#and was like 'please don't leave'

[magnusbae]

To illustrate this post by @mayahawkse I would like to visualize to you the difference:

A post in 2023:

A post in 2014:

A zoom out of the same post:

This is what a community looks like.

See how in 2023 almost all of the reblogs come from the OP, from their few hours/days in the tag search. Meanwhile in 2014 the % of reblogs from OP is insignificant, because most of the reblogs come from the reblogs within the fandom, within the micro-communities formed there. You didn't need to rely on tags, or search, or being featured. Because the community took care of you, made sure to pass the work between themselves and onto their blog and exposed their followers to it. It kept works alive for years.

It's not JUST the reblog/like ratio that causing this issue, it's the type of interaction people have. They're content with scrolling and liking the search engine, instead of actually having a reblogging relationship with other blogs in their community.

Anyways, if you want to see more content you like, the only true way to make it happen is to reblog it. Likes do not forward content in no way but making OP feel nice. Reblogs on the other hand make content eternal. They make it relevant, they make it exist outside of a fickle tumblr search that hardly works on the best of days.

If you want more of something, reblog it.

[laurellala-comics]

Examples below:

[frenchublog]

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

hot garbage 👇

[spilycoris]

i feel a bit bad for not posting so um.......... here. stuff i actually finished and didn't abandon.

[isatartdump]

Would do the entire dialogue but drawing Bonnie crying is the bane of my existence! HA

Anyway my reaction to when this entire dialogue was over was just. Hihi.

[prlssprfctn]

Contrary to the common belief, Alfred has a life outside the Wayne Manor. And some friends in the town.

Mostly, it is people his age that he met during his grocery shopping, of course, but then there is also an old, nursing home close to the Park Row that he visits occasionally to rest from his family and to get the understanding from people as wise as him. His visits are not entirely stable (he can disappear for months, and then start visiting again, depending on his family's schedule), but anytime he is back, others greet him with welcoming hugs and lists of gossips that he missed out.

So, once, Alfred disappears for a month, and when he comes back, his friends tell him that their nursing home got itself a new friend. He is naturally curious, but not much - it either would be some woman from their neighbourhood as usual, or, maybe, some mailman.

Expect, it is fucking Red Hood that they are talking about.

Alfred is in the middle of his chess game, when Red Hood appears on the doorstep with three bags of groceries, and others just... go to hug him.

Of course, Alfred heard of the new criminal lord; he was poisoning Bruce's life for months now. But did he expect to meet him here, from all places? No, not really. And according to how Red Hood froze as their eyes crossed, he didn't wait to find him here either. Bruce suspected that Red Hood knew their identities for a while now, and this reaction on a mere butler of Bruce Wayne, almost a physical recoil, only proved it.

Despite his best judgment, Alfred, however, pretends that nothing unusual happened. Red Hood, too, plays into that - he spends the rest of the evening talking with old ladies, helping to fix broken furniture, and just being very polite, without ever approaching Alfred.

Once he leaves, one of the elderly ladies that cooed on Red Hood the most, proudly shares with Alfred all details - yes, it is Red Hood, but he is a sweetheart. Yes, he buys them food, and fixes stuff. Yes, he also spends time with them, watching movies or reading to them, he is not scary at all! He is a sweetheart, really! How it started? Oh, well, hadn't you heard, if you are lacking money on products or feel like you can't handle something, you should draw a red bat on the door: Red Hood will always help out - they did that a month ago, when their authority had no money to support this nursing home, and Red Hood took all expenses on himself!

So, Alfred comes home that night, and doesn't say anything to Bruce. He decides that his boy is too reckless right now, and too judgmental to decide if Red Hood is truly that dangerous or not.

Instead, Alfred starts visiting his friends more often.

Red Hood mostly comes in the evenings, before his nighttime job. He is always in his armour and helmet, with the voice modulator on, but others speculate that he is most likely very young - that's why they baby him so much.

For next visits, Red Hood also chooses not to communicate with Alfred directly, but he eases up upon realising that Batman is not coming here anytime soon. So, Alfred watches him taking off his gloves to make a shoulder massage to one of the old ladies, and sinking on his knees before the armchair for her to pat his head (well, not head, just a top of the helmet, but the point stands), and then reading aloud her favourite, the most cliché romance book to exist, because her eyes are weak like that. He sees him cooking for others, the funnily floral-themed apron tied right above his intimidating armour. He hears him discussing with a few old men the old soap opera. He witnesses his voice, even through modulator, hitching when someone gifts him a handmade red scarf, causing the whole room to giggle.

And the more Alfred stares, the more he recognises a boy behind the helmet.

