes his intense, immediate reaction down.

He's got to fucking--

He's gonna... what can he do? Medical is overwhelmed, but with Steve's status, he should be able to get in, right? Or, wait, there's no way they know anything about the serum, so maybe he should find Howard Stark? What about--

"Mm--mmmmghh," Steve makes another sound, still asleep but lower and moaning this time.

Bucky's brain malfunctions.

Jesus Christ. The way he sounds. That's not a sick sound and his brain runs with it, imagination whirling. It's been a long time, okay? They're on the front fucking lines and his best guy has gotten all fuckin' thick and hunky and--

Snap out of it, c'mon, he mentally shouts at himself.

Bucky's smart. He likes to think he can work quickly, he's interested in mathematics and science, he can keep up and understand what's going on, staying with Steve and Howard no problem, but, in that exact moment in the dark, he's not quick enough to get it before Steve shifts again. Moving through molasses--sleep-slow and syrupy--Steve spreads his legs wide, and Bucky's body falls between his thighs from where he was perched half on top of him.

Oh.

Heat overwhelms Bucky, shocking through him like electricity poured out of a live wire and into his veins. Against his lower belly, Bucky can feel how hot Steve is between his legs. Jesus, he can feel it through his clothes. Boxer shorts and a loose, regulation t-shirt--he doesn't run hot enough to sleep naked like Steve does. Still. Through it, he can feel the unmistakable heat of his cunt.

Humid.

Soaked.

The sound of his throat working, gulping down a sudden influx of spit hits Bucky's ears before he knows he's swallowing. His brain has been brought to a standstill between his ears, melting into a pile of useless mush.

Steve's... Steve's not sick. He's having a wet fucking dream. Bucky has to swallow urgently, not to keep drool in his mouth but to stifle the low, rumbling groan that wants to grit out of him at the thought. His little Stevie, sleeping not-so-soundly, squeezing his thighs together, riding the waves of imagined pleasure until his body is left spilling over, dripping wet.

And, goddamn, lying on top of him, he can feel how wet, truly wet his wet dream is getting.

It's shocking in the most filthy way. Without the chance having come up to find about now, all Bucky has to go off of is the old days, back I'm Brooklyn, a lifetime away, Steve did get wet, it just took a while. It didn't matter, it made it more fun, their hooking up, compared to anything else Bucky had done. It was tantalizing to draw their time out and out and out, waiting however long it took to get Steve wet. It wasn't like this then. Now he's wet.

So wet.

Then, they always had to use more then just Steve's natural slick, some oil or excessive spit or vaseline. Steve told him endlessly, blushing and prickly with his hurt pride, that it wasn't that he wasn't turned on, it was just his stupid fucking body.

Bucky loved that body.

He wanted to draw out every drop of wetness from that body. He wanted to watch from up-close, face between his legs, breathing humid across his cunt, to see it get wetter and pinker and a tiny bit more swollen the longer he was turned on. Mesmerizing. He wanted that body more than he had words for. He wanted, hungrily, to touch him as gently as he needed, his skin just a little more fragile then anyone else Bucky's touched. Not that Steve ever saw it in the same light. But Bucky knows, he still feels it. The hunger. This body isn't better, it's different. Grown. Bucky thinks his want has grown too.

Licking his lips, Bucky's whole body shudders with static. Logically, somewhere in his head, it makes sense that he'd be having wet dreams now. With so many people around, and so many responsibilities as a sudden, new icon, Steve doesn't have the time to take care of himself.

And based on how he holds himself now, it seems like he's also a little freaked out still. The serum dialed everything to eleven. Bucky growls, thinking about, does Steve know what it feels like to touch himself now? Will I be the first one to show him what his body can do? Do I get it? Do I get to have him? I want him.

A feral urge curls tightly around the base of Bucky's cock. Fuck. He's hard. When did he get so hard? How did he get so hard? How did Steve get so wet?

Uncontrollably, Bucky rolls his hips against Steve. It's so hard to hold in his moan. He can't help it. He's there. He's soaked. His legs are spread. Bucky's muscle memory just kicks in.

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, his melted brain urges.

It's harder still to remain soundless when the blankets shift around their bodies as Steve reacts, arching and pressing into his body, and, shit, the scent of him, briny and heated, musky in the most attractive way, wafts to Bucky's nose. There's no stopping it--a low sound punches out of his chest, echoed by Steve's higher mumbling, sleepy moan as his hips twitch and cant up against him, searching for relief from whatever good, soaking dream he's having.

