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lighthouseshepard · 6 months ago

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writing idea - john gets considerably injured and doesn't tell arthur cause he thinks arthur would judge him cause "arthurs had so much worse happen and he just got back up" and arthurs like "dude you've had a human body for like two weeks i would expect you to not be used to pain" and its like a stereotypical hiding injury thing you know

HI HI thanks for this!! again i tried to keep it under 1k but. it ended up... 4.3k.....

heres a mostly unedited first draft i might play around with more later!! (: not so much a considerable injury but this is where my brain went anyways!

As John takes the stairs up to their small apartment building, Arthur in tow with one arm wrapped loosely around his just behind him, he stumbles.

It’s a quick, clean slip of his left ankle, rolling outward at an unnatural angle just as he reaches the last step. The movement itself would have been almost unnoticeable if not for the sharp stab of pain which accompanied it, a searing pressure radiating outwards in undulating bursts. He hisses under his breath, hurriedly letting Arthur go so as not to accidentally drag him down too, and tries to casually play off the lurch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, righting himself. Immediately he bangs it against the cement edge, eliciting another silent wince he’s immensely grateful Arthur isn’t privy to. “Lost my footing, I guess.”

Arthur hums, instinctively reaching out for John’s guidance and huffing when none was received. Cautiously he takes the remaining steps, coming to stand just beside John at the top before the door.

“It’s alright, John,” he replies, head tilted in his direction. “Thanks for not pulling me down with you.”

His smile begins to fade after a moment of silence in which John stares dizzily at his own feet, struggling to control his breathing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the hasty retort. “I just… hit it on the stone, I think.”

His brow furrows. “Hit what?”

“My ankle,” John growls, blinking away spots of light dancing across his vision. In the dying sunlight they blended in amongst the cloudless sky, shimmering specks deceptively working to trip him up again as they wavered in front of him. As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them.

“I mean,” he clarifies, “I barely knocked it. Nothing to worry over.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns, searching for John’s hand in the middle distance between them. “Do you want me to take a - well, not a look, but perhaps we could patch it up? Is it bleeding?”

“No.” John pushes slightly past him, fidgeting for keys in his pocket. Arthur’s arm is left hanging at his side, fingers lightly clenched. “I said it’s fine, Arthur. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” Arthur mutters exasperatedly under his breath, following him hesitantly inside once the door is unlocked. “Whatever you say.”

John all but limps his way into the front hall. If the shuffle makes a noticeable sound against the faded rug he attempts to ignore it, desperately gritting his teeth. With each shift of his leg the throbbing increased, sending burning jolts of agony up through his foot. Beads of cool sweat were breaking out on his temples. Irritably he wipes them away, squinting into the living room through the haze of pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

“Stupid fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

“What was that?” Arthur calls from behind him. John struggles to turn, one flattened palm braced against the wall. He watches as Arthur unwinds the scarf from around his neck, smoothly kicking off his shoes into the corner. Shoes that he, too, needed to probably remove if bending down didn’t seem like a far impossibility.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he slowly twists back around, hobbling towards the promise of relief found in the couch awaiting him.

“John? Did you hear me?”

His eyes shut tightly as soon as he sinks into the cushions. The pain refuses to dull despite the lack of pressure once he sits, if anything only growing stronger when he attempts to prop it up on the coffee table, as though gravity were relentlessly trying to tug it down again for his own good. He groans, the noise pulled unbidden from his throat, and hastily covers it up with an aimless cough he feels as a weak imitation of one in his chest.

“John,” he hears a second time. Arthur’s voice is closer now, somewhere directly to his left. Although he turns his head in acknowledgement, his eyelids remain closed, brow furrowed.

“What? I heard you.”

He could practically sense the crossed arms.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his tone firm. “Why are you sitting like someone threw you there and you don’t know how to get up?”

“How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

"Nothing’s going on. I’m… comfortable.”