Because, god, Jason is not slick. He cooks for these people, using Alfred's recipes. He knows everything about soap operas they watched together. He has the same unhealthy passion to literature that makes him jump a little as he speaks of it, which looks funny on the double-fridged army man like Red Hood.

And, of course, it also explains everything else about Red Hood's knowledge of their family, identities and tactics.

'Are you planning to come home, my boy?'

Red Hood - Jason - flinches, when Alfred catches him watering plants in the backyard. His whole body goes stiff.

'Mister Pennyworth,' he feigns an indifference. 'I don't understand what are you talking about.'

Alfred sighs fondly. They both know that if Jason didn't want to be found by him, he would do anything for their paths not to cross; he would choose those days to visit that Alfred wouldn't. But he did.

'Oh, my boy, don't you dare to call me mister. Not after I spent nights nursing your flu and reading you bedtimes stories.'

Jason's breath hitches. He looks like he wants to run away, but at the same time, he can't make himself move. Alfred's eyes soften.

'Had you— Does he—'

'If you wanted your father to know, you would tell him already, I believe.'

He puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and it all that takes for Jason to crumble in his hug, to try to bury himself in the welcoming arms. He cries, it seems, his voice modulator glitching from incoherent sounds leaving his throat.

Alfred doesn't let him go even for a second. Not any more. Never again.

Because it is his little boy, and he is back. And nothing else matters.

[demaparbat-hp]

How does that first encounter go down between them in your Spitfire AU? I imagine some real conflicting emotions on all sides!

I would love to hear you ramble!! ❤️

*cracks knuckles* Alright, let's do this.

As far as the world is concerned, Lu Ten II doesn't exist and the Royal Bloodline ends with Princess Azula. The little kid that follows Prince Zuko everywhere? That's Ten Ten, an orphaned stowaway his Crew found and adopted for some weird reason no-one ever questions—the kid is just that lovable.

(It helps, honestly, that Lu Ten II is a carbon-copy of poor, forgotten Ursa. No one would ever think to connect him with Fire Lord Ozai, long may he reign.)

Little Ten Ten loves to run off when the Crew is on shore leave. He gets into trouble sometimes, but only because of his chronic inability to look away from people who need help (it makes Zuzu both so proud and so shouty-because-he's-worried. It's fun until it isn't).

By now the Crew knows not to panic when the kid goes missing for a couple of hours in a harbor town—which is why no one noticed Ten Ten's disappearance until it was too late.

"Could someone please explain to me," what starts as a mutter becomes a shout as anxiety takes over Sokka, "why on earth did we go into town to buy necessary, highly specific supplies, and returned—not only with a stolen waterbending scroll—stolen! From pirates, Katara!—but with a Fire Nation-looking KID?!"

While Ten Ten is having the time of his life goofing with Aang, out-sassing why-is-this-happening-to-me Sokka, and melting Katara's heart—Zuko is losing his mind, sanity, and temper because how on Agni's name do you lose a Prince of your nation?

But, sir, he's like three-feet-tall—

HOW, JEE?!

Needless to say, the pirates kidnap the pretty waterbending thief and her kid with the sharp tongue and fancy-looking clothes. Which turns out to be a Bad Idea™ because, well, a skinny guy from the watertribes and his way-too-young-to-be-bald companion? They can absolutely deal with them.

A Crew's worth of murderous Fire Nation soldiers lead by the unforgiving, terrifying, bloodthirsty Prince?

They are not ready for that.

[fangirltothefullest]

I am begging tumblr to understand that "proshipping" doesn't mean you condone taboo subjects in real life please i am on my fucking KNEES

I literally see people being like "I am pro choice! A woman's body is her choice!" then go around and be like "YOU CAN'T SHIP THESE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS FOR *insert reason* IT'S GROSS/MORALLY WRONG/TABOO/BAD/SINFUL/I DON'T LIKE SEEING IT!!!!"

If it does not hurt a real life person, if it is not pushing someone into something they dislike, if it's not pushing for hate/harm to others- it's HARMLESS.

Naruto and Sonic do not have real feelings to hurt. Don't like what you're seeing/reading? Cool! No need to make a big deal about it! JUST HIT DA FUCKIN BRICKS!

[nico-sauros]

I was thinking how Sanemi's and Tanjiro's story have lots of parallels between them, and how that makes their relationship a lot more interesting.

Both of them had to become the providers of their really big family at a really young age because of their father's passing and shared the responsibility of taking care of their family with a younger sibling, with whom they had a particularly close bond.

Both them lost their entire family, with the exception of said younger sibling, to a demon attack and saw one of their family members become a demon (in Tanjiro's case, both of these things happened to the same person, and in Sanemi's it was with two different people).

But Tanjiro and Nezuko were able to stay together even after everything that happened, while Sanemi had to kill his own mother after she became a demon and hasn't spoken to Genya since then.