It's torture.

Bucky can feel so fucking intensely how Steve's heady wetness soaks into his cotton boxers, spreading through the fabric and smearing against his skin. Jesus Christ. Bucky's never felt something so erotic, it causes him to ache, like he needs to crawl out of his skin and inside Steve. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. His head drops heavily onto Steve's wide, sculpted chest, sweaty and hot, his heart pounding through his strong ribs, containing his rapid pulse effortlessly.

Either the impact of his head to his chest or the collision of their bodies, hips grinding against hips, wakes Steve up with a startled, LOUD moan.

Bucky hardly has it in his head to slap a hand over Steve's big mouth as dizzy as he is with arousal, swimming through the sticky, hot moment of Steve waking up and immediately curling his mile-long legs around Bucky's waist, holding them together with breath-stealing strength, pressing them tighter together, slotting his pussy right against his cock.

Waking up somehow, impossibly, makes Steve wetter. His muscles coming alive, clenching, rippling, and sending a gush of wetness out of him.

And that's worse.

So much worse, so much wetter.

Bucky's head spins on his shoulders, lighter and heavier than it should be. He can't fucking get a grip on himself. The closest he has is tightening his hand around Steve's mouth. It doesn't do a damn thing, though. Steve's hardly muffled through his palm, moaning again, trying re-process the situation he's woken up into.

He's grinding up against Bucky as if Bucky isn't a grown man splayed across him, his full weight holding him down--his full weight should be holding him down. He's so strong now. God, he's so wet and panting so heavily he might as well be hyperventilating as he rolls his hips sinfully.

Bucky's cock twitches violently in his strangling sleep boxers.

"Shut up," he hisses quietly when Steve doesn't stop. Rolling his hips, whimpering and moaning as he moves like water. Rhythm that should be illegal. It's too hard to stop reciprocating, though, Bucky can't help it, he can't stop, grinding against him, lust caught around him like a vicious boa constrictor. Tightening. Tightening. Killing him.

"MmMmngH," Steve replies, choked, through his clamped-on hand. He's drooling, open-mouthed drooling against his hand, so wet that he's making Bucky wet.

Overflowing.

Despite his supposed warning, Bucky is speared with arousal. Shit. He tries not to respond, knowing he'll just make it worse, but in the same way that he can't not slither a hand down, between their bodies to explore Steve, he can't not talk to his best guy when he's all riled up and reckless, breathing like he's run a marathon, tripping and falling over needy whimpers, "Jesus, baby, you get stuck in a rainstorm or something?"

Against his fingers he's drenched.

Bucky can hardly believe it. Shit. He's never felt anyone so soaked and hot and puffy between their legs. Not Steve or any lady or anyone. Steve must've been dreaming up filth for hours to get like this, right? Could it be the serum turning him into a honey pot, hot and sticky?

Bucky swears him can feel the throb of his heart in his cunt.

Ohhh, Lord.

Despite his best efforts, a throaty groan comes tumbling out of Bucky as he rubs his fingertips up and down his slick vulva, diving between his lips. Just to tease while Steve chokes on his tongue, gasping, Bucky murmurs, "must've been a hell of a dream, huh?" Bucky keeps his voice low. He can barely hear himself over the commotion Steve's making, but Steve doesn't seem to have that problem. Or any problem, seeing as he's still working up a racket.

Gasping.

Moaning.

Keening.

Groaning.

Sighing.

Every touch elicits a slew of obscene noises both exhaled from Steve's lungs, falling out of his lips, and from the lips between his legs, slick, slick sounds of his fingers drowning, rubbing against his pussy.

Steve nods fervently, answering his question with everything he has, whining low in his throat, tilting his whole pelvis up, arching for more. Then, sputtering worse when Bucky just keeps sliding his fingertips up and down, up and down, up and down his pussy, spreading all that pouring wetness around, not touching his clit directly but teasing the legs of it on either side of his slick sex, dragging his blunt nails against the little dip of his urethra and feeling the way his entire body jerks hard in pleasure.

He's practically fucking convulsing underneath Bucky. It's unbearbly erotic. The way he reacts.

