Write the bonkers, unhinged, weird idea that you think no actual person will like. Because guess what? You're an actual person, and you liking it still counts.
Friends with benefits who have banned kissing to keep things from getting complicated, fucking face to face, they're breathing each other's air, they both want it, they're so close.
Hi! Have you posted your story on here/AO3? Iād love to read it, Iāve been itching for some Grant Ward appreciation š
Thank you for your interest, itās really encouraging!!!! Dumpster Fire is still mostly in my noggin, but fragments of it are scattered in places like my Tumblr drafts, Scrivener, gdocs, and about a half a dozen other places I can write and then forget exist. DF still has a ways to go. I promise Iām still working on it, and I hope to finish it before I die. (My friends do, too.)
I will continue to write and share bits of it here (I will try to do this more often). I also hint at things through the stuff I reblog.
I can, however, promise the story contains lots of Grant Ward appreciation and deprecation because heās great and terrible and I love him as a character (although heās not my favorite) and I love trashing him, but, like, affectionately. And also because there are some things about him that need serious addressing. Iāve also taken some creative liberties with his character that I feel add more depth while also staying true to who he is in the show. (Heās a big reader. Like Rory Gilmore big. Almost always has a book on him. And in my head heās also Sapiosexual?)
ANYWHO. I can literally talk about Dumpster Fire for hours, so without further ado, hereās a flashback to Wardās academy days (when he was around 21/22)Ā featuring his adversary/best friend/eventual enemy/eventual love interest!
Grant keeps his dorm room in the Academy of Operations immaculate. He lays against the pillows atop a plain gray comforter on a decade-old bed that creeks. He sits up, a book heād read twice through dog-eared and closed with care.
Sitting on the floor against the side of the bed, bent over a coloring book that rests open on her lap, is Murphy. Her left hand presses the coloring book flat while she colors with the enraptured concentration.
They argued about something stupid earlier, something trivial. Something on which their opinions vastly differed, and because theyāre both too stubborn to admit both sides presented valid points, they reached a stalemate. Though the argument fizzled out before it could be categorized as an actual fight, he has an inkling it isnāt over ā just for now. They agreed to disagree, letting the emotional fires atop their hills of obstinance die out in the unfurling silence.
He doesnāt want to fight with her any more than he has to. Itās become more tempting as of late to see how far he can push her before she decides sheās had enough. Sheās a danger to him, always has been, and her threat grows every day. The closer to him she becomes, the more force heāll have to use to push her away.
But right now calls for a truce and an attempt at moving forward. The end will remain an unspecified date with a question mark, and he will continue to selfishly ignore it, despite knowing its inevitability.
Laying partly on his side, in the direction of the foot of the bed, he leans over Murphyās shoulder. His thoughts are briefly sidetracked by the scent of her shampoo, distinctly peach. For a better view of her work, he brushes aside the obstructing wall of her unruly blonde curls with the back of his hand. His fingertips accidentally graze the back of her neck. Her face turns just enough for a blue eye to ensnare him with a sharp gaze that is, much to his relief, more inquisitive than hostile. Her hand holding the pink colored pencil stills.
āWhatās that mean?ā He nods his head at the Japanese script at the top of the coloring book in her lap, and when she turns back to the coloring page, he reaches over her shoulder and points to the script in question.
āWhat Iām coloring,ā she says.
"Gee, Murph, thatās really helpful to someone who obviously doesnāt know Japanese.ā
She scoffs. āYou should at least recognize the flower. Youāve got two eyeballs.ā
He stares at her in indicative silence. It takes a moment for her to notice. Her expression is surprised and intrigued and amused all at once when she looks at him. A raise of eyebrows and a narrowing of eyes and a hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth. Itās the incredulity he dislikes the mostāthe way it sits with judgement in her eyes.
āReally? You donāt know what theyāre called?ā
āObviously not or I wouldnāt be asking.ā
Setting the colored pencil beside her, Murphy presses her hands on the floor and uses the leverage to scoot her body around until sheās angled closer to the bed. With one hand gripping the coloring book she lifts it from her lap, shaking it violently in front of his face. āLook hard, Bambi.ā
āI canāt with youāā He huffs and grabs both sides of the coloring book, all but forcing her to still it. Murphy doesnāt let go of the coloring book immediately. He glares at her until she does with a smile holding as much innocence as a cat caught with a mouse in its jaws.
