because I'm good at starting things but not very good at ending them.
Meme.
Post the first sentence a snippet of some of your fanfics in progress in hopes that your flist can inspire you to continue working on them.
Alistair x Amell, she's trying to get him to marry Cousland
Her face turned just slightly pink as she pointed out a tall blonde mage with a ponytail. Alistair groaned. “Him? Are you serious?”
“What?” Iza’s face remained delightfully pink. “You haven’t even met him!”
“Yeah, but I can tell from just looking at him. Didn’t I ask you to not fall into bed with the first handsome smartass that comes your way? And what do you do?”
“I haven’t slept with him!” She squeaked, in a way that would have been adorable at any other time.
He rolled his eyes. “But you want to. Anyone ever tell you you’re a saucy little minx?”
She hit him square in the shoulder. For a tiny little mage, she could sometimes carry a punch, especially since he wasn’t wearing any armor. “Ow!”
“No flirting.” She barked, finger wagging at him in insolence. “We broke up, remember?”
--
Anders x Nate, flirty banter
“So you’re interested in men, I take it.”
“I’m interested in anything.”
“Anything?”
“Well, the usual standards apply, but other than that, yeah, I’ll try anything.”
“And what are the usual standards, pray tell?”
“Well, it’s got to be living. And human. Well, it doesn’t have to be human. I mean, elves and dwarves are cool too. Other than that, well, I’ll try anything once.” The mage winked, flirting. “So, care to join me in my bunk? Just think, you, me, together. We could stay up late, braid each other’s hair, tell each other stories-ooh, I could give you a massage! I met an Antivan man once who gave the best massages, and-“
--
The point of the matter was that he had no interest in befriending King Alistair, and had in fact planned to spend the rest of his life sending the man thinly-veiled threats about the current state of his sister’s chastity.
Then Elissa intervened.
“You are going to spend the day with him.” She threatened in her I’m going to be the Queen of Ferelden so you had best do what I say lest I make your life a living hell voice. Fergus was swiftly becoming quite chummy with that voice. “The wedding is in three weeks, and the two of you have scarcely said two words to each other. You’re going to spend the day together, and you’re going to like it.”
“But-“
She glared at him, a fierce, powerful look that made him quiver in his boots. Maker, when did his baby sister get to be so strong? Oh, right, Hero of Ferelden, slayer of archdemons and whatnot. Sometimes, he forgot she simply wasn’t twelve anymore.
--
Fergus and Elissa, sibling fluff
When Elissa was small, she wanted, like all girls at that age, to marry a prince. Fergus, being seven years older and far too big for such nonsense, told her it was impossible. Ferelden had only one prince--Prince Calian--and he had been engaged to marry Lady Anora since birth.
She could always marry an Orlesian prince, he told her, and then wondered if Orlais even had princes.
“No!” She shrieked, six years old and already full of bratty indignation. Her tiny little lungs were loud even then. “I wanna marry a prince! A Fewelden prince, not an Olesisian.”
“It’s Ferelden, dummy,” he didn’t bother correcting her mispronunciation of Orlais. “And I already told you, you can’t.”
She stomped her feet angrily on the cold stone beneath them. “Why not!”
“Because Prince Calian is already getting married to someone else. And he’s too old for you, anyway.”
Elissa cried, and in her brattiness ran to their father, huge crocodile tears running down her face as she pouted and cried. Father, in his brilliance, picked Elissa up and rocked her gently, telling her that she was his princess, and she would never have to marry an Orlesian, and she could marry any prince she wanted to.
--
Iza Amell, part of Obsession and Hope series.
In seventy-two hours, her life turns upside-down: Jowan is a blood mage, Lily is in prison, and Iza finds herself amongst the last of the Grey Wardens, fighting for a world that hates her alongside a man who trained to kill those like her.
The Maker hates her, she thinks. It will not be the last time she thinks as such.
--
Amell gave her life protecting Ferelden, and Caron is doing everything he can to fuck it up.
Iza Amell was a practical woman, and practical people often had plans, back up plans, plan C’s, and the occasional post-apocalyptic plan. It never hurt to be prepared. In fact, Iza was so prepared she had a “Just in case I die, Ferelden won’t be screwed over” plan.
Once she figured her immediate survival odds during the Blight were less than eighty percent (being a squishy wizard automatically subtracted twenty percent against all survival odds, as she was simply as likely to get crushed under a rock as she was eaten by a dragon), plan “Just in Case” soon became Plan A.