Despite knowing better, they're gonna fucking get in trouble, he asks huskily, "it was about me, wasn't it?" smiling with dimples, taking his hand away from his mouth for just long enough that--

"Uh-huh!" Steve moans, his sound unmistakable as anything but what it is. A cry of agonizing pleasure. Already, Bucky can see that his lips are swollen and raw from all the biting and drooling and muffling.

He's unfair. Sex on legs. Not on legs, though, not anytime soon with the way his thighs are quivering, muscles tensing, goosebumps painting his skin.

"Shh," Bucky hisses back, half-hearted. He's occupied, c'mon. Barely remembering to seal his hand back over that troublesome mouth.

Slick. Hot. Slick. Hot. Slick. Hot. Slick. Hot. Slick. Hot. Slick. Hot. Sl--its the only damn thing he can think about as he plays with him. Until, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he can't take the teasing anymore himself. He has to put his fingers inside him.

So.

He does.

He stops teasing and fucking goes for it, plunging inside his tight little cunt, he knows Steve likes it a rough. He did, at least.

He does.

He likes it rough now, too, and Bucky fucking knows it by how Steve mewls like a cat. It's unbelievable how sliding his first finger into his pussy, just rough enough, stroking, petting, teasing in and out of his slippery, tight body, makes him mewl. His reaction is so hot that it causes Bucky's heart stops for a full five seconds, he's swears to God.

Steve chokes when Bucky adds another, pressing his hand close to Steve's quivering, flushed body, making sure the heel of his hand is against his clit the whole time he works his fingers inside. Steve whines, nearly flailing, spreading his legs wide, then abruptly squeezing so tight around Bucky's waist as he crooks two fingers inside him until he's sure he'll have bruises at his hips from Steve's thighs.

He curls his fingers inside his cunt more and more, again and again, feeling the way he clenches and thuds and feeling faint. He's velvet. Hot, wet, tight velvet. Heaven on his fingers.

Steve's breathing is so uneven it makes Bucky even more crazed. Against his palm, Steve's breath is heavy and humid, making his hand sweaty. Bucky wants to dive into his mouth.

"It was about me," Bucky's mouth hypocritically runs, trying to keep himself from tearing Steve apart, launching himself into his mouth, his pussy, his fucking anything, he makes him that crazy. He just needs and outlet, he can't keep it all in or he'll explode. "I just fucking know it, honey," he croons quietly, "what about me, though, babydoll?"

Steve keens, too far gone to answer with words. Not that Bucky's hand across his face helps.

"Was it my fingers, just like this? Just like this. Yeah, we're you dreaming about my fingers in you, fucking in and out of you until you drip down my wrists, hm? Trying to sit still when I finger you and not being able to. Christ, Stevie, look at you now. Like this. You're a mess, squirming all over. Did it feel this good in your dreams, or is the real thing better?" The words come out in a rush, a rush like the waterfall between Steve's legs. He doesn't know what he's saying but it doesn't matter when it makes Steve wetter.

Steve quivers, Bucky's not sure if he's shaking his head or not with how he's convulsing--asked about if he was dreaming of his fingers. Hell, he's not sure if Steve can hear him or not. He might be just too overwhelmed to process anything.

Brain broke.

Bucky is a runaway train, just as obscenely broken.

"What about my cock, then? We're you dreaming of being stuffed nice and full? Stretching you out like you need? Makin' your belly bulge? Did I have you on our bed," he's talking about their bed back home, but he could be talking this bed now. He's this close to snapping and snapping him in half, fucking him with abandon, "or how about the map table? Was I fucking you over it, getting myself soaked in you? Just knowing next time we have a meeting you'll be ruining your pretty little dress blues?"

Steve started out wet. Soaking. Now he's that and worse. He keeps rippling around his fingers, clenching down, riding his hand; he keeps making sounds behind Bucky's palm and everyone in this camp is gonna know what's going on in their tent under their blankets unless they fucking do something about this.

Something, anything but stopping.

Bucky isn't gonna give this up.

So, as the only one with a functioning brain around here, he hits two birds with one stone. He frees himself from his underwear--still murmuring about all the things he can do to Steve with his cock all the while--shimmying out of them under the covers, only to ball them up in one fist, leaving Steve to modulate his own sounds for one single fucking second, damn near biting through his lip, and still noisy as hell. It had to be that hand because Lord knows if Bucky look his hand off of--out of his pussy he'd go mad with it and make the troops think someone was getting murdered in here. Unable to stand not being pleasured for a second when it's so intense and so good.

