#whoops that veered into angst right at the end

[ohdrarry]

Addictive Tendencies

@hprarepairnet​ & @slytherdornet​ - quidditch player ships challenge Pairing: Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood (Flintwood) Summary: “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.”

“Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. One thing leads to another. 

Warnings: Light angst, break-ups, everyone swears a great deal, mentions of nsfw/18+ activities. Rating: Teen. 

Word Count: 4k (yes, I know, it is very long for a Tumblr fic) 

For all that he feels almost dead going through the motions of life, Oliver comes alive on the pitch. There’s something about the clean, crisp scent of fresh air– the kind reminding him of the open fields close to home– and the adrenaline rush of mounting a broom that leeches into every cell of his being. It fires his synapses, jolts his entire body out of the sleepwalking trance he slips into during classes and meals and all the other mundanities that compose everyday life. Oliver can’t wait to go pro.

To leave fucking Transfiguration and Potions and Professor Sprout’s herb gardens behind. To make the familiarity of the broom clenched under his thighs and the roaring blood in his ears his livelihood, his reason to wake up every morning and  go back to bed each night without drinking himself into a stupor thinking of everything that could have– Fuck no. He’s not going down that road right now.

Right now, his focus needs to be narrowed down to that slim space between the hoops and the perfect, concentrated manoeuvre that will allow him to slip through. His focus needs to be on his game, his practice, not on… other things.

Vision tunnelling, Oliver tenses his calves around the reliable solidity of his broom, and corkscrews his entire body almost violently through the gap, veering dangerously close to the metal bars of the left hoop, emerging unscathed and out of breath on the other side. He wants to be happy.

Wants to be proud, because this is the first time he has executed this move flawlessly without either crashing his elbow or his knee or his side into some part of the hoops. He desperately wants to feel the joy he would be whooping with by now if this had been even six months ago. But all he feels is the desperate desire to hear Marcus shout, “That’s what I fucking call a Hummingbird, Wood, you fucking genius!” either from the stands or from his place on another broom by Oliver’s side. He’s met with silence. The wind moans, twisting its way through the branches of the trees lining the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. Oliver wants to drive himself into a metal bar just to work off some of the pent up frustration and rage gathering in his shoulders, his back muscles, his stomach. The almost physical ache gripping and tearing at his heart. He kicks out, and the broom bucks underneath him, buoyed in the wrong direction by an errant current of air. There’s a brief moment of sheer terror as his body misbalances midair, but he isn’t the fucking captain of Gryffindor for nothing. He lets himself fall for a second, letting his weight gather momentum, before pulling out at the very last second. Sometimes he wants to smash his entire body into a wall, but he knows better than to work out his aggressive tendencies on the unforgiving pitch.

His legacy deserves better than to be remembered as a gruesome splatter on the grounds of Hogwarts. Marcus though. Marcus can bloody well plummet to death for all Oliver cares. Except.