--
Firefly x Dragon Age crossover
“What do you think?” Alistair asked Tabris, his fellow Warden and second-in-command. Once, the Wardens were welcomed across Thedas space, but the war changed that. The war they lost. “It’s a good ship.”
Tabris eyed him suspiciously. “You paid money for this?”
“What? It’s a good ship! A ship like this will be with you until the day you die!”
“Because it’s a deathtrap.”
“Oh, ha ha.” Alistair muttered, unamused. “It’s a good ship. You just don’t have any imagination.”
“The only thing I’m imagining is our painful, fire-filled deaths in that thing.”
Alistair frowned. “Try to see past what she is, onto what she could be!”
“You’re right. Fiery death isn’t nearly as glorious as it appears.”
--
Wynne's chapter in the whole Greagoir/Wynne + Cullen/Amell spectacle I'm writing
The first thing Wynne notices is that Cullen is constantly on guard.
(Actually, that’s a lie: the first thing she notices is how he’s forgotten to wear his helmet; how his pretty little curls are the same color hers were back in the day. How, when he scowls, he could be Greagoir’s twin. How, when he smiles, he looks just a little bit like her.)
--
Jowan bitter angst fic
He started visiting the Chantry out of loneliness and a desire to repent, for in the eyes of The Maker all blood magic was a sin and he needed forgiveness, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong. But then he met Lily, that pretty little thing, that priestess--a vixen, a desire demon hidden in the form of a messenger of God. She burned in his thoughts, his mind, his every being. She kept him up at night.
(He knew he wasn't alone: when Iza found time to talk to him, she tended to talk about boys--more importantly, about Templars, and what they looked like underneath their heavy armor and faceless helms. How their bodies were sculpted hard like statues and how she made up excuses to get them out of their armor--to heal them, even though she could do that through their armor and a mile away, if she needed to.)
--
Nathaniel/Anders epic fic
Nathaniel, as it were, was a rather handsy drunk.
Not that Anders minded. Really, he would never deny a pretty--anything, really--the chance to touch him. And Nathaniel, he had to confess, was very pretty. Especially when he was drunk, because when he drank he was all smiles compared to his usual frumpy self. Anders found it charming, the way Nathaniel’s hands were wrapped around Anders’s shoulder, hugging him tightly as if he was afraid to let go.
“I mean, if you had’ta pick a lady,” Anders slurred, leaning his head against Nathaniel’s. “Any lady in the whole, whole world,” He threw his arms out, stretching them as wide as he could for emphasis. “Wouldn’t it be the Commander?”
“Commander’s married.” Nathaniel muttered, snuggling (snuggling! Really, he’d have to get Nathaniel drunk more often) against Anders’s shoulder.
“Yeah but,” Anders mumbled, trying to take another drink of his ale and failing miserably. “Any girl. Married or-or not.”
He could tell that Nathaniel was fading fast as he kept rubbing his head on Anders’s shoulder. “I dunno.”
“Really? You wouldn’t pick the Commander?” Anders giggled, amused that Nathaniel was slightly more drunk than he was. “I would. I think she’s--she’s gorgeous.”
“Commander’s pretty,” Nathaniel whispered, suddenly too close, with his breath too warm against Anders’s ear. “But she’s not the only blonde on this team I’d like to fuck.”
Then he passed out.
--
Alistair/Morrigan voodoo doll fic
M-O-R-R-I-G-A-N she writes with a needle on to the back of a doll, and smiles when Alistair turns to her, his face red with more than just anger.
“Will you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
He glares at her. “You know what. Quit it.”
It’s immature, but when it comes to Alistair, she cannot help herself. “Make me.”
She expects him to get angry, to call for Estelle, to yell at her, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles at her with a wolfish sort of grin, like a mabari eyeing his prey before he swoops down beside her, faster than she expects, and suddenly he is right beside her, his mouth beside her cheek, his breath in her ear.
“I know your little secret,” He whispers, and she pales instantly because what secret? What secret could Alistair possibly know? She has a million of them, ranging from miniscule to ones that affect the future of Thedas, but none of them she particularly wants to share. “So stop it.”
“What do you know?” She whispers, half a million thoughts racing through her head.
But he doesn’t answer her. Instead he leans back away from her and smiles, a nefarious smirk, then turns his back on her.