“Really? You don’t sound like it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” John snaps. The wince which pulls his lips taut lessens any blow he’d intended within his retort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you hit your ankle on the steps?” Arthur says thinly, stepping closer. “So which is it?”

It never ceased to irritate and amaze, Arthur’s ability to weasel the truth out of him. Back when he’d just been a voice behind those deep amber eyes it was magnificently easier to conceal the truth, hiding himself in falsehoods he had ample time to conjure up while Arthur slept or moved about the world amongst others, unable to talk to him. He hadn’t been bound to a body which would betray him at the slightest inconvenience: all his emotions, he felt, were visible on his face and in the lines of his silhouette all the time. Being given away by the twitch of his mouth or the hesitancy in one look of his eyes was maddening. He couldn’t control it, hadn’t yet mastered the subtle art of physical deception. He had no reason to, he knew, but it continued to bother him regardless, being so visibly and openly seen by everyone around him. Every thought was laid bare, ripe for someone else to pluck.

These visual cues didn’t apply to Arthur, of course, but it didn’t need to. It didn’t matter when it came to him. He could sense each ripple of truths withheld in John’s voice as though they were tangible vibrations running beneath his fingers, plucking incorrect notes from a string of music. Whether this was a skill gained through time or familiarity, he didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’d just had plenty of practice, before John came along.

“It’s… both,” he says lamely, eyes flicking open to watch as Arthur shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he exclaims, a frustrated scoff behind his words. “I’m not even looking at you. I can’t.”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking,” John presses, willing himself not to wither beneath that sightless gaze. Like a parent, he thinks to himself, who’s just caught someone doing something they shouldn’t.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur comes to stand beside him, bumping up against the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m just trying to help, you donkey. What is going on with you?”

“It’s-” he begins to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been like this all day: grumpy, antagonistic, walking… very oddly. Did you not sleep very well?”

“I slept fine,” John mutters. “How could you possibly know I was walking strangely?”

“Ah, so he admits something!” Arthur says with a scoff. “I can feel it along your arm when I’m holding onto you. The movement of your gait is different from anyone else - Noel, Oscar, even Marie. Your footsteps all sound unique, too. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying not to limp.”

The silence stretches. John breathes in shallowly, as if the quieter he became, the more likely he was to become invisible.

“John?” Arthur asks uncertainly. “Have you been limping all day?”

“I… not all day, Arthur.”

He sighs, a ragged exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I knew it!” he says, throwing his arms up. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John tries to prop himself farther up on the couch cushions, sliding the dead weight of his leg along the coffee table. “Because it’s not important, Arthur,” he protests angrily. “It’s just a - a sprained ankle or something! Noel says it happens to people all the time.”

“You told Noel?” Arthur’s demeanor shifts, and John can’t quite place where it was going. “Is that who you hung up on over the telephone yesterday, when I walked in?”

“I - yes, I told Noel,” John says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I wouldn’t-”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Arthur states, frowning. “I don’t understand, John.”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you with it, alright? Jesus fuck, Arthur! It’s just a little bit of pain!”

His shout rebounds around the living room, echoing along corners and twisting through the dark. Once it dissipates, all that nervous, fearful energy fading into thin air, John realizes the sun had already set. In the shadow of the singular lamp they’d kept on after they left earlier that day, Arthur looked smaller than John had ever seen him previously - socked feet, soft button down shirt untucked, shoulders slumped while his head was turned away from John’s direction.

Hurt, he understood after a solid minute of nothing spoken. There was hurt on his face.

“Arthur,” he says hastily, backtracking. “I didn’t…”

But Arthur was already interrupting.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks flatly. “From where you knocked it as we were coming in.”

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, no, like I said it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t. Where are you going?”

He watches helplessly as Arthur begins to trod across the living room to the hallway just behind them. His left hand searches for the wall, brushing against it occasionally as he vanishes around the corner, the thin lines of his silhouette blending into the darkness. John waits with gritted teeth, listening to the faint but unmistakable sound of a drawer opening in the bathroom, before he’s rejoined in the living room.