Except the very thought sends shudders down Oliver’s spine, and his hands inadvertently reach out into thin air even contemplating the prospect of letting Marcus hurt himself. Except that Oliver would take the fall before letting Marcus take it. He’s fucked, truly. “You’re a bloody fool, Oliver,” he mutters to himself with only the wind listening in. “And for once you’ve got something other than terrible grades to prove how truly fucked you are.” Marcus’ words echo in his head, a never ending loop of heartbreak and agony and gut-wrenching misery that no rationally thinking future pro Quidditch player has the time for. You– you know how the world is beyond Hogwarts, man. You know it’s not good to– to people like us, especially when we want to play and go pro, you know. It’s bollocks mate, is what it is, but it’s life and I guess I want a career more than a fuck. Because that’s all they’d been of course. A fuck. Fuck Marcus. Well and truly fuck him into next Sunday, next month, next bloody year. That line of thinking conjures up a whole new set of images that are doubly uncomfortable when one’s private parts are squashed onto a pole of unforgiving wood. His whole body itches and aches and buzzes with energy he doesn’t know how to work off, so he perfects his form on the broom and swoops in and out of the spaces between the hoops, tracing fast paced figure of eights that even the best of the best would have a tough time keeping up with. It’s mindless and the cold wind sniping at his cheekbones jars him into the present, into the steadiness of swerving past the bars of the hoops and spinning around like his life depends on it. Fuck Marcus Flint and his stupid, scared arse and his willingness to give up on everything Oliver thought was sacred to them. Fuck him. After half an hour, he wants to keep going, but his whole body resists, aching and burning along the lines of tension in his muscles. He feels heavy and tired, like a stone about to drop, and he turns on his broom to swoop down when– When he sees him. In the stands. The crossed arms, the wind billowing through strands of hair that are surprisingly soft to the touch (Oliver knows that because he’s touched those stands reverentially in the showers, in hidden alcoves, during warm, hot moments of kisses and mouths trailing over flushed skin–). The green robes are flying out behind the solitary figure in the stands like a cape from one of Katie’s superhero comics, and there’s no mistaking the identity of the man. Not for Oliver at least.   Marcus is watching him. Has been for Merlin knows how long. All Oliver wants to do is touch down and drag himself over to the stands and crash into Marcus’ arms, but he resists the urge. Instead, he laps a lazy loop in the air, before his tired body forces him to retire, and instead of picking the pitch like a sane person, Oliver perches on the edge of the middle hoop, crawling off the broomstick onto the thick metal. It’s surprisingly comfortable. It’s also a ploy to wait Marcus out, but well. It doesn’t seem to be working quite yet. Some part of him wants to swing his legs around his broom, swoop down beside Marcus and kiss him senseless. Some part of him wants to pull Marcus in and just relearn the feeling of their bodies touching again. He reins this part in with every ounce of control and every shred of self respect he has. He holds it back, letting it kick and rage and fester at the back of his heart, where he keeps his pain and his misery and his urges to do things he will regret within five seconds. That part of his heart– It’s ugly. He turns away from the imposing figure Marcus cuts in the stands with his biceps bulging and his hair, longer than it was since Oliver last ran his hands through it curling around his strong neck. Oliver can feel the pressure of it, of Marcus’ head pillowed against his lap when they could sneak an afternoon away to the Astronomy Tower. Marcus’ dark hair curled into Oliver’s fist as they talked, as they kissed, as they pushed each other’s clothes off with all the pent up energy of two prowling hyenas going in for the kill. He feels the tears rise, but he doesn’t want to cry. Not here anyway, with Marcus watching for whatever Merlin-forsaken reason. Doesn’t want to raise his hand in the tell tale sign of wiping away his tears. Doesn’t want to be weak.

