Writing Fanfiction

Someone has probably already done this but

For anyone looking to lock their works for only registered users over on Ao3 in light of the sudowrites scraping thing here is how you can lock all of your fics at once.

Log into Ao3 and go to your Profile, Works or Dashboard

At the top under you’re user name there are four buttons pick Edit Works

Second row of buttons on the right chose All and then hit Edit

Scroll down past all of your works and then keeps scrolling until you find Visibility  change it to Only Show to Registered User

(If a fic is over the tag limit you have to edit those down to make edit to the work.)

My first fic for @equalopportunitysolas week features my fav Solas rare pair: Solas/Cassandra.

Rating: G

Modern AU/Office AU.

When an unsigned bouquet of flowers appears on Cassandra's desk, she thinks it's a mistake. The second time must be a prank. But as the days pass and each morning brings flowers or small gifts, the signs of courtship is unmistakable. But the person behind it all refuses to come clean and Cassandra must wrestle with an old insecurity in order to accept the possibility that someone might desire her.

Flowers come first: Calla lilies and daffodils and pops of red leafed embrium. They sat on her desk, a small vase sitting innocuously in the corner. 

The note is blank and not signed. She puzzled over it for long moments, her briefcase still hanging in her hand. 

“Is something wrong?”

Solas, her coworker in the next cubicle, leans over their shared wall. Of course he is here early. Sometimes she wonders if he sleeps here. 

“I got flowers,” she says stupidly. 

“Oh? You didn’t tell me you have a suitor.”

Only Solas would call such a thing a suitor. But Cassandra secretly likes it, all these anachronistic phrases of his, like he had stepped out of a historical documentary. 

“I don’t,” she says shortly. 

“A secret admirer, perhaps,” he suggests with a half grin. 

She snorts indelicately. “Right. The more rational answer is that these were meant for someone else.”

“You don’t think you’re a reasonable recipient for such a gift?”

“Who in Thedas would give me flowers, Solas?"

the french: got it. the country of Allemagne

germans: …no? that doesn’t even sound like it

the english: oh no, we got it, it’s Germany

germans: not even close

the polish: it’s Niemcy, right?

germans: how are you each getting it wrong in a completely different way

danes: Tyskland

lithuanians: Vokietija

slovakians: Nemecko

germans: …

finns: Saksa

Here's some Surana/Zevran from the Corporate Espionage!AU for @dadrunkwriting!

There was something exquisite about the pairing of Rivani takeout and Orlesian champagne.

It was the bubbles and the spices, Zevran decided. They played off each other gloriously. The rich flavors of the chicken and noddle dish he ordered balanced the sharp, dry flavor of the champagne. He brought the champagne, of course, but Bran supplied the takeout. Zevran was rather impressed- he hadn't thought Bran ate anything outside of cheap ramen or the sandwiches he got from his friend Leliana's workplace. Or sweets. The man was a menace about sweets.

"This couldn't have been cheap," Bran idly remarked as he swirled the champagne in a short drinking glass that was once a jam jar. He didn't own champagne flutes. The jam jars were the nicer drinking glasses. Zevran asked him about it once. Bran's guarded shrug told him it was wrong to pry. Bran was a prickly thing, like a thistle, like a weed. He probably had to be, growing up like he did- and here Zevran had pried, did his research and dug deep into his target because that was what Crows did. They picked and picked and collected and sorted- and Zevran was good at his job.

 “Europe has a different political and geographical space,” the professor scribbled on the whiteboard. “And better pay for its teachers. Who can tell me anything about Venetian law enforcement?”

Several hands waved in the crowded lecture hall. The professor pointed at random.

“Venice utilizes water-based heroes. They use the canals and ocean to have an advantage over lawbreakers and are held in line through their enforcement collars.”

The student sounded like they were reading out of a textbook. “Excellent answer. Now,” the professor clapped their hands, “Could that work here?”

The same student beamed at the compliment. “Absolutely not. We have no cities based on canals or built on evenly distributed rivers to give water-based heroes an advantage. And sir,” the student continued, stifling a laugh. “Can you imagine trying to put a bracelet on an American hero? The government would never make it past congress.”

Chuckles half-heartedly rippled across the auditorium. Many students pretended they were listening or taking notes while Instagram reflected in their glasses.

“Wrong.”

The professor frowned at the interruption. “In this class, we raise our hand and explain our reasoning.” He turned toward the owner of the voice, a boy in a denim jacket in the back of the room. “Care to elaborate?”

 “They already have them.”

The professor pushed his glasses up his nose, a trickle of curiosity rising against his better judgment. He reached over to his computer and paused the lecture recording. “Do you have evidence to support this theory?”

The boy looked up from his computer and shrugged. “Does anyone here think our illustrious government would let a group of highly powerful individuals run around untethered?”

The auditorium quieted. A few hands raised in a sea of hundreds, before slowly lowering. 