Frantically, Bucky stuffs his wadded up boxers into Steve's mouth, all too easily prying his jaw open just in time for one powerful fucking groan before he's remuffled.

Bucky knows Steve can smell his arousal on those fucking boxers. He knows Steve can taste it. He knows because Steve's eyes roll so far back into his head and... with all those noises, all that face, and those clenching, rippling muscles inside his pussy, he cums violently around his fingers.

Bucky's mind whites out.

He just--

Oh, Lord.

He's still cumming when Bucky gets his shaky knees under himself, lines up, and pushes into him. He's so thick that Steve's pussy lips spread and press to the insides of his thighs, achingly stuffed, making Steve lose it all over again.

Shrieking behind the fat wad of underwear stuffed into his mouth.

Immediately, Bucky has to slap his hand back over Steve's mouth to muffle him more. He's still whining. Moaning. Choking. Fuck, his big, fuck-dumb blond even keeps making these wet suction noises too, dirty, as if he's trying to lick and lap and swallow down Bucky's pre-cum alongside his own wetness that soaked into Bucky's boxers when he was still wearing them. Not naked and inside him. Deep in him, grinding and rocking and carving into his tightness.

It's fucking pornographic.

He's pornographic. Stupid hot and wet and tight as Bucky puuuullls out and shoves back in. Again. Again. Again. He slams into him and listens to Stevie go wild underneath him. Grabbing him--clawing at him. Arching his back. Making all kinds of barely muffled sounds. Shaking everywhere. Maybe still cumming, maybe cumming again.

"God, how about my tongue?" Bucky can't let those dreams go, he's gotta know, he's gonna make Steve tell him later. Draw it out of him word by work until he's a puddle of blushing and trembling muscles. But for now, when he'd be screaming if Bucky let him, he settles for his own whispered, filthy theories, "I know how you like it, sweetheart. You like my whole face up there, against you, fucking your sweet cunt with my tongue, drinking you up. Shit, I think you'd drown me right now. I'd die happy, though, darlin', between your legs, licking until you squirt on me... was that it, baby? Were you riding my face and squirting all over me in your dreams, marking me up, getting me just as wet as you are?"

"W-was I even touching you in your dirty little dreams? Was I just watching you work, honey? Sitting back, taking you in while you squirm and ride my pillow, hm? Dragging it, wetting it between those pretty legs until I wanna fucking tear into it. I'd fucking lick you off it if I could, baby, I'd watch you squirm all over and then stuff my face it and fist my cock to it. I love your fucking cunt, baby. God, I really do. I'd let you tie me down and use me anyway you want so long as I get at that little fuckin' pussy. 'S heaven, baby, I swear. Fuckin' can't fucking handle it, I'm gonna, Jesus, I wanna--"

Steve is a vision. A smear of paint across a canvas. Bucky wants more. He wants to push him higher, harder, he can feel how badly he wants it, squeezing his dick, he doesn't wanna let him go, he wants to keep cumming and cumming on his cock. He can't tell if it's the same orgasm or more, multiple of them. It doesn't matter which. It's too hot.

Bucky is gritting his teeth until his jaw aches, keeping himself off the cliffs edgy with all he has. He can't cum yet. Steve needs more still. He wants to ruin him.

Bucky can't talk anymore. He can't take it anymore. He's too much.

[linnetagain]

Hi! I’m not sure if you’re comfortable answering questions about your fics here so please feel free to ignore this if you’re not.

I’m a russian queer who left a comment under chapter 3 of The Season and I’m super qurious why you decided to make Астарион :), Cazador and Halsin russian. In Good Men and Monsters you mention that Astarion has been called upyr, does he have Eastern European background in that universe as well?

I’m completely enamoured with and fascinated by your works and wait for new updates religiously. Thank you so much for sharing them with us, you’re a солнышко! 🖤

Hello friend!! I am slow to answer but happy to! I can't promise I'll be very eloquent or be able to provide a satisfying answer but I'll do my best.

First of all, I haven't specified Astarion's background in Good Men and I likely won't, so if you want to read him as Eastern European please do! I can absolutely see how it fits. In the context of that discussion it's the concept of Vampirism and the folklore surrounding it that is focused on Eastern Europe rather than he himself. I am absolutely not going to touch some of Stoker's vampiric lore because he was a xenophobic Victorian man (the boxes of dirt... goddamn, Stoker, what the fuck - the grave dirt of course is relevant in Good Men but it's 'the soil the vampire was buried in' not 'fifty boxes of soil from his homeland'). I could write a whole essay on the symbolism of the outsider as a threat and the crossover of the ostracized sections of Victorian society in Dracula (non-english, lower class, homosexual, the list goes on and fucking on) but this is already a long reply so I'll spare you and look at Season.