Instead he stares at the setting sun even though the riot of colours across the sky only make him angrier. Why should the world get to move on and revel in its beauty when his life feels like radio static? Why should sunlight have the right to twirl pretty patterns into Marcus’ eyes when Oliver isn’t there to see it? Why does even nature get to laugh at his sad, pathetic arse and why doesn’t he ever get to move the fuck on? “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.” “Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. “What,” he says without turning around for fear of what he’ll see, “are you doing here?” “Saw you practicing from the Tower. Thought I might join you.” Oliver lets loose a laugh. “Get lost,” he says, and grimaces when it comes out slightly choked. “Or I’m telling Hooch you’re spying on the Captain for his plays.” “I have plenty of plays of my own,” Marcus says, and Oliver cringes at the suggestive undercurrent of the words. “Or did you forget?” When the weight of his anger and his hurt and his exhaustion crash into him, Oliver almost falls off his precarious perch. He staggers slightly and has to reach out with one hand to grip the edge of the hoop. His other hand slackens around his broom, and it teeters dangerously in his loose grip. Somehow, he doesn’t have the energy to hold it tighter. The tiredness creeps into his muscles, his bones, the raging fires of his heart, shrouding his entire being in a blanket of heaviness that he can’t shrug off. Here he is, trying to hold himself together, and Marcus has the balls to be making innuendos. “Last I checked, Flint, your plays were off limits. And you didn’t want any of mine, either. Which begs the question that I already asked you, why the fuck are you here?” Marcus is silent, because of course he is. Damn bastard, he can’t even give Oliver a good reason, a good excuse for his real purposes. “Come to gloat?” He asks, and his voice comes out a broken whisper. “Come to check in on poor Ollie and how he’s doing now that you’ve binned him?” “Oliver–“ “Shut up,” he says, he begs, and turns to face Marcus, and promptly has the breath knocked out of him. Because Marcus, oh, he’s bathed in the light of the golden sun, bathed in every shade of desire, coloured in Oliver’s dreams. There’s that uncertain turn to his lips, as though he expects Oliver to shove him away, tell him to leave, as though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t look like he’s gloating (and Oliver knows how Marcus looks when he gloats, because goddamn, he’s lost Quidditch matches against this man). If anything, he looks a little wrecked, but in the most beautiful way imaginable, and Oliver– Oliver has never wanted to kiss someone more. Marcus sighs. His lashes flutter against his cheek and his shoulders droop slightly, and he looks a little lost when he gazes at some spot in the distance and says in a slow lilt, as though he’s searching for the words as he goes, “I– I missed you, Oliver.” And those words, the words he’s been craving to hear for a whole fucking month now wash over him, curl into the spaces that are yawning open and empty in the absence of the warmth Marcus had been when they’d spent those five glorious months in each other’s sunshine.

“We were just fucking,” he says anyway, because he’s too damn proud to be soothed of a month’s hurt by some half hearted confession of being missed. “Right, Flint? Just a fuck.” “You know that’s not true.” “Do I?” Oliver asks. He wants to be angry, wants his eyes to flash, wants to clench his fists and look ready to batter Marcus into a bloody pulp for daring to hurt him the way he did, but the words come out thick and heavy, laced with the burdens Oliver has been carrying alone. He never cared, he never looked at me as anything except a fuck, he just wanted some fun. Human beings, fragile creatures. Togetherness is more of an addiction than drugs and whisky could ever be. “Oliver, I– I was scared, and–“ “And you thought I wasn’t? You thought it was a breeze for me, that I hadn’t ever considered what the damn repercussions could look like–“ “That’s what you made it sound like!” Marcus throws both his hands up, and there’s a wild light in his dark eyes. “You made it look so easy with all your casual, hey Flint, care for a Butterbeer this weekend and Marcus, look at me and your damn smiles– and I– I was scared out of my mind Oliver, and you just looked like it was something you were born with.” “Born with what?” “Confidence! Fearlessness! Like you couldn’t give a fuck what people in locker rooms would think if you went pro, if I went pro, like you didn’t care that coaches would pay less attention to you, or make you the punching bag of the team, like teams would only sign you on if they had to pay you less if they found out about this.” Oliver sighs. It’s so obvious now that all through those months when Oliver had been caught up in a haze of a perfect love story of two Quidditch captains from historically rival houses, Marcus had been overthinking his choices, his career, everything. “This isn’t a hand job in a dark bed in the dorms, Oliver, and you know it.” He feels weary. Wrung out. “I wasn’t born with it,” he says, and looks away again at the darkening horizon. The sun is now a ball of red against a blue sky turning black. “What?” “Confidence, or fearlessness, or whatever you thought came easy to me. But you were scared about fucking up your career and I was scared of fucking us up. You were thinking about whatever pro team deals you dream of and I was thinking that something I would say or do would push you away because I’m too much of a stupid fuck for anyone to be with. Wood, have you got leaves for brains? Wood, if I knocked on that head would it ring hollow?” “Oliver,” Marcus says, and he sounds so shocked, so hurt that it’s like a string tied to the back of Oliver’s head has been pulled. He turns to face Marcus again, and he looks devastated.

He looks like he’s seeing Oliver for the first time.