“Give me your foot,” Arthur instructs. He comes around on the opposite side, taking a careful seat on the table in front of the couch. “Which one is it?”

“It’s… it’s this one,” John stutters, glancing at the little white box he’d placed between them. “What is that?”

“First aid kit. Came with the apartment, I think. Never thought I’d have to use it.”

There’s a bite to his tone which causes something in John to cower. Panicking at the unfamiliarity of the uneasy feeling, he thinks immediately to fight back against it. Yet no manipulation tactic in his mental catalog nor no insult he’d ever learned from Arthur was readily able to be wielded. He stares, unsettlingly dispirited, at Arthur’s hands while he begins to search through random items in the kit.

“Arthur.”

“Put your leg on my knees, John,” he says. He’s facing away, still wholly focused on determining which items were what through sensation alone. The subtle surprise when John does as asked without further complaint doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh. Thank you. Now tell me where it hurts.”

Stretching over as much as he was able, halfway balanced on the edge of the cushions and held now partially up by Arthur’s own legs, John indicates with one pointed finger.

“Here,” he says, lightly touching the far side of his ankle. “Move your hand just - just there.”

As slender fingers come into contact with the swollen skin, John hisses. Arthur moves as if to draw back, but after some hesitation makes a second attempt with a touch so gentle John hardly senses the wandering examination at all.

“It’s swollen, John,” Arthur says, staring into the middle distance as he feels along the reddened skin. “You’re going to have to take your shoes off.”

“I know it’s swollen,” he grinds out, “I can feel it.”

Immediately he regrets the display of aggravation. Eyes flick worriedly to Arthur’s face, searching for any kind of reaction there, but he may as well have been surveying a blank canvas.

“I think we should try ice,” is all he says. “Before attempting any kind of compression. Wait here.”

“It’s not like I could go anywhere,” he mumbles beneath his breath as Arthur leaves him for the second time. “I’m not running a fucking race on this thing.”

When he returns, grasping a cloth wrapped bundle, John studies him curiously. Nervous muscles stiffen in preparation for another round of sharp throbbing; but as Arthur sits again opposite him, the grip which guides his foot is somehow even kinder than before, cradling the injury into position across his knees.

“Let me take your shoe off,” he murmurs. “I’ll be quick.”

"I’d rather you didn’t,” John protests. “Can’t we just - God, Arthur!”

No apology is forthcoming. It’s palpable in the tension of Arthur’s fingers regardless, the unhappy twist of his mouth. He fumbles the laces undone with one hand and slips the shoe off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. One black sock follows. The hem of his trousers is rolled back up to his calf, delicately smoothed along by a soothing touch.

The introduction of cold is almost worse than the prodding he’d just undergone. John jolts as the cloth touches his skin. A pang similar to shattered glass ricochets across his foot and he has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. Arthur holds him steady, other hand firm on his calf, bent over the injury.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “It’ll hurt for a minute or two, but this will help to numb some of the pain and swelling.”

“Numb?” John gasps, “or worsen? What even is that?”

Arthur readjusts the bundle. “Peas wrapped in a washcloth. You should know, you bought all the groceries last.”

“Why the hell would I buy peas? They’re repulsive.”

“Well I didn’t, and we don’t have ice in right now, so it’ll have to do.”

True to his word, after some uncomfortable minutes of silence, the throbbing begins to lessen. John sinks back in relief, a sweet dullness overtaking pain receptors which had not let up on their constant alarm for what seemed like eons now. Thoughts broken up by the unrelenting ache finally begin to clear. From behind the haze he sighs, tilting his chin up towards the ceiling. Long hair spills over the back of the cushions.

“That’s… much better,” he says weakly. “Thank you.”

“I imagine it is, yes… John?”

“Yes?” he answers, anticipation sitting nauseatingly in his gut. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you hurt your ankle?”