There are a couple of reasons that it fits, for me, and a lot of it is to do with the Russian history of competitive ice skating. Writing a modern AU Astarion who wasn't a vampire meant I knew I needed to find another way to have that aspect of his character where his life hasn't been his own, where it's been shaped by other people for their own purposes, and even as an adult and being 'free' to make his own choices, he's living with the legacy of who they made him, and working to be more than that. Competitive sport definitely has that aspect already, unfortunately, and ice skating even more so.

I also never wanted him to be the only Russian, because then of course you're risking tokenizing him. Cazador made sense for obvious reasons, but Halsin too. I considered him because he's the other high elf companion, but also because in game he's the one with a history of war. Transferring him to a modern day context was harder than a lot of the other characters, but I wanted him to have that similar ground with Astarion that he has in game, even if they never address it. Unintentionally, it means that in Season he and Astarion have very different experiences of their culture and identity, especially in context of the diaspora, which is something I really enjoy exploring.

Of course that then raises the question of the current geopolitical state of Russia and the wider Slavic regions. Having real world issues as a basis for plot is always somewhat fraught, but it's also something very close to my heart and that I want to write about. I also didn't want to make them all British to avoid any of that difficulty, that would be both unrealistic and uninteresting.

I think the ultimate reason is that fiction, even fanfiction, is our way of processing and reflecting on and exploring our world. It's less obvious in fantasy settings, but it's still very much there. The ultimate reason I choose to do anything is because it's interesting - and usually, in a real world context, that means it's fraught and complicated. I want to write about things that matter, to me and to anyone who might read it, and I want to do it in a way that means anyone reading from a different context might feel seen.

The reason I started writing in the first place, however many years ago, is that I didn't see any asexual rep in fiction and I knew that if I needed it, someone else needed it too. I do the same now. I have queer Russian friends who feel like the world has moved on from what's going on in Russia at the moment, or that all Russian people are being treated like they MUST agree with what the Russian government are doing. The nuance of the situation and their identity is erased by oversimplification. I suppose part of writing this is just me wanting to do anything I can to combat that. It's not much, but I hope it's something, to know that you're seen and still being thought about, and people still care.

Writing characters who have dealt with miscarriage, drug abuse, xenophobia, chronic pain, emotional neglect and all those kinds of things is because I have feelings about these subjects, I want to discuss them, I want to explore what it means to live through something like that and how it affects you as a person. Fiction is a space to do that, and to invite people into those conversations that we wouldn't have otherwise. Art has always been a starting point, and it's always been at the forefront of social and political change. I don't write fanfic thinking it's going to change the world, obviously, but I do write it with the intention of treating real life situations with the respect and consideration they deserve, rather than just using them for drama or brushing over them because it's a difficult thing to talk about.

I know that Season is a love story. That's the ultimate goal, and I presume that's why people are still reading. But it's also, to me, a story about what it means to be queer in our world today. What that looks like, how far we've come and how far we still have left to go. I want to give people a story that is real, in that sense. That takes in all the fucking awful shit that can come with being queer and out and open, and still have hope and a happy ending. It's not easy, and I don't ever want to pretend that it is. But fiction also gives us a place where we can imagine what a happy ending might look like, in a world that doesn't provide them as often as we'd like.

So. Sorry for the essay as a response, but. I suppose I made Astarion Russian because it made sense for his character, but also because I want to write with hope, and not manufacturing false hope by turning away from the world as it is. I want to write all the awful, difficult, horrible things, and believe that happiness and hope are possible anyway, despite, and including them. We don't live in an ideal world. Sometimes I want to cave to despair and think that things will never be better. I write because I don't want to believe that's true.

[herejusttosufferalong]

Okay, I just want to get it off my chest and share my thoughts about what happening with them and their dynamics.

I do recognize we have too little information, and we'll never know, but still I just want to.

After reading all the rumours about them and his break up from various points of view, I feel like they are both right now in very gray and problematic area of their relationships. Upcomming months or even a year will show me if I am right. Blogs who make people think that's not mutual attraction and pinning from both sides are living in delulu land, as well as blog stating Nick rejected him imo.

