#I MEAN BABE

[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.

[paunchsalazar]

this was so normal….

[coldbrewpup]

actually i love all my trans sisters forever and ever no matter what

[strawberrybyers]

being a slut and mentally ill means i’d do really well as a patient in arkham asylum

[ruubesz-draws]

When bae is angry at you

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[jaratedeguadalupe]

hc that sniper or scout calls the other over whenever they see animals get up to some mischief

[ei-encora]

Explosion family photo, early 1980s

[beep-stuff]

EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU SAMBA

[super-nova5045]

sylvia plath, todd anderson and virginia woolf (aka ACTUAL tortured poets) watching taylor “im breaking up with my boyfriend for his intense depression and blaming it on him, im dating a racist who enjoys watching woc being brutalized and harasses young woc artists, i sent my fans out on a hate train to attack a young woc actress for a line she had to say as part of her job to show how mentally ill her character was, im dating a maga supporter, i refuse to say anything about a current genocide despite being the most influential person in the world right now, i am a billionaire, i fly 13 minute flights and have the highest carbon emission of any celebrity, i am a known white feminist who only speaks about issues when it affects me and has constantly let my fans get away with extreme racism and even encouraged it by associating myself with known racists” swift call herself a tortured poet (her writing sounds like a bunch of thesaurus words slapped over gabba hanna and rupi kaur-esque poetry that was created purely as a trinket for an edgy pinterest board)

[hardwiredd]

this picture of the inside of a panasonic ag-500r... oh my gof...ihave corvuid

[gailynovelry]

I don’t like getting intense over petty things, but why are people calling large paragraphs “bad formatting” now. It’s just formatting. Sometimes, a larger paragraph serves its text well, and sometimes it doesn’t, and there is a LOT more that goes into making a text block readable than length alone.

Please please please fucking please stop inventing all-encompassing arbitrary rules about what features define “good” art and “bad” art.

[smallmeanie]

local fairy in your area looking for mischief

[cecoeur]

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

growing up with a perpetually anxious primary caregiver is such a mindfuck. that shit will rewire your nervous system

[morganbritton132]

Eddie using the TikTok sound “girl dinner” but instead of showing actual food, it’s Steve.

It’s a compilation of videos of Eddie zooming in and out on Steve while he’s unknowingly being stupid hot spliced in with the occasional video of him being an absolute dork.

Like,

Girl Dinner: Steve lifting weights during his workout. His hair is a little messy and he’s a little sweaty, but he’s got a determined look on his face and his biceps are bulging as he curls the weight in. He looks almost directly at the camera when he realizes Eddie is watching him and winks.

Girl Dinner: Steve effortlessly and efficiently replacing the tire on Diane’s daughter’s car after she popped hers hitting the curb a little too hard.

Girl Dinner: Steve – hairy chest out, old scars on display, damp – walking into the bedroom after taking a shower in nothing but the towel around his waist. The actual video is muted so you can’t hear what Steve is saying but you can see him shoot Eddie fingerguns.

Girl Dinner: Steve taking a hit off Eddie’s vape and making a smoke circle when he exhales. He looks so proud of it after.

Girl Dinner: Steve carrying Ozzy across the parking lot at the pharmacy because it’s one hundred degrees and the asphalt is hot.

Girl Dinner: Steve running down the sidewalk on his way back home after his nightly run. It’s slowed down so you can see the exact moment Steve sees Eddie at the end of the driveway because his eyes light up and he smiles. You can also see the exactly moment that his foot goes out from under him right before he crashes into Eddie and the Tiktok loops back to the start of the video.

Later, Eddie posts a TikTok where he was clearly in the middle of explain what his last video meant because Steve has a perplexed look on his face when he says, “You’re not a girl though so how am I considered a  ‘girl dinner?’”

“Because you fill me.”

Steve’s face twists up, “Eddie, that’s disgusting.”

“Fill my heart!” Eddie replies. “With love and happiness when I see you, you pervert.”