Fun Fact!
Fanfictious Authoria are a species that sustain themselves entirely on a diet of brain worms, unfinished WIPs, and kudos. As one of the three fundamental food groups, removing kudos from the fandom ecosystem causes a complete collapse of the natural order. In times of unprecedented scarcity, entire populations of Fanfictious Authoria can die out completely. This means that the production of fanfiction, in that particular region of fandom, stops entirely, often causing major ecological damage, and the subsequent deaths of fan species in the same genus. (Like the Fanfictious Artia, or the Fanfictious Editour, both of which subsist on fanfiction based diets to survive.)
In conservation efforts, experts are imploring readers to donate kudos and comments toward any fandom region that they want to stay alive.
[...]
Fan creators are human beings, not AI content generators.
They have real human feelings and real human egos. The contemporary attitude towards media engagement is skewed towards algorithmic, instant, and uncritical consumption. This is pumping straight gasoline into the beautiful lakes of our fandom ecosystem. Fandom cannot afford to treat its creators like mechanical text generators. We are not an unfeeling assembly line, only there to produce content. We are enthusiasts, engaging in our hobby. No fan creator has to show you anything. They are fully within their rights to keep their works hidden in their computer files, never to see the light of day. Every fanfic on AO3 is only there because someone had the grace to share it with you. You are not entitled to an author's work, just as they are not entitled to your kudos. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement. Do not forget your part in this symbiosis.
It's a problem that extends beyond AO3. Tumblr is a less enthusiastic place than it used to be. Fandom as a whole is drifting towards a consumption mindset. I, for one, am sick of it. Reblog things, like them, share them. Make fanart of fanart. Who gives a shit? Do the cringy thing. You don't have to cultivate your blog aesthetic. Be who you are, like what you like, and have enthusiasm about all of it. Fandom should be an expression of radical self acceptance. Embrace it. Leave essays about fics that you liked. Reblog the essays of other's when you see them. Exist in the mutual joy of seeing and being seen. You are not just an external observer, absorbing content from a distance. You are here too. Wave back at us. Say 'hi.'
An excerpt from this post about why you should comment on AO3
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~ Made Just for You ~
Prompt: "To Belong" - Day 24 of @hotchfiles 's event MarchHotchness! (It's two days late but pretend it isn't, alright?)
Relationships: General, No ship, Aaron Hotchner & His Family, Aaron Hotchner & The BAU Team
CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, Blood, Alcoholism, Guns
Word Count: 1,819 | This wasn't meant to be this long. I have other fics I'm trying to update but this simply took hold of me
AN: I've never posted fic to tumblr before so I hope I did this right. Also, if this isn't the greatest can you just ignore it or lie to me? Lmao I'm so nervous about posting this. Takes place in very early days + season 1 era, so no Emily yet.
Home should be the one place where every child feels like they fit seamlessly. There should be spaces carved out in the exact shape of their bodies for them to nestle into at the end of a long day.
Aaron's house had no space for him when he was growing up.
It was too crowded with empty glass bottles and tin cans. Filled to the brim with the sound of his mother's muffled cries. Packed tight with his brother's desperation to please.
He had become an expert contortionist at a very young age.
He learned how to fold up his presence, to tuck himself into the tiniest crack. He perfected the skill of fading away in plain sight when his father transformed into a raging whirlwind that threatened to rip their house apart.
As time went on, he learned how to conveniently materialize when the crosshairs started to focus on his mother or brother.
He was nonexistent one moment, and there the next. Ready and willing to fill the space between the flying leather and his baby brother's pleading form.
He began to almost like it in a way.
He didn't enjoy the searing pain but he learned to take it. He almost... wanted it. It reminded him that he was there, that his father saw him for at least a few moments. Despite the circumstance, he was allowed to share the space with him for a while. He was allowed to exist loudly. He was allowed to have a voice. It didn't matter that he was crying in agony and despair.
The Hotchner house looked like a normal one from the outside. A regular family resided there, two parents and two children. They never wanted for anything, be it food and water or possessions. The neighbors saw them as equals, as as people who they could turn to for help. After all, they were the perfect family.
But Aaron knew the truth. That only one child truly lived there. Only one child fit there, was allowed to freely move around the whole area without a second thought, belonged there.
If Aaron had to make himself a ghost in order to allow his brother to live, then so be it. He'd gladly glide between the spaces that held the evidence of his brother's childhood. He drifted past the height markers on the door frame with an "S" scratched next to each one. None of them had an "A" next to them. There was a dent marring the other side of the frame where a heavy bottle had missed Aaron's head. He was fine with that.
