I double dog dare you, Tumblr, to leave some kind of comment on every story you read on AO3 this November.
You don’t have to compose a sonnet, or make offers of marriage, but I challenge you to take the minute of your time required to type one sentence of feedback into the comment field after you’ve read any story you didn’t completely hate, and tell the author something about what your experience of reading their work was. Two or three words is all it takes, if you’re feeling shy – “I liked this” or “This was good”
Something to let the author know that you recognize their efforts, that you are at least on some level aware that they entertained you, or at least kept you occupied for a little while, and that these comments are the only pay you’re ever going to be asked to give up for it. The only pay these authors are going to get. Recognition. From you.
When you think about how many hours of entertainment you get from reading fanfic every week, it’s not so much to pay, really.
So click the comment button. Use your words. Give a fan writer some encouragement to keep doing what they do.
I dare you.
Remember, remember, our Comment November…
Gotta do this! My bookmarked for later pile is so intimidating >.
I promise to do this even though I am a failboat with a tortured history of leaving people overly effusive comments and weirding them out.
Oh this is a good idea!
Remember, remember, our Comment November,
Fluff and hurtcomfort and plot,
I see no reason that Commenting Season
Should ever be forgot…
Day: November 1, 2016
Dean/Cas 6
prompt #6: “Did that just move?” (x)
bunker, established relationship, thanksgiving (?)
“I swear to God it did,” Dean says, staring into the depths of the fridge. “And I think the sour cream hissed at me.”
“Be that as it may,” Castiel says from the stove, coat on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, “someone has to remove it, or we won’t have room for leftovers. Please continue.”
Dean sits back on his heels and stares longingly across the kitchen. Castiel is wearing Dean’s apron, a lopsided knot at the small of his back. He frowns attentively at a pan and several pots, gravy, mashed sweet potatoes, cranberries and orange slices gleaming on the wooden spoon he lifts as he stirs. It smells amazing. “You sure you don’t need help with any of that?”
Castiel’s head tilts, and he might be smiling. “I am absolutely positive.”
Dean groans. “Cas, I’m dying. The fumes from this— this— hell, I don’t even know what’s in this, but it’s got to be poisonous. Maybe sentient. Angel mojo definitely needed.”
“We drew straws,” Castiel points out, looking over his shoulder. “You agreed to abide by the results, because you have a deep-seated vendetta against the other selection mechanism Sam suggested.”
“Sam cheats at rock paper scissors, that’s why,” Dean says, using the fridge door to get to his feet. “Oh, God, my back. My knees.”
Castiel’s gaze turns wry. “I was unaware the task required so much physical effort.”
“There are five fridges in here!” Dean says, almost whines. “And the freezer Sam keeps his freaky vegetables in, not to mention the ones no one’s cleaned since the assholes of letters were using them as specimen ja—”
Castiel points his spoon at the fridge, and with a muffled pop the contents vanish. All of them. Even the ones already in the trash bag on the floor, leaving the inside of the plastic pristine.
“Abracadabra,” he says, monotone.
“… I just bought that beer,” Dean says, and Castiel makes a disgruntled sound.
“What?”
“Dean.”Castiel has turned back to the bubbling pots, so Dean can’t see his face when he says, “Did you want to help, then? Or were you just complaining for the sake of it?”
Dean looks at the line of his shoulders, the angle of his ducked head and starts to smile. “I don’t know, Cas. You seem to have it covered.”
“I am very bad at this,” Castiel argues, tapping the spoon on the side of the pan for emphasis. “It all tastes like molecules to me.”
Dean crosses the kitchen, coming up behind Castiel. “Yeah?”
Castiel’s ears are slowly turning pink. “Yes.”
“Well, wouldn’t want to burn those molecules,” Dean says, leaning close. Castiel huffs in frustration and presses into him with his whole body, one hand grabbing his and bringing it up around his waist. “Perfect. I’ll taste, you stir.”
“Dean.”
“Fine, fine,” Dean says, grinning into his lopsided collar.
No Shame November is a go!
At least, I will be participating. The premise is as follows:
New proposition for a monthly challenge: No-Shame November, where we
all post the most self-indulgent fanworks we can muster and then pat
each other on the back for it. (And we realize how many other people
appreciate the same “shameful” tropes we do.) [x]And it doesn’t have to be filthy smut or anything like that–just anything that shamelessly caters to what you like. Maybe it’s really schmoopy found families doodles! Maybe it’s brutal whumpfic. Maybe it’s that time you filled your own kinkmeme prompt and then were too ashamed to post it. Anything goes as long as you’re into it, and share it without judging yourself or others.
Destiel, “It said my name.”
prompt #28 (x)
“Uh, Sam?”
Sam glances up from the trunk, elbow-deep in nine mil clips and empty ammo boxes. “Yeah?”
Dean’s crouched in front of the cooler they brought on the job, and now he lifts a bulging brown paper bag, The rolled top is pinched between two fingers like it’s rigged to blow or possibly toxic. He shakes it once.“The hell is this?”
“What?” Sam squints down at what he’s doing, then back up at the bag. “Did you pack us a lunch or something?”
Dean slowly rotates the bag so that the dark block printing on the other side shows. DEAN.
“Someone packed you a lunch,” Sam says, then knows exactly why Dean looks so spooked. “Oh.”
“It can’t have been her,” Dean says quickly. “It wasn’t there yesterday. I would have seen it.”
“Dean—”
“Mom—Mary wouldn’t have.”
“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “Have you, y’know. Opened it?”
Dean stares at him.
“Do you even know it’s food?”
“Fucking—” Dean fumbles open the bag and tips the contents out, trying to balance them all in the crook of his arm. “Yes! Look, it’s an apple, there’s a sandwich—”
And a note on a yellow post-it, one that flutters out of Dean’s grip and to the floor. He’s still trying to juggle all that plus chips and a baggie full of carrots, so Sam sets aside the last few boxes of bullets and steps around the car to grab it.
“‘Dear Dean,’” Sam reads as Dean drops the apple trying to grab the note from him. “‘I hope you have a good day today. P.S. Please buy more honey, you are out now.’”
They both look down at the distinctly gooey sandwich.
“There’s no signature,” Sam says, holding to note up. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say—”
“You don’t need to say fucking anything,” Dean says.
“Honey sandwich,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I wonder if that’s even—”
“Fucking. Anything,” Dean snarls, and stomps away.
Sam’s a nice guy and doesn’t verbally acknowledge Dean’s sticky fingers later in the day, but makes sure Dean notices him noticing. Dean hunches over the steering wheel and glares at the road, but somehow, Sam thinks he looks a little lighter.
kototyph 