In the low light he steals a glance over. His vision was better than most - better than Arthur’s, when he had been able to see out of his eyes. Things came across with astonishing clarity, even when there was little illumination to help refine the world around him. John narrows in on the long pink scar across Arthur’s throat, an indelicate reminder of the Dreamlands, the incomprehensible weight of that last stand reduced to one single, jagged divide. His torn ear hid neatly enough behind reddish gold curls, but the mark across his face where those dangerous sands had scraped away the skin there was not so easy to miss.

In the break between their conversation he rolled up his shirtsleeves and there too John could spot scars, dots and lines of invisible constellations, healed but not forgotten. The wooden pinky finger taps his ankle as he shifts the peas. John’s pinky, he thought. Or, it had been.

Everything about Arthur was a testament to some horror he’d survived, that they had survived together. And John, in this new body, had nothing to show for it.

“John?” Arthur asks. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he argues. “It hurts.”

“Is this helping at all? We can always wrap it afterward. Hopefully it won’t need to be seen by anyone.”

There’s concern in his voice, so genuine despite the way he’d just been treated that something snaps just around John’s lungs, a sharp, bitter pull. Whatever he had been about to say dies under his tongue. Nothing comes out, although his lips part for several seconds.

“John?”

His restraint falters.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“...What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, yanking the words agonizingly out. “It wasn’t my intention to lie to you from the start, I - I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, John?” comes the baffled prompt. “That you injured yourself?”

“Yes,” he emphasizes. “I don’t even remember how I did it, I guess I just… stepped incorrectly? Tripped over something? I don’t fucking know, Arthur, and it’s so goddamned stupid. I can’t even control my own two legs! How am I going to keep existing in this body if I break under the slightest influence? It’s not like you get hung up over a fucking sprain, or don’t bounce back from a coma, or a car crash, or-”

“Hang on, John, wait,” Arthur interrupts. “Is that what this is about? Me?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know, Arthur. A bit of both?”

Frustration boils beneath his skin, hot and shimmering. The corners of his eyes prickle but he doesn’t move up to rub at the sting coiled there, waiting for release.

“You don’t let anything stop you,” he says, the living room blurring. “Gunshot wounds to the chest, electrocution, multiple stabbings, so many falls I’ve lost count-”

“Technically the gunshot would have killed me if not for the wraith, " Arthur offers feebly, but John doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Not even getting gutted through inside those mines in Addison! Not even my shitty job of sewing you back up.” He swallows, breathing heavily. “You’re practically fucking invincible, and meanwhile I take one wrong step and I’m incapacitated for days, can’t even take a stroll with you down the street, can’t carry you up to bed when you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Tears were flowing now, trickling in trails of shame down flushed cheeks. “It’s ridiculous. I witnessed you wade through literal nightmares, Arthur, and you did it without losing yourself. You still managed to laugh where you could, to have hope, and-”

The thought was running swiftly away from him. He twists sideways as far as he could, facing the other side of the room, held in place only by his ankle. Again wishing to disappear, again wanting to crawl back inside Arthur’s head where it was safe.

It takes Arthur far too long to respond. For some time nothing moves in their midst, save for the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest, the hitched cadence of his breathing. Eventually Arthur shifts. John listens to his clothes rustle and wonders when the floor would swallow him whole.

“John?” Arthur says softly.

His jaw clenches. “What.”

“Look at me.”

Sniffing, he turns. The hand not keeping the frozen vegetables on his foot coaxes his chin up and over. Arthur’s touch doesn’t linger, giving him ample space. John wishes it would. Frustration continues to slip across his face, lines of damp salt.

“I didn’t react that way to all of those things because I wanted to, John,” he says gently. “I did so because I had to. I was surviving, trying to keep us both alive. What would have happened if I gave in and just laid down and let it all overtake me?”

John mulls it over.

“Nothing,” he concludes, wiping angrily at one eye. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Exactly. You think I didn’t struggle? You saw me, John, you saw through me!”