When he silently drifted past the refrigerator and saw a display of a carefully crafted drawing with a shakily penned name, he smiled to himself. The award Aaron had been given for his high marks at school was still just as valuable where it remained in his bag.
He was too busy making himself small to notice when he had grown up. His family hadn't noticed either, least of all his father.
The times with him that Aaron used to relish in a demented way had grown tainted with resentment. The blood that dripped from his mouth, another stain in the carpet, was no longer proof that he was alive. It was no longer the mark of some sick justification to himself that his father was helping him grow strong. It was just another reminder that he was only allowed to leave traces of himself behind when they were ripped violently from his body.
The day he decided to pack his things and leave for college, his father tried to pull him back into the residence that rejected his presence.
Aaron unfolded himself then, staring the man dead in the eyes, and his father finally saw him. All of him. His fury blazed bright behind carefully tempered glass.
And he let Aaron go.
Aaron wasn't sure how to stop hiding within himself. His whole life had been spent ensuring that he didn't have a noticeable presence. Now, he was free to have one. When he reached to feel the space where it should be, his fingertips brushed nothing but an empty cavern.
Days turned months into years and he found solace in being directed to designated areas.
This is your dormitory. Your side. Your bed.
Temporary ownership of a space was all he needed.
This is your classroom. Your desk.
He studiously made his way through classes, doing everything he needed to ensure he received top marks. Before he could form a permanent place for himself, he'd be moving on to another.
This is your building. This is your desk. These are your clients.
He presented facts, he helped people get justice. It was the closest he came to feeling like he had a purpose, a place he was supposed to be.
But feelings of uncertainty snagged inside him, on the edges of something he wasn't aware was there. Seeing how clients had suffered made him want to go back further, to help before they were hurt.
It was never about him. He couldn't let himself unfurl here. He had a job to do. And he moved on, abandoning the area he briefly allowed himself to settle.
This is your new classroom. This is your gun locker. This is your protective gear.
He didn't need to fill out any extra space with anything other than what he was trained to do. Follow the protocol, become the best he can be, help his teammates complete the task. He was just another highly skilled shooter under a helmet. This was easy.
The feeling remained.
Then came the FBI.
This is your desk. These are your supplies.
He met Jason Gideon. The man studied him in a way he never had been before. It filled him with discomfort.
He focused on his work. The unknowable thing inside him grew a little more every time they managed to successfully stop a tragedy from happening.
The first time a cup of coffee appeared on his desk in the morning, he thought someone had forgotten it there. Looking around for anyone that seemed to be searching for it, he spotted Gideon raising his own identical cup at him with a nod.
A hidden corner within unfolded as he took a drink from his cup.
He met Derek Morgan. The man was downright playful in a way he was extremely unfamiliar with. For a long while, he didn't know what to do with it. Slowly, he attempted to match the man's energy. At first, it was just once in a while when a sarcastic comment made its way past his lips before he could prevent it. Before he noticed, it was an almost daily occurrence. And he found he didn't hate it.
Gideon recruited an incredibly young man, Spencer Reid.
Almost immediately, he saw himself in the younger man. The way he would hunch over, how he would ball himself up into his seat, the way he seemed to speak as fast as he could whenever he had someone's attention before his allotted time was up. Aaron began to leave space for Reid to bloom, letting him speak about the things he wanted to whenever there were no time sensitive matters at hand.
Whenever he saw another piece of Reid emerge from its hiding spot, something within him followed suit.
Penelope Garcia was a force that he was utterly thrown by and drawn to, simultaneously. She was so loud, in more ways than the literal. Her unashamedly bright clothes rivaled her personality and Aaron almost envied her. When he was focused on the work, he sometimes didn't have room for her colorful words but sometimes, despite himself, he would smile.
Another part of him unfurled, and the thing within grew a little more.
Elle Greenaway was someone he understood. He saw her drive right from the start and felt a tug of recognition. She just wanted a chance and he related to that deep in his bones. There was no question that she did good work. She joined the team and he knew it would be a good fit. The first time she made a joke that pulled a laugh from his chest, they both stared at each other with surprise. Maybe hers was mixed with a little more delight than his.
But he felt the swell of the thing growing, getting very close to filling him up to the edges.
Jennifer Jareau was a whirlwind, she looked over cases with a speed and intensity that he admired. The way she knew just what to say to the press to keep them as informed as possible while ensuring they still had control over the message was a skill he appreciated. When she teased him about his stoic outwardly appearance, he only felt a smile pulling at his lips when before he would’ve vanished into himself.
With these people, he didn’t have to be “the other one” or “your brother” or “hey, you” or even “Aaron.” He could just be Hotch.