“You really thought that I thought you were–“ “Bollocks for brains, yeah.” And because he can’t bear to see Marcus look so upset, he adds, “But that’s alright now. I’ll get over it, and you, and you can sign all the pro deals, and have a couple babies and no one will think you and I–“ Marcus slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” Marcus says, and oh, he’s so beautiful when he’s angry. “You’re a bit thick sometimes, I’ll give you that,” Marcus says in a voice so low that it sounds like he’s admitting state secrets instead of the most obvious thing that anyone who speaks to Oliver for five minutes can pick up on. “But don’t ever think that you’re stupid, or that you’ve got leaves for brains– Oliver what the fuck? The way you– the way you remember all the damn plays starting from the fucking 1790s and how you can recite precedents for every move anyone makes on the field and how you know exactly which player to pair with which one, which one needs to be benched– Oliver, you’re made for this. You don’t need some Transfiguration O to prove that.” He doesn’t know whether to believe this is happening. And worse– he doesn’t know what it means. If he’s imagining it, he’s further gone for Marcus than he can ever admit to anyone who is not a Mind Healer. If he’s not imagining it, Marcus is here, after a bloody month of ignoring him, breaking his heart, stomping on it with the butt end of a broom, to tell him– Rage curls in his stomach. He jerks away from the hand Marcus has now slid onto his jawline, regretting the motion immediately when the thumb tracing circles into the space behind his ear is dislodged. “And you’re telling me this now? After telling me you care more about your career than a fuck? Why bother? If that’s how you feel– it’s not going to change!” Marcus looks down. Oliver wants to curl a hand under that drooping chin, pull it up, kiss it better, but he holds himself back. “I was scared,” he whispers. Oliver wishes he weren’t so fucking easy, because the ice walls he’d thrown up to keep Marcus and his mind games out is already thawing. “I was so scared.” “You had a reason,” Oliver mumbles. He looks down. The drop to the pitch is sheer, sharp. If he falls, there’s no way he can be saved unless Marcus decides to be a hero. The thought brings a small smile to his lips. “I was being a coward,” Marcus says sharply. “Thorne– Thorne’s y’know, bisexual and all that, and he’s playing great game with the Magpies–“ “We can’t all be Thorne. And Thorne was stoned in Diagon.” “By one man who was arrested by Kingsley Shacklebolt. We might not be Thorne, but we can try.” The sound that rips itself from Oliver’s throat is rife with the pain and frustration of a month of second guessing and heartbreak. “Why does it matter?” Oliver asks, his voice carrying in the emptiness of the pitch. “Why the bloody fuck does any of it matter Marcus, you don’t want this, it was just a fuck–“ It happens so fast that Oliver doesn’t process it till its done. Marcus surges forward on the broomstick, invading the meagre personal space Oliver had tried to maintain between them so he wouldn’t reach out, be overly-familiar, push Marcus away the first time he’d dared to venture close in so long. Their eyes meet, and the pitch, the hoops, the past month and their discussion fades to nothing but white noise in the back of Oliver’s brain. Marcus, bless his balance on a broom, reaches out with one hand to cup the back of Oliver’s neck and the other comes to frame his face, resting on his ear. He waits for a second, for permission, to be pushed away, hell, Oliver doesn’t know, and then they’re kissing, Marcus’ hot, perfect, slightly chapped lips fitting against his. Something clicks into place finally. Something disjointed and broken snaps back inside his chest and the heavy weight he’d gotten all too used to carrying lifts like the healed wing of an injured bird. His heart soars with all the delight of a creature learning to fly once more, and something in this urgent, heartfelt kiss feels like a reassurance. I missed you, it says. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry for hurting you. A million apologies in a single press, a single touch, in the soft breath that gusts over Oliver’s nose. It could be seconds, could be decades when Marcus finally pulls away. Oliver has to shut his eyes, clench them tightly to keep the traitorous tears from falling, from ruining this perfect moment that he’s certain will be shattered anyway when Marcus realises what he’s done. But Marcus doesn’t release a horrified gasp, doesn’t push him away, doesn’t retreat with the air currents back to the stands. Marcus stays there, floating gently on his broom, holding Oliver’s face between his hands, waiting for something. Oliver’s too scared to open his eyes and figure out what. He’s never felt so small, never felt himself be flayed open by circumstances rendering him raw and broken and ready to be picked apart. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and Marcus is here to watch. He doesn’t know if this feeling of trust is warranted, especially after everything Marcus said and did, but he knows he can’t make himself be suspicious or cruel in this moment. He will hate himself forever if he pushes Marcus away right now, and of all the punishments Oliver has suffered, self inflicted misery isn’t one he particularly enjoys. But he can ask, so he does. “What now?” Marcus shrugs. Oliver feels it, the slight tremble, the tell tale stiffness and when he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see tears in Marcus’. “Are you–“ “Shut up, Wood.” Oliver watches Marcus close his eyes, bite his lip, whisper something inaudible and pull himself together. Watches him try to be steady. To know that they are here, suspended midair in a moment in time, being unsteady together rouses the buried beast of hope in Oliver’s heart. The sun has set. The horizon is a bruised blue now, and Marcus still looks like a shining beacon of future possibilities set against a dark sky of prejudice and inevitable darkness. “So. Thorne.” Marcus smiles despite himself. Nods. “Thorne.” “You’re kidding yourself if you think you play as well as Thorne does.” This time, Marcus laughs. It’s slightly choked, and only barely there, but it’s a laugh. “That’s not the fucking point and you know it.” “Oh I don’t know,” Oliver teases. “I’m a bit thick, aren’t I?” Marcus sobers up almost immediately. Oliver’s heart goes into overdrive, panicking. What if he said something wrong? Reminded Marcus of why he left? But Marcus merely looks serious when he says, “It’s still true.” “What?” “About the teams and coaches and the players. The world– The damn Quidditch world isn’t kind to people like us.”