--
I want to have something done by Thursday. By Thursday. Surely I can do this. Surely.
jak
Post the first sentence a snippet of some of your fanfics in progress in hopes that your flist can inspire you to continue working on them.
Alistair x Amell, she's trying to get him to marry Cousland
Her face turned just slightly pink as she pointed out a tall blonde mage with a ponytail. Alistair groaned. “Him? Are you serious?”
“What?” Iza’s face remained delightfully pink. “You haven’t even met him!”
“Yeah, but I can tell from just looking at him. Didn’t I ask you to not fall into bed with the first handsome smartass that comes your way? And what do you do?”
“I haven’t slept with him!” She squeaked, in a way that would have been adorable at any other time.
He rolled his eyes. “But you want to. Anyone ever tell you you’re a saucy little minx?”
She hit him square in the shoulder. For a tiny little mage, she could sometimes carry a punch, especially since he wasn’t wearing any armor. “Ow!”
“No flirting.” She barked, finger wagging at him in insolence. “We broke up, remember?”
--
Anders x Nate, flirty banter
“So you’re interested in men, I take it.”
“I’m interested in anything.”
“Anything?”
“Well, the usual standards apply, but other than that, yeah, I’ll try anything.”
“And what are the usual standards, pray tell?”
“Well, it’s got to be living. And human. Well, it doesn’t have to be human. I mean, elves and dwarves are cool too. Other than that, well, I’ll try anything once.” The mage winked, flirting. “So, care to join me in my bunk? Just think, you, me, together. We could stay up late, braid each other’s hair, tell each other stories-ooh, I could give you a massage! I met an Antivan man once who gave the best massages, and-“
--
The point of the matter was that he had no interest in befriending King Alistair, and had in fact planned to spend the rest of his life sending the man thinly-veiled threats about the current state of his sister’s chastity.
Then Elissa intervened.
“You are going to spend the day with him.” She threatened in her I’m going to be the Queen of Ferelden so you had best do what I say lest I make your life a living hell voice. Fergus was swiftly becoming quite chummy with that voice. “The wedding is in three weeks, and the two of you have scarcely said two words to each other. You’re going to spend the day together, and you’re going to like it.”
“But-“
She glared at him, a fierce, powerful look that made him quiver in his boots. Maker, when did his baby sister get to be so strong? Oh, right, Hero of Ferelden, slayer of archdemons and whatnot. Sometimes, he forgot she simply wasn’t twelve anymore.
--
Fergus and Elissa, sibling fluff
When Elissa was small, she wanted, like all girls at that age, to marry a prince. Fergus, being seven years older and far too big for such nonsense, told her it was impossible. Ferelden had only one prince--Prince Calian--and he had been engaged to marry Lady Anora since birth.
She could always marry an Orlesian prince, he told her, and then wondered if Orlais even had princes.
“No!” She shrieked, six years old and already full of bratty indignation. Her tiny little lungs were loud even then. “I wanna marry a prince! A Fewelden prince, not an Olesisian.”
“It’s Ferelden, dummy,” he didn’t bother correcting her mispronunciation of Orlais. “And I already told you, you can’t.”
She stomped her feet angrily on the cold stone beneath them. “Why not!”
“Because Prince Calian is already getting married to someone else. And he’s too old for you, anyway.”
Elissa cried, and in her brattiness ran to their father, huge crocodile tears running down her face as she pouted and cried. Father, in his brilliance, picked Elissa up and rocked her gently, telling her that she was his princess, and she would never have to marry an Orlesian, and she could marry any prince she wanted to.
--
Iza Amell, part of Obsession and Hope series.
In seventy-two hours, her life turns upside-down: Jowan is a blood mage, Lily is in prison, and Iza finds herself amongst the last of the Grey Wardens, fighting for a world that hates her alongside a man who trained to kill those like her.
The Maker hates her, she thinks. It will not be the last time she thinks as such.
--
Amell gave her life protecting Ferelden, and Caron is doing everything he can to fuck it up.
Iza Amell was a practical woman, and practical people often had plans, back up plans, plan C’s, and the occasional post-apocalyptic plan. It never hurt to be prepared. In fact, Iza was so prepared she had a “Just in case I die, Ferelden won’t be screwed over” plan.
Once she figured her immediate survival odds during the Blight were less than eighty percent (being a squishy wizard automatically subtracted twenty percent against all survival odds, as she was simply as likely to get crushed under a rock as she was eaten by a dragon), plan “Just in Case” soon became Plan A.