No wonder Sanemi hates Tanjiro so much; even with so much in common, Tanjiro was able to keep so much of what Sanemi had lost. So of course looking at this kid who was able to help his loved one after they became a demon while he couldn't do anything to save his mom and stuck together with his sibling regardless of all the terrible things that happened when Sanemi and his brother had been estranged for years filled him with rage. Sanemi was envious of Tanjiro 'cause he was everything that he could had been.

[werecreature-addicted]

for someone who wants to bang a werewolf, I sure do scream like a fire alarm when my dog brings me "gifts" (dead lizard) realistically if a man brought me his hunt as a gift I'd pass out.

[jakeperalta]

rory gilmore is a very forgiving person because if my high school boyfriend who ended things by literally ghosting me and the one time I'd seen him in the past two years had been begging me to leave college to be with him, then showed up with zero idea of what was currently going on in my life and claimed to know me better than anyone and yelled at me for taking time out of college I would've killed him actually

[fruityedge05]

So I just found out that some people are calling Percabeth by a new ship name...

Smartwater.

I'M SORRY WHAT?

LIKE I SAW SOMEONE SAYING THAT "UGH SMARTWATER IS SUCH A CUTE SHIP NAME!" LIKE NO IT ISN'T BABES. IT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING ELON MUSK WOULD NAME HIS BABY. PLEASE JUST LEAVE PERCABETH AS PERCABETH I'M BEGGING YOU.

[vivika-ka]

Some instances that I feel show how some messages in MHA are detrimental, especially on how victims react to their abuser, can be gauged by responses that tend to be highly prevalent in the fandom.

(Definitely not every fan, but a great majority).

Endeavor is a great example. Whenever you post criticizing his approach to atonement (and ultimately criticizing Horikoshi’s writing), you get BOMBARDED by people either belittling you for not liking his character or essentially forcing you to like his character by frantically writing “at least he tried” arguments.

If I have the CHOICE whether to forgive his character or not, especially given he goes through an atonement arc and not a redemption arc, why is any form of criticism about his abusive behavior and essentially his abuse of power practically ignored by the story unacceptable?

The message was detrimental because people operate on the notion that for victims to be good people, they must forgive and even help their abusers. MHA presents people who choose not to forgive him as either a monster (Toya) or inconvenient (Natsuo). And if they are still unforgiving, they must admire the abuser for doing the bare minimum (taking responsibility; this is also about Natsuo).

Essentially, they are considered "imperfect victims" because they weren't merciful in their approach to their abuser.

The majority of the fandom tends to ignore the lack of actual consequences for Endeavor's actions because he vows to talk to Toya every day. Insisting that doing the bare minimum, which is recognizing his son's existence and suffering, became his "hell" is a wildly fucked up message, in my opinion.

It harps on the issue mentioned above that if a victim isn't receptive to forgiveness or doesn't act "demure," they are seen as an inconvenience—which is how the Todoroki family ultimately views Toya.

On a less critical note, I'll vent, so if you don't like this, just ignore it.

I'm so fucking tired of stories depicting imperfect victims as people who deserve death and torture. Plus, having to be on the brunt of so many people acting like you're morally fucked because you're not impressed with how a writer handled abuse. Horikoshi is not the first writer to try to atone a character who is an abuser (and he isn't the first to fail at that, either).

I'm not about to dick-ride every decision every author makes. Especially if the message convinces some audience members that victims are inherently broken if they can't bring themselves to forgive and/or admire someone who hurt them.

[bbuzz28]

Memories

Old man Fiddlestan, my beloved-and what's this? It could be semi-canon compliant :O ?!?! Woof- this is one of the saddest things I have ever written. I know some of you gremlins (affectionate) love that sort of thing, but I don't. I like really really don't. This is my comfort ship, so I don't even know where this came from other than trying to figure out how they *could* work in canon. Truthfully though, I prefer my Fiddlestan heavy on the comfort when it comes to the "hurt/comfort" genre. This is my only “angsty” (i.e. no immediate happy ending) Notes-app fics, so don't get used to this level of sad from me lol.

“Stan?” an oddly familiar voice called. Mr. Mystery, Stan Pines, glanced up from the flyers he was organizing and found that Old Man McGucket stood in the doorway of his front door. The last tour of the day had just left, it was dinnertime, and he was exhausted. Stan rolled his eyes as he unfurled his tie, wishing Soos was still there to escort the crazy old man off his property. No matter what he did, the old hillbilly always managed to find his way back to the Shack. “Sweet Moses McSuckit, what are you doing in here? Shoo, scat, or whateva will get rid of ya.” Hearing no movement, he looked at the man again and found he was standing erect. His blue eyes were the clearest he had seen them in no less than a decade.