The professor had to admit, that was a good point. Still… “Most heroes don’t comprehend the notion of modesty. Trust me, there’s nowhere to hide a bracelet that the cameras wouldn’t see.”

“What about MagniBoy?” One student asked. “That costume covers everything except-“

“Unfortunately for MagniBoy,” The professor interrupted before the lecture became decidedly less PG. “There was an incident last year. We now know for sure that there is absolutely no possible place for a bracelet.”

Several students nodded, some in disgust and others with smiles.

“It’s not on their bodies.” The boy in the denim spoke again. “American heroes are controlled as soon as they join a force, but they just don’t realize it.”

This was quickly verging into Reddit board theories. The professor felt a headache coming on. “Let’s not get off track- “

“Where is it then?” Another student asked.

“Did they swallow it?”

“Why wouldn’t anyone say anything about it?”

The professor sat down in his chair and prepared for the ride. If the class wanted to waste precious exam review time with theories, their loss.

“Twenty years ago, the government started investigating bracelets and mood alteration. Two years later they stopped due to public protests.” The boy smiled bitterly. “We love our heroes, and we love our rights even more. Three years after that, our heroes were injected with a tracker ‘for safety’.”

“Those trackers were removed when a hero retired.” The professor interrupted with a gentle smile. “If what you’re saying is true, retirees would notice a significant difference in mood.” Several students nodded in agreement.

The boy looked at him in near pity. “Sir, do you know what the original bracelets were made of?”

The professor remembered. His back straightened.

“Nanotech.” The boy savoured the word, savoured his captive audience. “Bit backwards, isn’t it? They found that heroes were more likely to have more health defects with the experimental tech, so they changed it to computerized ones. But,” he tapped his chin, “What if our generous government decided to inject their puppets with this same nanotechnology. What would happen?” The boy tilted his head innocently. “On a completely different note, how many heroes die from radiation poisoning? Illness? Cancer?”

The auditorium was silent.

“There used to be hero-turned-vigilantes or villains. Where did they all go?” The boy was picking up speed. 

No one was on Instagram anymore; all eyes were on him. 

“And isn’t it interesting that fifteen years ago, the cases of heroes breaking the law dropped by 80%? As did the destruction of vital buildings?”

“Oh,” another student whispered.

“They have thousands of powered people, sacrificing their lives without realizing it. Heroes sign away their personality, their life, their future.” The boy choked on a laugh. “When was the last time a hero made it to 60?”

“Young man,” the professor found his voice, “That’s enough.”

and of course the classic

Choke. Just think about it, seriously. Think about what choking is and imagine speaking while it’s happening. That would fuckin’ hurt, man.

Hiss. Look, it’s just not possible, okay? No matter how “evil” you want your character to seem.

Snarl. Animals snarls. The Beast from Beauty and the Beast snarls. The Hulk snarls. You know who doesn’t snarl? PEOPLE WHEN THEY’RE SPEAKING.

Shriek. Come on, 99% of the time, “shriek” is not the word you want.Let’s face it: if you put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, your reader gets the picture. Don’t bring to mind banshees and screaming toddlers.

Hiss is a low, threatening whisper. Raw, guttural, vicious. It is NOT a literal hiss like an animal, it is a tone of voice that serves the same function. Someone will hiss that they’re going to cut your throat- a message from one person to the other.

Snarl is the same kind of thing. Not literal, it’s a tone of voice that serves the same function. It’s raw and gutteral like a hiss, but more savage than vicious. It’s loud, it’s showy, it’s intimidating. It’s very alpha male, big man, look at how fucking dangerous I am. I’ll take ALL of you on. Even if they’re snarling at one person in particular, nobody better back them up or they’re gonna get fucked up too.

Shriek. Come on, seriously? We’ve all heard people shriek either in fear or outrage. High pitched, loud, out of control, feminine. Men can shriek, but it’s funny and emasculating. Think angry italian women throwing pots and pans or ladies on tables who just saw a mouse.

Then… where do I go? I’m just at home muttering

Fluff Fest on RedBubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/36582633

…

“Hawen.”

The tiny voice took Solas out of his study, glancing up from the murky depths of the tome he had been reading since just past breakfast.

Ten small fingers gripped the far edge of the table, a small grunt of effort heralding the wide-eyed face popping up over the edge of the table.  Resting her chin on its surface, the very solemn three-year-old stared at him with wide amber eyes, her golden curls tangled with leaves and twigs.  She was a smudged mess.  

Which likely meant that she had been playing with Sera again.

“I hope for your aunt’s sake she has not been taking you on the roofs again,” he told the little one quite seriously.

Ashalle giggled, swaying dangerously as her small legs kicked, trying to find purchase.  “Hawen, I found n’secret.”

“Did you now?  I should like to see your secret,” he said indulgently.  Perhaps only partially because he was in dire need of a break, lest his neck grow too stiff.  “Will you share it?”