--
Firefly x Dragon Age crossover
“What do you think?” Alistair asked Tabris, his fellow Warden and second-in-command. Once, the Wardens were welcomed across Thedas space, but the war changed that. The war they lost. “It’s a good ship.”
Tabris eyed him suspiciously. “You paid money for this?”
“What? It’s a good ship! A ship like this will be with you until the day you die!”
“Because it’s a deathtrap.”
“Oh, ha ha.” Alistair muttered, unamused. “It’s a good ship. You just don’t have any imagination.”
“The only thing I’m imagining is our painful, fire-filled deaths in that thing.”
Alistair frowned. “Try to see past what she is, onto what she could be!”
“You’re right. Fiery death isn’t nearly as glorious as it appears.”
--
Wynne's chapter in the whole Greagoir/Wynne + Cullen/Amell spectacle I'm writing
The first thing Wynne notices is that Cullen is constantly on guard.
(Actually, that’s a lie: the first thing she notices is how he’s forgotten to wear his helmet; how his pretty little curls are the same color hers were back in the day. How, when he scowls, he could be Greagoir’s twin. How, when he smiles, he looks just a little bit like her.)
--
Jowan bitter angst fic
He started visiting the Chantry out of loneliness and a desire to repent, for in the eyes of The Maker all blood magic was a sin and he needed forgiveness, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong. But then he met Lily, that pretty little thing, that priestess--a vixen, a desire demon hidden in the form of a messenger of God. She burned in his thoughts, his mind, his every being. She kept him up at night.
(He knew he wasn't alone: when Iza found time to talk to him, she tended to talk about boys--more importantly, about Templars, and what they looked like underneath their heavy armor and faceless helms. How their bodies were sculpted hard like statues and how she made up excuses to get them out of their armor--to heal them, even though she could do that through their armor and a mile away, if she needed to.)
--
Nathaniel/Anders epic fic
Nathaniel, as it were, was a rather handsy drunk.
Not that Anders minded. Really, he would never deny a pretty--anything, really--the chance to touch him. And Nathaniel, he had to confess, was very pretty. Especially when he was drunk, because when he drank he was all smiles compared to his usual frumpy self. Anders found it charming, the way Nathaniel’s hands were wrapped around Anders’s shoulder, hugging him tightly as if he was afraid to let go.
“I mean, if you had’ta pick a lady,” Anders slurred, leaning his head against Nathaniel’s. “Any lady in the whole, whole world,” He threw his arms out, stretching them as wide as he could for emphasis. “Wouldn’t it be the Commander?”
“Commander’s married.” Nathaniel muttered, snuggling (snuggling! Really, he’d have to get Nathaniel drunk more often) against Anders’s shoulder.
“Yeah but,” Anders mumbled, trying to take another drink of his ale and failing miserably. “Any girl. Married or-or not.”
He could tell that Nathaniel was fading fast as he kept rubbing his head on Anders’s shoulder. “I dunno.”
“Really? You wouldn’t pick the Commander?” Anders giggled, amused that Nathaniel was slightly more drunk than he was. “I would. I think she’s--she’s gorgeous.”
“Commander’s pretty,” Nathaniel whispered, suddenly too close, with his breath too warm against Anders’s ear. “But she’s not the only blonde on this team I’d like to fuck.”
Then he passed out.
--
Alistair/Morrigan voodoo doll fic
M-O-R-R-I-G-A-N she writes with a needle on to the back of a doll, and smiles when Alistair turns to her, his face red with more than just anger.
“Will you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
He glares at her. “You know what. Quit it.”
It’s immature, but when it comes to Alistair, she cannot help herself. “Make me.”
She expects him to get angry, to call for Estelle, to yell at her, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles at her with a wolfish sort of grin, like a mabari eyeing his prey before he swoops down beside her, faster than she expects, and suddenly he is right beside her, his mouth beside her cheek, his breath in her ear.
“I know your little secret,” He whispers, and she pales instantly because what secret? What secret could Alistair possibly know? She has a million of them, ranging from miniscule to ones that affect the future of Thedas, but none of them she particularly wants to share. “So stop it.”
“What do you know?” She whispers, half a million thoughts racing through her head.
But he doesn’t answer her. Instead he leans back away from her and smiles, a nefarious smirk, then turns his back on her.
--
I want to have something done by Thursday. By Thursday. Surely I can do this. Surely.
jak