He laughs, the first bright sound to filter through the room since they’d come home, tinged by bittersweet memory. “You were there for every second of it. Remember me waking up from the coma? I could hardly drag myself out of the bed, much less walk. And everything else that’s happened to my body, well…”

Briefly he touches his stomach. “Sometimes I wonder how there’s any blood left in me. I feel patchy, like I’m just made up of gaps a person could see straight through. It all still aches, John. I’m aware of it all, every stupid mistake or scar or… whatever else Addison and the Dreamlands, all those monsters did to me; but if I refused to accept in some capacity, where would that get me? Fuck, I’d never leave the bed, and I’d have every right to do so. Why do you think I still sleep in some mornings?”

“You’re saying you’re hiding things too, then,” John says slowly. A flutter of remorse crosses Arthur’s smile, curving it downward.

“Yes,” he nods. “A little bit. I didn’t want you to worry, John.”

“This is the same thing, then!” John exclaims. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“It’s not the same, but… it is similar, sure. I’m still figuring this all out, what to do now afterwards. I know we both are. I suppose we’re each guilty of something here, aren’t we?”

A mutter answers him, unintelligible. Arthur sighs, rubbing John’s leg placatingly.

“I have experience with this kind of thing, John. You, frankly, do not. We don’t know how this body is going to react to the smallest of injuries, so when you’ve hurt yourself, or tripped, whatever, you need to tell me. I can’t help you if you’re so determined to be… stoically adamant that you can handle it.”

He winces. “No, poor choice of words. You’re more than capable of handling anything. The point here is that you don’t need to do it alone. I didn’t do it all by myself, either, even if it was our body at the time. I still had you there with me.”

“Okay,” John mumbles. The tears had stopped, drying in faintly gleaming tracks. Unable to help himself, he reaches over and directs Arthur’s free hand to his face. Arthur catches on quickly enough. One gentle thumb brushes the dampness away beneath both eyes.

“You said I didn’t lose myself in the midst of all that,” Arthur adds contemplatively, “but I did. You brought me back over and over. I won’t let you drown here, either. I guess we need to be more honest with each other in general.”

He flashes a small smile. “Works in progress, hmm?”

“Sure,” John says, wavering under that look. It was impossible not to. “Okay, Arthur. Thank you. I guess I…”

“Hmm?”

“I know it wasn’t easy, but you made it seem so effortless. I guess I wanted to be able to react the same way.”

“Nothing about being human is effortless, John. If it were easy, you’d be something else altogether.”

Neither are sure what else to say, so they choose to say nothing at all. Arthur removes the cloth, saturated with condensation. The swelling had gone down somewhat. Beneath the inflamed skin a dull ache persisted, but it was milder, simpler to deal with. Darkness shot through with distant city lights and a sliver of the rising moon sits just behind the glass window panes of the front room, enticing and comforting with its allure of endless promise. In the lamp’s glow, John watches Arthur start to slide off the table, cradling his foot until he’s able to place it down atop its surface.

“I think you should sit here for a while,” he advises, frowning. “I can help you down the hall later. If you want, that is. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to keep much weight on this over the next few days if you want it to heal properly.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To change out of these clothes? Why?”

“Can’t you,” he stutters, “stay here? I can’t reach the washcloth. What if I need it again?”

“I can place it next to you,” Arthur says wryly, catching on. “It’s only a foot away.”

“What if I have to get up?”

“You shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Christ, alright,” he agrees, fondly. “Just for a while. I’m exhausted too, you know.”

He slips next to him. They fit together seamlessly after some adjusting, John avoiding old wounds, Arthur working around this new one. It’s a recently acquired habit, this circling of one another, quietly curling up until they were consoled enough in their own selves and each other. John’s head ends up across Arthur’s thighs, his foot propped up on the armrest of the other end. He was so tall his leg stretched past the edge of the sofa, halfway dangling in mid air.

“John, darling?” Arthur asks absently, untangling dark curls spread out across his lap.

“Yes?”

“You’ve… carried me up to bed before?”

John blinks. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you on the sofa like that, shivering.”