Oliver looks at Marcus, at the depth of his eyes that people ignore when they critique him for being a bastard (he is a bastard, Oliver knows, just a bastard with depth and capability for kindness that Oliver feels privileged to know exists), at the worried cleft between his eyebrows, at the self conscious way in which he pulls his lips over his teeth. “The pitch makes up for it,” he says. “If I get to keep you and the pitch and my broom, I don’t give a fuck about what coaches and players and galleons have to say.” Marcus lets out a sound like a strangled sob and rests his forehead against Oliver’s. If Oliver hadn’t been holding onto his broom with one hand and the Quidditch hoop with the other, he’d have held Marcus a little closer, but he settles for kissing Marcus’ nose.

“I like galleons,” Marcus whispers after a while. For the first time in a month, Oliver feels a genuine laugh erupt from his chest, into his throat, out of his mouth. He feels light. “You’ll make plenty, don’t you worry,” he says instead. “Promising Chaser, conniving little Slytherin, bit of a looker too– why wouldn’t you?” “Are you calling me handsome, Oliver?” Oliver snorts. “Stop fishing. If the whole Quidditch thing goes balls-up, you can always model for Gladrags.” “Which section of Gladrags?” “Let’s see. Much as I’d love to see you in women’s lingerie, I don’t know if the civil public is willing to, so I’d say the part where handsome young wizards pose in their underwear with their hands suggestively placed behind their heads.” “The civil public doesn’t read Gladrags, Oliver.” “Are you calling me uncivil?” They burst into laughter, something dark and heavy lifting from their beings, and the tensed, tightened bolts of coiled emotion and anger loosening with every quip, every little kiss, every stolen moment of this. Above them, the sky darkens as the universe’s speckled cloak unravels with the fading light of day. Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, a Centaur looks up. Somewhere, a first year student catches a glimpse of two figures on one of the hoops of the pitch and looks away with wide eyes and a racing heart.

On the pitch, two boys share a secret smile in the darkness, and somewhere above them, the stars align perfectly.

