I’ve been writing these small pieces of fanfiction for tumblr, too short to be true stories. They’re more like headcanon snippets, character studies, and writing exercises all rolled into one. I’ve decided to put them up here in the hope of encouraging critique. I really want to improve my writing, so please don’t hold back. All comments will be greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading.
Valentine - Heavy/Medic Inspired by a drawing by Sarcasmosaur of Sniper as Cupid. The piercing agony of the arrow was a rude shock. It came literally out of the blue, flashing sunlight off its steel-tipped point before parting flesh and bone and flesh again with a raw, wet tsshunk! I am hallucinating, Medic thought, in the second of clarity before the pain. Flying Snipers? But he wasn’t equipped with his Kritzkrieg and the Sniper’s arrow was real enough. It impaled itself through his scapula, nicked a lung, cut an artery—he gasped, already drowning in blood—kissed the curve of his clavicle before abandoning him for the warmth of his Heavy’s body. They were suddenly pressed so close, skewered by the same shaft, together at last in dying... It would have been a comical scene if not for the heartbreaking tragedy of it. He could feel his Heavy’s pulse through their brutal new connection, in sync with his own and slowing, tapping out again and again the two words he had no breath left to whisper. Too late, too late. Medic looked up, tasting copper, choking on it, and met his Heavy’s eyes. There was pain in them too, unshed tears, and not for the wound that was killing him. Had the arrow somehow brought understanding? All Medic knew was that suddenly, inexplicably, he knew, and he knew his Heavy did too. All this time, all the silenced words and avoided touches between them, and only now, in this last moment, did they realise the truth. All this time... Too late. In another few faltering heartbeats respawn would reclaim them. They’d be made whole again, this moment wiped from their memories and reduced to a printed-out score: RED Sniper—BLU Medic, RED Sniper—BLU Heavy Weapons. Senseless words, devoid of meaning, denying their terrible significance. And they would be back to aborted caresses and hidden glances and unacknowledged longing, heartache and hurting. This was all they would ever have, this brief moment of loving and being loved, and they both knew it. And just now, between one breath and the next that refused to come, it was enough.
Wow - Heavy/Medic Inspired by a drawing by Jannelle-o of Medic and Heavy cuddling in bed. Medic is asleep, Heavy staring into the air and whispering ‘wow’. Heavy couldn’t just now recall how he’d thought the evening would end, what he’d expected when Medic invited him into the little room behind the medbay that the doctor had made home. Whatever it’d been, it hadn’t been this. A friendly game of chess, maybe, a scratchy old record on the hand-cranked gramophone, the doctor’s smile after two shots of the imported Stolichnaya vodka he’d brought as a gift. But never, never this. This was something Heavy had no words for, in any of the five languages he spoke. Oh, he had words. They were hard-edged and hateful, burning on his tongue, and they failed singularly to reflect the way the world had flipped itself upside down in the span of an hour. Even his PhD in literature left him helpless, floundering to form even a single sentence that might adequately express what had happened here. He grabbled for understanding, for something to make sense of this, but all he could think was that after all these years they’d been right. They’d been heart-stoppingly, beautifully, ecstatically right. Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Browning, Pushkin. The wondrous moment of their meeting, two hearts beating each to each, awake in sweet unrest into the night. That most quiet need, by candlelight, the fervour and faith of their souls, intertwined… It took them to the edge of doom, damned them both, and he couldn’t bring himself to care, nor for the sheen of sweat cooling on their skin or the aching stab each heartbeat brought in a place he’d never thought he’d ever be sore. His doctor had been gentle, his ungloved hands worshipful, but even then the first time always hurt... But this, this was sweeter still. Lying so close they were taking each other in with each inhalation, sharing a space made just for one, the adagio drumbeat of their pulse in perfect synchrony. This was where even the eloquence of poets failed, the enormity of the emotion bubbling in his chest beyond description, beyond comprehension, so sweet he would cry if he could but breathe... He looked up into the dark, unseeing, feeling something loosen inside, unwounding, unwinding, a hard place in his heart softening for the first time since Siberia. And he held his doctor in his arms and thought that maybe he still had something to learn from little baby men when he whispered, like he’d heard Scout do a thousand times, a single word encompassing all. “Wow.â€
Wow indeed. I'll be watching this thread with great interest. For now I have no helpful tips, so I will only continue to offer my praise.
You are a lovely person and you should feel wonderful. Please post more of whatever these are, good sir.
You need to write something more substantial, meatier. You are throwing us scraps here.
I approve of it all! I know there's more where this came from. Don't hold out on us.
Thank you for the compliments, guys! I’m glad to hear you like these small—whatever they are. I’m sorry they’re not longer, Cat Bountry; I am working on some proper pieces in between, but I like how these vignettes are short enough to be finished in one sitting even with my busy work schedule. Here’s a couple more from tumblr. Critique is appreciated! (And please, if you spot grammatical errors in particular, do let me know!)