Grant studies the page in question carefully. She hasnāt finished coloring the picture, but she must be close, assuming sheās colored it correctly. Ā The flowers appear to be on a tree, the branches a golden brown. That has to narrow it down some.
Flowers with white petals, hints of pink at the center. Found on a tree. Japanese.
Itās familiar. Irritatingly familiar. The spark of recognition fires, but the flames donāt take. He surrenders the coloring book back to Murphy. āYeah, my brain wants to say daffodils, but I know thatās not right.ā
Her smile is every bit condescending. āMaybe instead of spending an afternoon shooting through the same bullet hole, you could learn the art of one of the oldest romantic gestures in the book. Especially if youāre going to keep flirting with the appeal of that dinky little Christmas tree from Charlie Brown.ā He scowls. āProbably not what a guy like you would want if that wasnāt your intention.ā She tilts her chin down, leveling with him with an arched brow. āThatās isnāt your intention, right?ā
āNo,ā he grumbles.
She props the coloring book on her thighs, and begins coloring again, though sheās traded her pink pencil for a slightly darker shade. āIf you want to work undercover, or, God forbid, woo a woman playing hard to get, a flower bouquet almost never hurts your chances.ā She speaks in that pretentious tone of hers that he canāt help but find grating. Although, heās made it abundantly clear that he doesnāt know jack shit about flowers, other than the obvious thing about roses being traditionally romantic.
āAlmost?ā
āShe could have a floral allergy.ā She takes care to blend the two shades of pink. āAnd, I donāt know, some people just donāt like receiving flowers.ā
Grant pushes himself up and scoots back against the pillows, stretching his legs out in front of him as he watches her color. āRight.ā
āThatās not to say neither one of those cases couldnāt still work out. You flash your little Bambi eyes at her and she might just bang you out of pity. Althoughāāa dangerous tone of amusement colors her voiceāāif itās the former, youād probably want to keep a box of tissues handy, unless you like the idea of having snot on yourāā
Grant cuts her off with the force of bringing a chefās knife down on a cutting board. āOkay. Thatāsāā He stops himself with a grimace. Murphy snorts while trying to stifle a laugh. āHow about I rewind and rephrase: what kind of flower are you coloring, and can you tell me without the tangential lecture?ā
The corner of her mouth pulls in a lopsided grin when she turns her head. āSakura,ā she says. āTheyāre cherry blossoms.ā
Plot armor is when important characters seem to survive each and every treacherous obstacle that is thrown their way just for the sake of the plot. The readers know that your protagonist is important and wonāt meet their demise because who else will defeat the bad guy in the end? This can result in underwhelming battle scenes, loss of suspense and an overall boring experience.
Here are some ways to avoid having your readers noticeĀ the plot armor (because letās be honest, itās there whether we like or not) or at least make it more realistic:
1) Injure your characters. Let it be known that no one is safe. During the heat of battle, the prized soldier loses his sword arm. The invincible superhero receives PTSD after witnessing a terrible event. Raise the stakes!
2) If they escape, make it believable. Did they sacrifice something to escape? Did a past experience give them the wits and knowledge to outsmart the danger? Justify your protagonistās escape. Donāt make it an easy get away just because you need them out of the situation.Ā
3) There are consequences. Every action sparks a reaction. Have there be realistic push back. Your character shouldnāt be immune to the rules and laws of your world.
4) Detailed Explanations. So, your character needs their limbs, their sanity and anything else you could strip them of. How do you make it seem like theyāre not immune to everything then? Equip them with what they need (knowledge, weapon, confidence, etc) and really sell it to your reader on how they survived.Ā
Thereās no way a teenaged girl stakes a 400 year old vampire just by picking up a branch and defending herself. Equip her with some knowledge of vampires (fanfics to the rescue?), an ancient relic that she unknowingly wears around her neck and an insane amount of adrenalineā¦ and maybe Iāll believe it.
5) Kill off other characters. Have their deaths affect the protagonist.
if you dont decouple your drive to create from your desire for attention you will go insane. simple as. you will never feel satisfied b/c you will always want more and you will feel perpetually bitter that you did not get what you are āowedā
Itās an unpopular opinion but it is absolutely and completely true. Iāve never seen someone who creates for engagement happy with the engagement they get. I posit they canāt ever be happy that way because it will NEVER be enough
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
2087
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