The way I see it. They both wanted it for a long time, and they've just admitted it that it's not just friendship. Press tour was a trigger, Something sparkled and got out, that was sitting there for a very long time. I mean even Nick comment about 'level of chemistry'. I think their case is subconsciously desiring each other or observing each other from afar, while slightly being interested and acting as friends the whole time because of the other relationship and duties. They've never acted on it during filming though first 2 season, but i 3rd season experience changed the way they see each other. Filming somehow allowed them to fulfill their interest in that area. It's funny, cause I do think it worked as first Polin kiss for them lol. Something shifted during the filming, I fell like for Luke especially. Then, did they hook-up? Who knows, but it seems with the break-up Luke was confused enough. Whatever happened, could it be they've never acted on it or Nic told him its not the right time, or they together decided it was unnessary, or maybe they've never acknowledged that. Anyways, they both took a break. Luke, erm, doing whatever he's doing to heal, while Nic working and maybe dating Eamon. And, well, they kinda forgot and did the relief sigh, thinking they won't need to deal with all of that, cause Luke finally got himself soothed down with A with the unfair power dynamic, where he's not likely to hurt, and Nic just was doing quiet alright, feeling happy.

Well, well, well, the thing is those kinds of feelings, they'll never disapper, u know. Doesn't matter how much you try to close the eyes, it's just there, until you wll act on it.

Press tour started. Nick was or was not in relationship. Someone told tht maybe she broke up with smn in March, while Luke was feeling it for A certainly, untill they started to spend time together again.

And so it went, and it got messier, my lord! This time I guess Luke was aware, juding longing looks that he gave her during all the interviews in Dec, Jan and Feb(but still like it will fade away, I have a girl now), but Nic was kinda still in the era 'aw, we are just friends, lets hype up the season, it would be fun'.

I think that Instyle stunt was like him, really thinking it's serious with Antonia, I bet.

And then Nic and Luke started spending time together again, and they got really flirty, and things stated to heat up. That time the brick of realization hit Nicola. As many said before, her final point was Brazil, Italy was very weird for me, cause it seemed they were slightly worked up and at the same time enjoying each other company, holding hands and e.t.c. But Luke sometimes was kinda pissed with her, while Nic shading all the 'friends to lovers interviews'. I feel like in the beginning of the tour she was friendlier and less subtle with him, but in Italy they were kinda hot and cold. Nic was not THAT touchy INTIMATE feely until Braxil, while Luke only gave her checking-out looks. They were having fun as friends, flirting and so on, time passed, and whatever they did to easy the tension, Brazil was very diffirent! After that they kinda both admitted that it's there and gave into it, doing more and more unhindged things every time. That's the point, when they are stylists started communicating, and I don't think it was a concidence. Luke was feeling it since the filming, I guess. Kinda trope 'he fell first, she felt harded'. Nicola got herself hooked by whatever they were planing to do to sell of their chemistry lol 😆

Luke was still up for it, although in relationships with A. Maybe, he thought it would pass, but nope(sorry lol). And that what made me think that NOW he is even more lost than before. I think A requested to get acknowledgment, cause she watched them in their bubble and realised something is not right(AND IT IS NOT) and it got right in every of her insecurity. This Brazil hair cut was funny, Don't get me wrong, she is young. If I were 23, I would do the same, but you kinda just can't make someone to deny their feelings, no matter how hard you try, That's way paps happened, and that's way I think Luke got more overhelmed, feeling like she's right in her desire to be offical and at the same time thinking about their press tour with Nic.I don't know if Nic and him really spoke about it or maybe they did, and now it's just the way it is. The pap photos got out, and I think Nic is pissed on timing and her feelings make it not easy, and now his time to get it or loose it.

But I do enjoy their dynamic. For me, Luke seems tender and softboy, no matter what he's trying to do with his looks, while Nic is way stronger and dominant, but they do find comfort in each other. I guess he is indeed a lot like Colin, and Nic is kinda Penelope Whistledown post 3rd season era. I like watching couples like that, yay! Thanks for comming to my Ted talk!

I really appreciate you TED talk anon, thank you!!!

I have gotten a bunch of asks recently from people who are claiming to be new to this fandom ship. This right here is a great jumping off point for thoughts and theories regarding the current timeline.