#geets creates #hprarepairnet #slytherdornet #flintwood #marcus flint #oliver wood #marcus x oliver #oliver x marcus #marcus flint x oliver wood #oliver wood x marcus flint #headcanons #harry potter #hp #hp fanfic #quidditch #quidditch players #fic recs #fic rec #fic #angst #breakups #rare pair #hp rare pair #slytherin #gryffindor #hp minor characters

[meridianbarony]

IDW Swindle/Blurr with “I can’t keep this up, I can’t do this any longer-” for Angst and Creepy Sentences

Uhhhh so, this got way out of hand lmao. 

And by that, I mean that this ended up being 1,024 words. Whoops. I haven’t filled a request in a minute, but I have a couple more sitting waaaay back in my inbox so this newer one is as good a start as any, I suppose. 

Barely edited, angst galore, references to infidelity and some slight veering away from IDW in use of a couple terms. T rating for all of that and some references to interfacing.

As opposed to popular belief, profit wasn't something to desire just in regards to money- at least not to Swindle. 

Profit from money was the best kind of profit, of course, but there were other profits that were and could be far more satisfying in the long run.

Brawl profited from his size and his stature, and so in turn Swindle profited from  the size of his ability to be a dumb brute. 

Vortex profited from life itself, in that fragged up way sadists tended to and so he was easiest to please. 

Blast Off was another easy customer, his thing was nearness to Onslaught, who in turn, got what he needed from all of them in the form of Bruticus. 

Bruticus, who profited by their existence, had a problem. 

When Bruticus had a problem, the rest of the Combaticons  had a problem too.  

And so Swindle had a massive problem.

"We'll just start 'facing yah whenever, if that's what's got under yer plating. Haven't done you in too long" Brawl had drawled, and thus the problem was in part spoken and made real. 

"I can tweak someone's wires for you, if you need?" the rotor assembly on Vortex' back shivered, sending blades clattering an a most disturbing matter. Peace was bad for the mech, with no outlet to speak of. 

Blast off, predictably, ignored them all, and so offered no aid.

"Just deal with it." Onslaught said- er, ordered. 

And that, was that, especially if the resounding agreement across their gestalt bond was any indication.

And wasn't that the crux of the matter in the first place? In all respects, Swindle was already a bonded mech, and Gestalt rights could trump his silly little relationship anyways. 

Who would think the likes of Swindle could ever want and want to maintain a serious relationship? 

But for all intents and purposes, that ship had already sailed. 

The turmoil in his spark had effected his team, and so he had to pay the piper, so to say. 

See if he combined with any of them ever again, to call him on his issue he'd not fixed, quite yet.

It had never meant to be serious, just a fling between two ex-enemies- for the good of the peace and all that. 

Closeness was one thing, intimacy another, and Swindle had profited with both in spades, with the byproduct of trust coming along with that special slag.

Until, it, and exclusivity apparently stopped being factors for Blurr. Then he'd throttled back, oh, how so ever did his shiny aft pay for that. 

There had been the apologies and the tears and the 'If-you-really-loved-me's' and Swindle had seen the writing on the wall as if some smartaft had magic-markered it right on his visor. 

It was time to end this.

And so, he found himself in the last place he'd wanted to be as of late, and after a night of unsuccessful attempts at various business ventures, he waltzed into Maccadam's Old Oil House just after close. 

It was quiet and smelled faintly of the cleanser Blurr tended to favor for his cubes and cups and other various drinking receptacles.

The mech himself was working at his bar and nearly done finished from the looks of it, but that was to be expected.

"Sorry, you're too late, we're already closed for the night." He said not looking up from putting a shine into the surface.

For just a moment, Swindle hesitated. "I'm not here to drink, Blurr." Blurr even froze fast, though his straightening was all slow calculation and a hesitant, hopeful smile.

"Swindle, it's good to see you." He ventured as Swindle approached the bar. He doubted Blurr would be too happy to see him for long. "Have you been thinking about what I said?"