          Wait, what did he call- oh. Oh no.

“Stan…ley? Did I…did I do somethin’ wrong?” the other man asked, his hands twisted in knots in front of him. Memories flashed through Stan’s mind; Ford falling through the portal, Fiddleford finding him passed out in the lab, working together to bring Ford home again…being together. Being happy. They had been happy, if just for a little while, hadn’t they?

Then there was the cult, and his discovery of the damn memory gun that had finally ruined everything they ever built. He took a hesitant step forward, a thousand thoughts roaring in his mind at once. “Fidds? Wha-what do you remember?” A bandaged hand snaked up and rubbed over the faded scar on the side of his head “I…don’t rightly know. Did we…I think we had a fight? I just woke up in the…in the dump. N’ I don’t have any shoes. Do ya know why my arm is in a cast?” Fiddleford looked so lost.

Stan knew in his heart that all of this was fleeting- “clarity” would hit Fiddleford every few years after he had finally wiped his mind of himself. Almost like his brain was trying to jumpstart itself back together. The first time they thought it was a miracle but…it didn’t last. It just started a trend that would follow them both for the next almost thirty years. Fiddleford would seemingly “wake up” and be lucid for a few weeks in the beginning, then eventually only a matter of days. It had been so long since the last time that Stan would wager, they only had maybe a few hours together if he was lucky.

The last time Fiddleford was himself…they had fought. Stanley thought he had figured the only way Fiddleford could stay; he needed to remember. Remember everything he had ever forgotten. At the time, Fiddleford had been unwilling to try. He didn’t think he could handle it; he knew he had forgotten what he had for a reason.

Stanley had gotten as close to begging as he ever had in his life since surviving Tijuanna, and when it had no effect…Stanley had told Fiddleford to leave and never come back. He had left that night, and by the next day he had faded away again. After a while, Stan thought his last words had been the final nail in the coffin that was Fiddleford’s mind. He carried that weight along with every other mistake he had ever made. But here he was. Fiddleford. His Fiddleford.

He took a deep breath before he opened his arms up. “Hey, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I’m right here.” Fiddleford rushed through the doorway, melting into Stanley’s open arms. “I went away again, didn’t I?” Stan could feel Fiddleford’s tears soaking into his chest, his own whispering at the edges of his eyes. Yes, and you will leave again. You will leave me and I will be alone all over again, you fucking asshole. “Hey cowboy, didn’t I just say not t’ worry about any a’ that? You’re here now, n' that’s what matters. You’re…you’re home.” A haggard laugh vibrated through the smaller man’s chest into Stanley’s own. “I know I keep tellin’ ya, tellin’ me not t’ worry is like” “…tellin’ a fish t’ stop swimmin’; I know Fidds, I know.” Fuck was really the only conscious thought that went through his head as he held his one-time lover. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, again.

Fiddleford looked up, eyes wide and searching Stan’s face. “How long do ya think we have?” Stan shook his head, unwilling to lie even if it eventually wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember. You’ve always been the only person I couldn’t lie to. “I dunno, it’s been…a while. Probably not very long.” Fiddleford closed his eyes before he said “I need ya t’ know somethin’, Stanley.” Stan started to shake his head. “Fidds, you don’t have t-” The look on the other man’s face shut Stan right up-he had always had that ability. Stan wished he didn’t miss it as much as he did. “I need ya to know that even when I’m not here…I miss you. The part of me that’s somewhere in here-” A weathered hand tapped the side of his head to emphasize his point “ misses you. I’m just so sorry, Stanley. Sorry that I’m a coward. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to be here all the time…but I’ll never stop tryin’. I’ll always try n’ come home to ya.”

Stan thought of the thousands of times he had chased Old Man McGucket, the neat little character that Stan had to compartmentalize his Fiddleford into when he wasn’t himself, out of the Shack. How many times he had found him curled up like a cat on the back porch. How every time they “met”, McGucket would say how nice Stan was or how good he felt to be around him “for some reason.” How many odds and ends McGucket would gift Stan from the dump for exhibits at the Mystery Shack with a large smile and nothing substantial behind his eyes.

It would be so much easier if he would stop trying to come back. Maybe the hole in Stan’s heart the size of the sweet, certifiably insane man would scab over. How many times had Stanley mourned him? How many times was he willing to hurt himself? They were now nearing their sixties, how long was he really willing to do this song and dance?

What’s one more time? he softly thought, his hand coming up to tenderly cup the grizzled face of Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Mad scientist, friend, and unfortunately for them both…the love of his life.

“I miss you too, Fidds.”

[fearandhatred]

the rapture

it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.

but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.

no one thinks about the screams.

crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.

here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.

around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.

he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.

trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.

it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.