I don't fully agree with everything but a lot of it is consistent with the general theory between L and N within the fandom.

[salvadorbonaparte]

Would you mind sharing your views on backpacking? 👀

Take all of this with a grain of salt because I'm mostly just bothered by backpacking content on Instagram.

I think the concept is fine. I'd actually like to do some backpacking some time.

But backpacking content, as well as most overland* content, always has a really weird vibe. It almost feels like cosplaying poverty if you know what I mean??

It's almost always young people from the so called "West" and almost always they're somewhere in South or Southeast Asia. The most popular backpacking destinations I'm seeing at the moment are Bali (exclusively that part of Indonesia for some reason), Thailand, Vietnam and Sri Lanka. The algorithm has recently also started showing me content from Pakistan, India and Afghanistan.

Since flights to these destinations are usually quite expensive, and many of these people stay abroad long enough that they might need a visa and that accommodation and food would also add up, it can be safely assumed these people have a certain amount of financial stability. Some of them are full time influencers too.

And while travelling with a backpack instead of a suitcase makes sense, and while you want to have an "authentic" experience, the vibe on those videos is often sooooo weird.

They're always like "I just spent 45h standing in a cramped bus without AC because it was only $1. I'm sleeping on the floor of this abandoned building that costs me $4 a night. I only carry 2 t-shirts with me, can't find a laundromat and I'm travelling for 3 months. Yesterday I got scammed and got food poisoning."

And I'm like why are you doing this? Is it really more "authentic" just because it's a foreign country? You can find the same uncomfortable situations and people who live like that all the time in your home country, but when you're abroad it's cool and authentic and #humbling #eatpraylove. Meanwhile there's also people in that same country you're backpacking through who, like, have a comparable standard of living you're used to. Your holiday doesn't have to be luxury resorts but it also doesn't have to be absolutely god awful.

And of course there's also the factor of adrenaline and stepping out of your comfort zone but with these videos it seems like they're almost glamorising having an awful time in an "exotic" country because that's what it's supposed to be like? I guess?

Idk I feel like I should get the opinion of someone living in one of those backpacking hotspots to make sure I'm not just getting annoyed at nothing but I think the vibe is off.

*overland content as in "travelling from XY to YZ without flying - Day 420" type videos. They're often interesting and I follow some of those people and I actually have some ideas for cool overland or long distance train trips but some of the accounts also have a weird vibe. Most of the ones I saw were men and they're like hitchhiking through some desert somewhere and I'm like oh this would feel so unsafe to me as someone perceived female. And obviously they also make lots of content where you know they have lots money because they've been travelling for several months but it has that same fake low budget backpacker vibe.

I hope this makes sense. I'm not sure it does.

[eeveekitti]

posts like "reblog this or you're [insert bad thing here]" do much more harm than good, especially towards people with anxiety or other such things, pass it on

here, made this for all of you

[mayasaura]

I don't wanna further hijack that poor poll, but the thing about Harrow's schizophrenia is that it's canon. The author has confirmed it, and shared that it's based on her own experience.

It's a pretty obscure bit of canon, so of course there's no shame in not already knowing, but that's why I'm so obnoxiously persistent about letting people know.

Whatever else is up with Harrow, autism or cptsd or any number of likely headcanons, she is also schizophrenic. I feel like that's too important to be handwaved away as a difference of opinion.

[uncanny-tranny]

I recently had to do a project in one of my psych classes, and man, I knew that CBT was used for every little thing, but seeing over and over, "do CBT! CBT is the best for every mental illness!" was so jarring. I'm absolutely biased because of my own experiences, but I just don't think it's as universal a treatment model as it's touted.

If you didn't benefit from CBT, it's not because you're lazy or didn't try hard enough or lacked intelligence or foresight into your own needs. Frankly, it's a therapy model that (I think) shouldn't be the only readily-accessible model and among the only therapy models covered by insurance. Some of us should not be treated in a CBT model and that's okay. It's not a sign of poor character or unreasonable demands, and if you don't think it's a model that works for you, then it's your right to express that!

[thepoisonroom]

'I flirted with the idea that instead of being trans that I was just a cross-dresser (a quirk, I thought, that could be quietly folded into an otherwise average life) and that my dysphoria was sexual in nature, and sexual only. And if my feelings were only sexual, then, I wondered, perhaps I wasn’t actually trans.