And here, Hotch was a part of the team. Not just any part, but an integral part. They didn’t only need him, but they wanted him.
He felt it in the way that Reid moved unconsciously to save him a spot right next to him in line as they delivered a profile.
When Morgan lifted his arm to clap him on the shoulder, and Hotch had absolutely no fear that his hand would come crashing down on him.
In the moments when Gideon pulled him aside to give him praise in the veiled manner that he had learned how to decipher over the years.
When Elle would notice he hadn’t smiled in a while and crack a joke to make him laugh.
When JJ would bring food over while they were working long cases and offer him his favorite burger.
On a slow day, when Gideon would show him a rare coin he had managed to find, smiling at Hotch’s excitement, and then pressed it into his palm wordlessly.
In the field, when he could hold a confiscated weapon behind him without looking and know that Reid would be there to take it from him.
When Morgan would bust a door open and Hotch could go in first, confident that he had his back.
When Garcia would work at the speed of light based on his suggestions and then compliment his thought process, saying they were unstoppable together.
The thing that had been steadily growing in the depths of his being was now firmly in place. He couldn’t hide away even if he tried. And he didn’t want to.
There were spaces carved out for him all around the members of his team. He didn’t just grow with them, but he grew around them.
This place was made just for him.
He had finally found where he belonged.
And he never wanted to leave.
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So.
This is it, mobsters.... our final stand. When the poll starts on @autismswagsummit, go....... do your part.
[Short ID: a comic pertaining to the autism swag summit, featuring Mob and Tome. Mob reveals that he feels insecure about how seriously everyone's been taking this, and how he's not sure he likes all this attention on him for it, but Tome argues and encourages him, saying that his could help him get Tsubomi's attention, since she's autistic herself, and might appreciate Mob being more confident about that. In the end, Mob brightens up, and gets pumped to win the bracket, before it's revealed that Tsubomi actually hopes Papyrus wins. End short ID]
Extended ID under cut:
[ID: a comic pertaining to the autism swag summit, featuring Mob and Tome. It's done in pink and orange tones, except for the last panel, which is purple.
First page: Mob sits down at the table in the telepathy club room, sighing. Tome, who is playing a video game and eating fries, looks at him and asks: "? What's wrong, Mob?" Mob looks to the side, eyes downcast, and says: "It's nothing really... it's just- the autism contest thing. Everyone's taking it so seriously but- idk. It feels weird. Like Mezato-san's cult thing, kinda." Tome, meanwhile, slides him the fries, and he takes one, and continues, "I don't think I like all this attention on me. Not for this." and Tome looks at him, chin on hand, and asks: "But wasn't that like, one of your main goals? To be popular?"
Second page: at this, Mob startles, and in the next panel he shrinks in as he replies "um- yeah, but. To be honest, I only wanted that to-" and shrinks even further in the next, blushing, trailing off with "to..." Behind him, there is the tapping of footsteps as Tome, off screen, rounds the desk, and makes Mob jump with a loud SLAM, and yells "LISTEN, MOB!" Then, she is looking at him with a frown, gesturing with one hand, and continues: "You need to look at this from a different perspective. What if this is the contest that winning would aid you the most? After all, isn't Takane herself autistic?" Mob, eyes wide and blushing, loudly interrupts with "S-SHE IS??"
Third page: Mob asks, "How do you know??" Tome, her arms crossed, eyes closed and a smirk on her face, says "Look. I'm autistic. You're autistic. We're ALL autistic, I know my kin, alright?" Under her breath, (under the speech bubble) she also adds "Plus I kind of heard her say "Leave me alone, I'm autistic" once," before she interrupts herself, her arms spread wide and flapping, with "but that's beside the point!" She continues in the next panel, only one of her moving hands visible as Mob looks up at her, wide-eyed, "My point is, maybe this is your chance to show her what you're all about; that you know who you are; are secure in your identity, proud of it, even!"
Fourth page: Tome crosses her arms again, a confident smirk on her face as she looks down at Mob and asks, "So tell me. What are you gonna do?" Mob, hunched in, shyly responds, ".... I'm gonna win...?" Off screen, Tome replies: "Say it with more confidence!" And Mob does, back straightening and a blush creeping in: "I- I'm gonna win!" Tome yells "Louder!", and Mob stands up, leaning on the table, yelling in response "I'm gonna WIN!!" And Tome, a fist pumped in enthusiasm, yells back "YEAH!!"
Last panel: Tome's dialogue box is cut off, as we see Tsubomi, meanwhile, laying in her bed, sucking a lollipop and phone in hand, as she thinks: "I hope papyrus wins." End ID.]
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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.
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