“I wasn’t shivering,” he retorts with mock affront. “Was I?”

“It was kind of pitiful. To give you credit, you had kicked off the blanket I put over you earlier.”

“I was wondering where that had come from,” Arthur mumbles. “Thanks, John.”

“You’re welcome. You sleep like you’re the prize boxer in a dream ring.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You kick,” John says meaningfully, eyes already beginning to close. “Hard.”

“Oh. Sorry. At least I don’t hog the blankets all the time,” Arthur retorts sheepishly.

“I do not hog anything. I’m much taller than you now! I need more of it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Buy a second blanket, then, if you’re so concerned.”

They bicker until John falls asleep. Sentences drop to single word responses, and soon enough he’s out, trying to get one last quip through the heavy pull of slumber. Arthur sighs as he feels his breathing even out, one palm flat on his chest. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change clothes.

“John?” he whispers. “John?”

He doesn’t answer. Arthur lets loose another weary exhale. There was no way he could move now.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he says softly, yawning. “You just want me to play with your hair, don’t you? Unfortunately for you, I’m probably going to fall asleep right here beneath you.”

He brushes stray strands off John’s forehead. It continued to puzzle him how someone who had once spent thousands of years inflicting agony on others now flinched beneath the prospect of bothering those closest to him with pain of his own.

Arthur drifts into unconsciousness soon after the thought dissipates like smoke, head dipping to rest sideways on one shoulder. John, clinging to the last dredges of wakefulness, peers up through heavy lidded eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s silent goodnight, John, on his lips.

#caspost #malevolent #malevolent fic #ANYWAY HOPE IT ISNT BAD CJNEJV #like i said first draft and all #might put this up on ao3 later!#god i need to sleep now im so tired #long post #also the other 2 prompts!! still working on those! (: the dress one and the baking one!!#also this could be read romantically or queer platonically ig!!

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bluestjayy · 2 months ago

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fck stop begging for comments on here all the damn time. i did like u as a writer but its getting so pathetic and annoying now jus begging constantly. Ur writing isn't that good for getting tonnes of comments anyway half the time Ur dragging plots and characters r so uninteresting probs coz Ur on here begging instead of writing properly. every update feels rushed lately it shows u don't even care anymore. just stop begging and focus on updating instead that's all pppl want

Hey anon, I normally don't respond to rude asks like these because I think what you want is the attention.

I especially don't usually respond to asks that have, in any way, anything to do with begging or demanding I update my fics (and I have seen an uptick in those in recent months) but I'm gonna respond to this one, and by proxy, all the others currently sitting unread in my inbox, and any future asks of this nature that may come my way.

Buckle in, this is a long one.

First, I'm going to assume by 'begging for comments' you mean the few posts I have been reblogging over the past couple of days that encourage readers on AO3 to engage with authors by leaving positive and thoughtful comments, and discouraging them from making unreasonable and impersonal demands. If this is the case then I would like to clarify that I am not 'begging for comments', rather I am supporting a community of writers like myself who are actual human beings who take several hours, days, even weeks, out of our very real lives in order to make something and share it with the world and for some reason are beginning to see a trend of entitlement slowly growing across our comment sections. A trend we wish to nip in the bud because, as I previously pointed out, fanfiction authors are real life human beings, taking time out of their days to make something, not machines on a factory line that churn out content at the behest of someone's demands. We want our fandoms and communities to be safe, supportive spaces where we can have fun. We don't want them to become workloads that begin to feel like full time jobs.

Secondly, to say my writing isn't all that good but in the same message tell me to update? Wild my guy. Truly. But let's keep breaking down AO3 comments/kudos/general feedback (such as this delightful ask you sent my way, I guess hoping it would make me want to update??) from readers and how this can affect an authors updates, this time using one of my favourite metaphors for this type of thing and see if it helps:

AO3 is a potluck. It's a backyard party. There is a veritable buffet at this party. My fic is the cake I baked myself to bring for all my friends to eat. One of my other friends brought potato salad. Another friend brought the punch. Everyone who is at this fun get-together brought something to offer at the buffet table.