There was a small ‘uf’ and a slap of bare feet on stone as the da’len pushed off the table and landed back on the floor.  She came pattering around to face him, expression still quite business-like.  It was only fair.  This was quite serious business, after all.

From the little pouch at her waist tied to the soft halla-leather belt he’d watched her mother weave for her, the da’len fished out a small piece of white stone.  With surprising delicacy for one so young, she held it out to him.  He extended a hand, and let her place it on his palm.    

“S’n’awfac,” she garbled.

It took him a moment to untangle her speech; her pronunciation had yet to catch up with her vocabulary.  The Inquisitor’s children were all rather well-spoken.  Even so, they were still children, and some clumsiness of speech was to be expected.  “An artifact, you say?”  Much to his surprise, as he turned the rock over, it was not simply a child’s fancy for a bit of pretty stone.

It was, in fact, something that had been carved.  The stone was not local to the area, and there was a smoothness to it that was not the work of ages, but the work of tools.  Not made by magic, so it must have dated from times after his creation of this fortress.

While he examined it, the little imp attempted to climb up onto the arm of his chair.  He leaned to the side to give her space, as she kicked off of the leg and climbed up.  Standing precariously on the arm, her bare feet curved against the wood, she stood at his shoulder and peered down at the little piece of stone in his palm.

“Well, I believe you are correct.  This is indeed an artifact, da’len.  What do you suppose it is from?  A statue?  A staircase, perhaps?”

“A big POT!” she declared with sudden vehemence; the shout next to his ear making him wince.

Once his ear stopped ringing from the echoes of her bellow, he leaned away and gazed up at the charmingly terrible little creature.  She smiled at him, an innocent echo of her father’s smirk.  Troublesome things, three year olds.

“A pot, you say?  For cooking, or for some other purpose?”

“A pisspot,” she said, smiling so excitedly that he knew she was aware she wasn’t supposed to say it.

It was a strange thing, that he was growing accustomed to children.  Not a particular kind of creature he had ever had much interaction with.  It was difficult not to be charmed by them, especially not by this small, echoing imp.

“Your mother won’t like that someone taught you that.  I suggest you don’t let her hear.”

She beamed a sunny smile.  “Damn.”

“Nor that,” he said, barely managing to hide the chuckle.  He coughed it away into his fist.  “Well.  Regardless of its origins, it is a fine artifact, da’len.”

“I foun’ a dead bird, too.”

“Did you now.  How did it die?”  he inquired, letting her take back her ‘artifact’ to secure in her pouch again.

“‘Sassinated.”

“Ah.  Perhaps the bird owed someone money,” he deadpanned.  

“C’n I have it?” she asked, pointing at the shard on his desk.

“Ah, no, da’len.  I am studying it.”

“I’m hewp,” she insisted, balancing with concerning skill on the arm of the chair as she turned to try and climb onto the table.

“Please, da’len,” he protested, picking her up around the waist before she could snatch at it.  He had no fear she would be capable of lifting it, but he did not want dirty little footprints all over his papers.  “Later we will find something else to study, yes?”

“Ashalle.”  The fond exasperation in Zevran’s call ended in a chuckle.  “Hahren is busy, and you are being summoned your bath.  Come, darling.  Mamae is waiting.”

They both glanced up, Solas meeting the ostensibly friendly assassin’s stare with an incline of his head.  Zevran leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as he shifted his attention to his youngest daughter.  When Solas set her down she made a little noise of protest, and immediately spun and started pattering for the spiral staircase.

Zevran sighed, pushing off the wall as she tried to dodge past him.  With a deft maneuver, he scooped an arm under the da’len’s waist and swung her up and over his shoulder.  Her legs kicked against his chest as he pinned her here.

“My apologies, Solas.”

“It is no inconvenience.  She was simply showing me some artifacts of note.  And her new swear words,” Solas said, inclining his head.

“Piss!” a very small voice declared, and then dissolved into wicked giggles.

“Oh, excellent!  That is a versatile one.  Ash, say goodbye to Hahren.”

The little one shrieked as Zevran spun around, her fingers clutching at his back for purchase as she was flung about.  Peeking up through her tangled curls, upside-down over her father’s shoulder, she beamed at Solas.  “Bye, Hawen.”

Solas had no choice but to return the smile.  “Dareth shiral, da’len.”

As the echo of her excited babbling and happy shrieks faded away, contemplative quiet returned to the rotunda.  

“For most dialogue, use a comma after the sentence and don’t capitalize the next word after the quotation mark,” she said.

“But what if you’re using a question mark rather than a period?” they asked.

“When using a dialogue tag, you never capitalize the word after the quotation mark unless it’s a proper noun!” she snapped.

“When breaking up a single sentence with a dialogue tag,” she said, “use commas.”

“This is a single sentence,” she said. “Now, this is a second stand-alone sentence, so there’s no comma after ‘she said.’”