His hesitant, hopeful smile morphed into a winning, charming fake one and Swindle resisted the urge to take in a deep vent.

"Yeah, and I got an answer for you." He couldn't lighten his tone, no matter how hard he had some inkling of desire to. He liked Blurr, he really did, and in no way did he want to hurt him as bad as he himself had been hurt. But it was in thinking they could have something that could last that had ultimately been his downfall. 

Blurr's expression fell, and with it, his spark gave a mighty and painful clench.

"I've been thinking about it, and I can’t keep this up, I can’t do this any longh-” Blurr'd vaulted gracefully over the bar and kissed him, slanting his lips over Swindle's with some measure of ferocity to prevent any further words from coming out. 

However, Swindle was quick to recover, and got hold of Blurr over the elbow joints to push him away.

A couple of stumbling steps from both of them and Swindle was wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Don't-" He said, anger slithering through the hurt and turmoil and longing. "You don't get to do that, that aint how this is going down."

Blurr had his arms extended as if he wanted to reach and grab for him again, but still he stood, and Swindle was sure he'd never seen him so motionless.

"That's all I came here for, there's no facing your way out of this." He said it in half a hiss, so surprised by the sudden exchange. .

All at once, Blurr wilted.

"Swindle I- "

"Swindle nothing. I'm done. We're done. I won't be back."

The look on Blurr's face did something terrible to Swindle's spark, bad enough that a few courteous pings from his gestalt piled up in Swindle's comm queue, courteous only for the fact that none of them had come and kicked the door in with blasters brandished.

Yet.

Swindle whirled on his pede and made for the door, only glancing back when he had his hand on the handle.

Blurr stood there with his arms wrapped around himself, looking utterly lost.

Part of Swindle wanted to say he deserved the pain, that for one this prince of the road didn't get what he wanted after all, but the rest of him, that part of his spark that cried out for him to go comfort this love of his?

That part mourned.

#My writes #maccadam #swindle #blurr #transformers #fic #Anonymous

[efrondeur]

Do you have any writing or dos/donts tips for new fanfiction writers??

I’m just gonna start this out by saying i’m so honored that you asked me this especially since i’ve only been writing for less than a year whoops but anyway... Buckle up.

Proper grammar is very important

While it might be easier to type how you text and message people, basic sentence structure is important in a. Making your writing legible and b. Making it flow well

Use commas, just be careful how you use them

If what your saying can be said as an aside, chances are you’re going to use a comma or a hyphen

COMMAS ARE NOT USED SIMILAR TO THE PAUSE POINTS WHEN YOU SPEAK GET THAT OUT OF YOUR HEAD RIGHT NOW

Yes sometimes, commas and speaking pause points line up, but it’s not always

Use sentence length to set the mood

Longer sentences slow the reader down, so using FANBOYS or semicolons can really help to create a calm mood

Shorter sentences make the reader read faster, so you can use it to show anxiety or fast paced thoughts or actions

Make grammar your bitch

Proper grammar is important, but misusing grammar can be extremely helpful in setting the mood

For example: run on sentences, bad grammar, but if you use them, it shows that the character is having one long, trailing thought and possible anxiety depending on how the run on is structured

Also, not everyone talks properly. Not everyone says “I’m going to go read.” In fact, most native English speakers say “I’m gonna go read.” Learn how the character speaks, and use that.

If you’re going to use google docs (cause lbr not everyone can afford Word) get the grammarly extension on chrome, it’s like your own personal beta

PLAN

Know where you want your fic to go and make notes

If it’s a longer fic, write out a timeline, get your thoughts down and in order, it’ll save time as you write it out as well as prevent forgetting any plot points

Write down what the characters are like at the start of the fic and then at the end of the fic. Longer fics should have some sort of change and growth

However, if you’re going to write a shorter fic, this doesn’t always apply. Some shorter fics are specifically written just to show one point in a character’s life or characters lives and therefore there might not be much growth

Stay open to ideas

Sometimes your writing is going to take you in a different direction than planned. That’s okay.