Now, I might not like potato salad, but you know what I'm not going to do? Tell my friend to her face that her potato salad sucks and she never should have brought it. I'm going to politely pass on eating it, and be glad that all the people at the party who do like potato salad have something to eat. In the same vein, not everyone is going to like my cake, maybe the flavour is wrong, maybe I used too much icing, maybe they just don't like cake. But that's fine, they don't have to eat my cake. But if you choose to eat my cake, and find you don't like the flavour after taking a bite, then the polite thing to do is quietly stop eating the cake, and go and find something else to eat.

Do not seek me out and tell me to my face everything that was wrong with my cake, and why you don't enjoy it. Do not tell me to my face, that my cake sucks and you wish I'd never brought it.

Do you think telling someone that you hate the way they made a cake is a good and productive way to get them to keep making cakes for you? Or perhaps, is the way to keep an amateur baker wanting to bake, to tell them what you enjoyed about their cake. Even a simple, 'I really liked this cake' goes a long way.

And if you do like my cake, if you love my cake actually, do not then follow me home from the party and start demanding I make you cake all the time. I don't always have time to make cakes.

And just to cover all of my bases, because I am also seeing a trend of folk who think that sharing fanfiction online is the same as submitting manuscripts to publishers and that therefore criticism is allowed. It's not.

To continue to beat this cake metaphor. This is the difference between taking my cake to a party with friends (AO3) and taking my cake onto the Great British Bake off (A professional publishing environment).

If I wanted constructive criticism on my cake, I'd seek it out from expert bakers who know what they're talking about.

No one goes to a friend's party with a cake they made and wants to hear what they're doing wrong. Unless explicitly asked, keep your criticisms to yourself and put the cake down if you don't like it. It's so very easy to not eat a cake if you hate how it tastes.

Finally, a combination of both the points above, really, but I cannot stress this enough. These usernames you're sending anonymous asks to? The handles on AO3 you're writing comments for? They're people. They are human fucking beings that deserve respect and kindness. I am a human being. And sending what you sent up there to another person over fanfiction?? That's just mean, friend. That's just out and out cruelty. I have no other words to describe that.

I could give a flying fuck if you think I'm begging for comments. I could care less you wanna say my writing is terrible. At the end of the day, my writing is mine and I'm going to keep doing it because I find writing fun. It's a hobby that helps me de-stress from the horrors of my real life situations. Frankly, you should be begging me to stop because I have no plans to do anything but keep inflicting my drawn out plots and bad character writing on the world for as long as it keeps making me happy.

But I beg you to take a second off of social media today and think over what makes fandom- something that should be a hobby, a safe place to escape from the world- this serious for you. Because the kicker in all this? My friend, if you think what I post is annoying and my writing is bad, you can not see it. You can block me. You can click away from my stories. Your online space is yours to curate and no one, literally not a single person, is making you engage with things you don't want to engage with. Curate your space, fill it with people who aren't 'begging for comments', fill it with fics you think are really good and deserve to be told how good they are through wonderful comments. Please, I am begging you, because at the end of the day to live in such negativity must be so exhausting for you.

I've no idea if you, the original sender of this message will even read through all of this, but if you did, please, if not me, then any other fandom creators you come across going forward. Please treat them with kindness. Please respect that sometimes fandoms are spaces people hide in when their real lives are scary and frustrating and negative enough and all you do with messages like these is drive people away.

TL;DR: this is not the way you get more updates from fic authors, and further from that, it's not the way you treat anyone. Ever. Do better. Do much better.

#im sorry that was long but i needed to drive some points home lol #im so tired #let me enjoy my cake in peace for the love of god #go eat something else on the buffet table #ive no idea if that metaphor even makes sense the way i want it to but oh well #ask gin #gin speaks #gin fucking loses his mind on the tl #im going to log off now because its 3am #and i need to yell scream cry before i sleep

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