I had read about a book called The Man Who Would Be Queen, by a Northwestern University professor who believed that transwomen who were attracted to women were really confused fetishists, they wanted to be women to satisfy an autogynephilia. And though I first read about this book in the context of its debunkment and disparagement, I thought about the electricity of slipping on those tights, zipping up those boots, and a stream of guilt followed. Maybe this professor was right, and maybe I was only a fetishist. Not trans, just a misguided boy.

About a year later, on the Internet, I come across a transwoman who added a unique message to the crowd refuting this professor. Oh, I wish I remember who this woman was, and I wish even more that I could do better than paraphrase her, but I remember her saying something like this: “Well, of course I feel sexy putting on women’s clothing and having a woman’s body. If you feel comfortable in your body for the first time, won’t that probably mean it’ll be the first time you feel comfortable, too, with delighting in your body as a sexual thing?”'

-Casey Plett, Consciousness

[captainofthetidesbreath]

[blows a kiss out to sea] for the Mighty Nein pirates arc

[statementlou]

So I see folks pointing out that Louis' circle A tattoo is more likely an aesthetic choice than an announcement of a political commitment to anarchism, and saying basically that that maybe makes him a bit of a poser and I mean- I GUESS. But I don't like to look at things that way and I don't think it's useful. As I see it the subversive sexiness of the symbols of resistance have ALWAYS been gateways for people who are drawn to the struggle in vague ways and that's GOOD. Aligning yourself with those values is good no matter the reason, in my book, especially given the wretched options available out there, but also the journey doesn't necessarily stop there. Gatekeeping queerness victimizes people who are just trying things out and starting to discover that it may run deeper than just trying on a new look who should instead be welcomed and helped along their path, and I fail to see how gatekeeping political affiliations is any different (plus how counterproductive to actual movement building is that?)

ANYWAY. What I really want to say about Louis is that while I KNOW that Louis is probably not secretly a theory reading anti-state communalist anarchist, I think that actually Louis' optimism and idealism (and his unwavering commitment to allying himself with the working class and embracing those roots) are a perfect fit for the philosophy and always have been. I know that anarchism is mostly understood as being about throwing molotov cocktails and fighting the state (and the allure of its symbols are that they signify this, a terrific aesthetic for him to choose to sign on with in my book), but that's honestly largely cartoonish stereotyping that comes directly from anti-anarchist state propaganda. That resistance is necessary in this hellscape of oppression we live in and is super important, but in its heart anarchism is only about the state in that the state and capitalism currently stands in the way of its goals. The whole point of anarchism is that it's NOT about the state! It's about being able to imagine something better than a state, it's about how we live and about how we SHOULD live, it's about HOPE and picturing something utopian and something free of the ways capitalism pits us against one another! What could be more Louis than that?

"I need you and you need me and I love that" is as beautiful a way of talking about the cornerstone of anarchism that is mutual aid as any long winded essay I've read (even if what he meant was contextually different), and I think when he talks again and again about how special the space fans have made around him is he is expressing an intuitive understanding of the importance of autonomous zones, places and moments outside of the shitty life imposed on us by the system (also a huge part of anarchist thought). Maybe I'm just being an optimist but I think that Louis DOES understand that caring for people and wanting self-determination and freedom for all and allying himself with the working class involves a certain amount of resistance to and positioning yourself in opposition to the state. Thinking the symbols of smashing that state are cool isn't meaningless; it's a CHOICE. There are other cool symbols out there and I just happen to think that feeling a resonance with certain ones is something in and of itself, even if at this moment he does not choose to start a fight with the media about it all.

[mintjeru]

happy birthday yuder!! you aren't alone anymore

✨ turning fanweek ✨

day 6 yuder's birthday | free day

open for better quality | no reposts

[crystallizsch]

Btw I love ur yuusha sm

HFJKDLJ HI THIS LITERALLY CAME NOT LONG AFTER THE LAST ASK AND IM ALSO JUST

you've been around since i started posting about yuusha and jamil if i recall correctly??? even still if not, your tags/comments always make me happy ajfdklsajf

it's always so motivating and i REALLY appreciate it so THANK YOU SO MUCH I'M REALLY GLAD TO HEAR YOU LOVE HER 😭💖😭💖😭💖

(*throws this here too as a thanks*) (they're purely platonic tho)

(kalim insisted on taking a pic with her) (jamil just always third wheels them)

[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.