#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

[muchmossymess]

Like they just did that and moved on

[moeblob]

Warning for: The (spider) legs showing below!

Under the hoodie/layers, she tends to wrap her legs around her kinda like a hug! And so in the first part that's the weird bumps under the hoodie. They're starting to unravel a bit. She hates being called a monkey cause it's NOT her fault she's short and has to climb on things and up things and includes people in "things" category.

[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:

[astranauticus]

link click yingdu ep 1 is truly the gift that keeps on giving the more you think about it the more layers you unlock. at first i thought the 'video call with phone in shirt pocket' trick is a pretty effective way of replicating their dives with like.. normal human technology without their powers and then i realised that's probably because lu guang specifically thought 'this is a situation that would call for a dive except cheng xiaoshi doesn't know about the whole time travel powers thing yet, what would be a good and reasonable approximation of that that i can spring on him rn'. also, we know this is not the first time he's experiencing this day because he was checking the clock before he proposed the whole video call phone camera thing, implying that he had the 'script' for this day just like he did with the anime convention, but even then he could only warn cheng xiaoshi about the guy behind him with the bat right before he was about to get hit - probably because cheng xiaoshi kept 'doing unnecessary actions' and messing up the timeline/lu guang's 'script' and forcing him to improvise. once again, lu guang's trying to protect cheng xiaoshi while also hiding information from him and cheng xiaoshi's failing to follow lu guang's instructions and putting himself in danger because of his own kindness and impulsivity - their entire dynamic moving forwards, captured in their first (arguably more like.. the 0th) 'job' together.

[flying-cat]

thinks about bakudeku and falls to the floor

[gracebethartacc]

the day I get cotards solution jash cover is the day I die a happy man (<not a man)

[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)

[trenchcroats]

I don't like how many people in fandom erase a characters ace identity

[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.

[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.