The Violin – Medic/Scout Inspired by a picture of Scout playing the violin by Ryukus. He hadn’t heard it played in years. Not since before the War, the other war, when he’d still had someone to play it for him. He felt old recalling that last long-ago night in the garden, on a blanket under a blooming apple tree where no one would see, letting the soft tones speak to him as they shared a smile across the bow. They had opened their letters there, black-eagle-embossed, official, two identical draft summons from the same printing press. One still remained, tugged into the case, a single flower carefully smoothed between two folds of the paper. Nothing more now than a memory and the faded scent of summer. He should have sold it, back when it would have saved him starving. He should have burned the letter with its damned hooked cross. But it was all he had left to remind him, and so in all these years he hadn’t… He knew the timbre of the instrument still, the gentle quiver of its notes, even after all this time. The first sound was ephemeral, the merest whisper of music, a ghostly voice calling to him through the quiet of the night. He left his bed where sleep never came easy, followed where it led him. It grew stronger, surer, unseen fingers finding their proper places on the strings as memories came flooding back. His lover’s violin sang for him, no first-time banshee’s scream but sweetly like a serenade, and his heart soared and sang with it. How could he have forgotten this? He walked like in a dream, didn’t see where his bare feet carried him, didn’t feel the cold tiles of the infirmary floor, lost in the swelling crescendo. It lifted him, swept him away, soothed the pain remembrance brought. It wasn’t perfect but so heartfelt, so achingly beautiful it brought tears to his eyes. And then it came to an end, the last note fading into the velvet darkness, and in the silence after there was a sharply indrawn breath. He looked up, through the blur of wet lashes, and Scout was right in front of him. Violin in hand. Frozen in terror. On his desk, the violin case, open, the letter with the flower unfolded. He thought it would have withered, shrivelled up as it dried, hadn’t dared touch it for fear of turning it to dust. But it was still whole, its unblemished petals pearlescent in the faint moonlight from outside, still blooming just like last he saw it, three decades past. A lover’s gift, untouched by time. “Oh shit,†Scout breathed, and his voice was shaking. His hands too, holding out the violin like an offering for Medic to take. “Doc, I’m real sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to, I just saw it lyin’ there and I wanted to see if I could still do it and I’m real fuckin’ sorry—“ The piece he’d played had been unfamiliar. An improvisation, perhaps, a pouring of his soul into the instrument. Medic hadn’t heard anything like it in years, not since the night in the garden, and even then there hadn’t been the same sense of wistful longing. It spoke of love lost… or unrequited. “I didn’t know you played.†His words were very clearly not what Scout had been expecting. Possibly he’d prepared himself for a slap, or a bonesaw, the way he looked like he couldn’t believe it didn’t come. Medic felt a soft smile tug at the corners of his lips. How strange. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything like it. “My ma made me take lessons, but I forgot most of it,†Scout said, still clutching the instrument awkwardly and looking at his feet. “Didn’t want to play for y—anyone if I sucked, that’s why I—and then I saw—“ He paused, blinking hard. “I’m sorry. I guess you fuckin’ hate me now, huh? I shoulda figured you’d have someone writin’ to you.†He swallowed. “I won’t tell nobody if that’s what you’re thinkin’.†Ah. Medic wrapped his hands around Scout’s, steadying their trembling grasp. How unlike the brash cocky runner to see past the letterhead of a lost Reich to what truly mattered, understanding the significance of that single white flower—and playing the violin like it had broken his heart. “Scout,†he said gently, waiting until the young man looked up. “How old do you think that letter is?†In the dark Scout’s eyes were the deepest blue, and suddenly so full of hope his heart clenched to see it. “You play wonderfully,†he continued. It was true, but even so he could see Scout blush. From the compliment, he wondered, or from how his thumbs were brushing over bandaged knuckles, caressing the fingers that cradled the slender neck of the instrument? He realised he wanted to find out, wanted to discover what else made Scout flush with embarrassed delight. His life had been without music long enough. “Would you again? Please?†Scout lifted the violin slowly, like he didn’t want to lose the touch of hands on his. For a moment their eyes met again, and lingered, and the young man smiled at him across the violin bow.
Collared – Spy/Sniper I hope this piece isn’t too risqué for /fanfic/. It has a clear BDSM element but is non-explicit. I hope the mods will let it slide. Predators are wild beasts. Sniper knows this, knows it from the faint white lines where claws once caught him, the gnarled crescents of scars from sharp teeth, the twin pale snake-fang pinpricks on one hand. He knows it like he knows he is the ultimate apex predator, recognising in himself the patience of a lurking feline. He stalks his prey on the battlefield, a lone wolf howling his kills with the echoing report of a high-calibre rifle. Sniper knows this. Still the collar slips too easily around his throat. It’s make-shift, Spy’s Italian leather belt pulled deftly free with a sibilant schwp!, and more expensive than any prized pedigree pet’s diamond-studded leash. The platinum buckle is really too flashy for what they do here, but the length of cured calfskin slides through it with barely a whisper. It’s sharply cut as fashion dictates and the edge of it bites Sniper’s skin, tiny nips of not-quite-pain leaving new bruises over old balisong cuts. Sniper is on his knees, still struggling, tugging at Spy’s tie around his wrists. Charmeuse silk, cool and smooth, stronger than steel. The softness is luxurious, its touch enticing. It makes Sniper bare his teeth. He’s snarling defiance, fighting his bonds, refusing submission though he craves it like no predator ever would. Ever should. It makes him burn with shame to let Spy see the desperation he tries to hide even now, how much he wants to surrender. How he needs, more than he does his freedom, his pride, his next breath, to be owned. He knows the abrasions won’t linger, unlike the faded criss-cross of countless crimson smiles carved by Spy’s blade. Still Sniper almost wishes they would, wants to carry the marks they make here over his scars, obscuring the trophies of a life untamed. With a final soft growl he stops fighting, giving in at last like he’s always longed to. Spy smiles gently and pulls on his collar, choking him sweetly into silence.
I like the understated style of writing you're going for here. While I like long stories, it's always interesting to read ones that are written with a 'less is more' aesthetic, and your shorts are all very sweet. >>9 I'll admit that I have a soft spot for fics where Medic and Scout are awkwardly managing to be friends, at least on some level...