If you don’t like where it’s going, DON’T DELETE THE SECTION, instead, move it somewhere else, i.e. a new doc, and start from where it started to veer off it’s path

DON’T COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHER WRITERS; THIS WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL

First, everyone has their own way of writing, don’t try and mimic it, or your writing won’t feel genuine to you or your reader

Second, there is always going to be someone better than you. Always. The more you compare yourself, the harsher you’ll get on yourself, and the less you’ll like writing

Third, everyone has to start somewhere. You will post bad fic. I have. Everyone has. It’s how you start, and it’s how you get feedback and grow. Don’t be ashamed of it

Fourth, you are never done growing. You will always be learning new ways to write, new ways to better express feelings and thoughts

Body language

Body language is a solid 60% of conversations, whether you notice it or not

People can actively hid something in their voice from you, but it’s harder to do so with their body, as so much of what we do is subconscious

Learn what your character’s tells are: when they’re lying, annoyed, happy, frustrated, upset, etc. Also, using general tells are pretty good, too. Quite a few people tend to look to the left when they lie, or cross their arms when they’re being defensive.

Showing is better than telling

Through body language, thoughts, and actions, you can show a character’s feelings a whole lot better than outrightly saying it.

This doesn’t mean never tell, but when you do it all the time, the story gets kinda boring

Find your audience

You want to hit moms in their forties? Write like a realistic, romance author

Wanna hit teens? Write about more fantasy and science fiction, hitting romance while still developing characters as they grow and age

Reach out to others in the fandom

talk with people, make friends, come up with headcanons together

encourage them and they will encourage you

having people to talk to about things is honestly so important and the entire reason i’ve been able to keep writing as well as the reason why i stopped for months before i started writing for voltron

Find how you relate to characters. Don’t make them you, but use how you understand yourself to write them. It’s how I write anxiety, depression, adhd, and anger disorders

Have fun when you write

Talk with friends who enjoy what you’re writing about, share little snippets, get people excited or make them cry

Get yourself excited about making people squeal because of tooth-rotting fluff, or have their heart melt with heavy angst

Read other’s works

Learn what you like and what you don’t, what others like and what they don't

See what works when it comes to imagery and what’s better to just say

But oh my god, don’t ever steal. You’re writing should always be your own. You can take inspiration from other people, but when you steal their work it’s unbelievably rude and is extremely upsetting to the author, plus it’s against literally every sites rules and copyrights, and don’t copy their writing style, it just doesn’t work

One thing I do, that I honestly wish I didn’t, but is at least helpful for me

I always get in the mindset of the character, i.e. if Keith’s upset, I get myself upset and then write, or if Lance is super enthused, I get myself really happy

This can be really exhausting and taxing at times, so do this at your own risk

Music can completely change how you write

Find or make a playlist that has the mood for how you want to write something

Be aware of how the song is affecting your writing, and change it if you need to

When the characters are talking, try to hear their voices in your head and channel that when you write

If you listen to the character’s speaking what you want them to say, it becomes easier for the reader to hear that as well

It makes the characters a lot more believable

Relationships aren’t black and white

there’s cutesy little things, fights/arguments, sex (if you write that) and so much more

think about how you interact with your friends. how you sometimes get frustrated with them and just need to be alone, or how easy it can be to talk with them and spend time with them and how sometimes it can be a mix of the two. it’s a lot like that just with romance and kisses

no two relationships are the same. keith and lance don’t have the same dynamic as shiro and allura. hunk and lance don’t have the same dynamic as hunk and keith. everything and everyone is different and compliment each other in different ways. 

I think this is it and i’m sorry with how long this is, but this is everything that i’ve learned/have helped me over the past 10 months. I hope they help you too!!!

#on fanfic #on writing #voltron #klance #shallura #heith #hancesome #red writes #free association with red #thanks anon!!!! #Anonymous