I post the first lines to some of my stories and your mission, should you choose to accept, is to write drabbles or ficlets or, heck, haiku, whatever you like, using those first lines. You can change the names and fandom.
I decided to do most of my SPN fic except for my BtVS/AtS crossover stuff out of my own damn curiosity. And for that, I will now weep in a corner at my amazing hack-tastic writing skills.
It's a competition and it's one that Sam doesn't appreciate.
He tells her his name is Jack because it’s a good one night stand kind of name.
It's an ordinary day.
His mother's wearing white but it's mostly sheer and he will not let his mind go there.
—I'm not pretty, she whispers against his chest, trembling as he unzips her long black skirt.
Television becomes a teacher by accident.
The boy Winchester pressed down on his torn sole, gluing the sneaker shut.
This is how the madness starts.
They never have a pet.
"After I do this, it never happened, got it?"
Midnight’s come and gone but he’s still awake, drinking crap beer, because this is supposed to be a Big Moment.
“I hate you,” Sam says to Dean, in a tone that’s usually reserved for a resigned decision at a crappy diner, a cautious choice like when a person says I think I’ll have the meatloaf special instead.
Cribs go the way of the dinosaur when John hits the road.
–It'll feel like forever.
There’s no such thing as privacy, as Sam has known since forever, but there are rare times afforded to them that allow the illusion of isolation.
When they were kids, they saw each other’s all the time and it didn’t matter anyways, nothing weird at all.
Dean's a cheat and a liar, trained to be a conman, but he doesn't cheat Sam of orgasms.
The girl’s been seasick for so long that she doesn’t understand that when her stomach rumbles, it means that she must eat.
Sam braces himself because it’s about to start and there’s nothing that can be done to avert whatever’s going to happen.
Ignore that there were witches and never-ending rains and a stroke of luck in the nick of time and all those other pithy ways of saying that once again, the Winchester boys saved the day by the skin of their teeth.
It’s not the nursery rhyme, no, nothing like that.
They don't move until they see the credits tossed their way.
Not even the nursery rhyme was squeaky clean, rub-a-dub-dub.
Clouds, Sam decides, are quite unpleasant.
Better that she doesn't look like Mom, not at all, the way her eyes slant when she's concentrating, there's only a handful of pictures left of their mother and Dean looks more like her, fucked up, but true.
“There's a point to this,” Bobby starts off, grumbling at the tape recorder he’s got propped up against a stack of books that got damaged last time an exorcism went bad, coffee rings splattering the top book.
"Fucking hell, you're working me into something fierce," he pants, sucking at her titties as he rubs her panties through, slick wet making it all too easy.
Patience, the long and the slow of it, hitting him like good booze, Dean never gets that, only the raw of it, rotgut, hard ache, has to have the sour breath of the lie on him.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, ah, it’s changed since the earliest rhyme, for it was a much more risqué story, back in days so forgotten they ought to be called olden.
She breaks up with Tony on Tuesday and despite what her sister claims, it's not because she heard he was shopping for an engagement ring. / "Your Mom still thinks it's a phase?" / Despite the flattened accent, Elle’s not a native of Pennsylvania.*
Dean hated that they had to watch the whole fucking performance at the community theater before jumping onstage to take care of the poltergeist.
It’s not like he starts off testing the waters, going for the accidental first smack against the curve of her ass.
Say you got a year to live.
He's halfway done with it before Sam notices it, stirring awake, never groggy, he's always bright and fucking chipper. / In bed, it works. / Sam’s going to drag Dean kicking and screaming into monkhood or whatever the hell they call the belief in not getting laid. / Dean never thought of himself as a starfucker. / “Time’s up.” / It always begins and ends with Sam, Dean hates it admit it, but it kind of fucking does.**
Sam isn't pissed, really he isn't, it's just, okay, you know what, screw it - he's pissed.
She bites down on the soft part of his hand, even with the light calluses, his hands are too soft, in the light, it's dim, but she can see him, moon-glare glinting in his eyes.
It happened like this.***
Never mind how it comes to this, ignore how most kids'll run off to the circus, because frankly, the place that a boy called Ben runs off is far cooler than any circus, rodeo, or Candy Mountain.
“We’re doing this, Sam. I don’t care if it’s against the fuckin’ word of Dad,” and here, Dean pauses, breathes, as if expecting Dad to come storming in, ready to forcibly tie Dean to his bed, “We’re finding the bastards that did this to my baby.”
First thing that’s clear once they walk into the Piatto suite room is that someone wasn’t drunk and/or profoundly high when they decided on the décor.
Pushes the soft cleft of her apart, widening, has to get two fingers in there to hear her whimper low, nearly drowned out by the rush of water.
The problem Dean never thought he'd have with fucking his doppelganger (and hey, don't freakin' get all weirded out that he's been thinking about it, in his line of work, it's bound to happen) is that he's kind concerned he's gonna ruin the guy's hair when he's guiding that warm mouth to his cock.
Forgive Sam for noticing it, but the taste of Dean is different now.
"I had all my warts removed," she tells him, voice thick with sleep.
“And then what’ll happen?”
He’s washing the sand off his skin with the gritty motel soap, thinking about nothing really, which suits him just fine, last night’s a blur he doesn’t want to investigate.
What more is there to say?
He’s fucking nuzzling the stubble of his jaw, darting out his tongue quick to trap a little bead of sweat, right at the jawline, and neither of them can quite muster up a word, especially the word they should be saying in this here situation: stop.
Trouble is that they're too thick-headed to let anything quiet down.
“Man, I’m so friggin’ happy to be back in my body.”
Dean’s birthday wish?
"Dude, let's go corn-holing. I'm starving."
He is still dreaming.
It’s not that weird how easy things fall into place but it’s always going to weird Dean out.
“Arm’s stiff,” Dean says and if there’s anything preceding that announcement it’s lost to the static rumble of the R&B station.
Give a man cotton candy and Sam can't be held accountable for his actions when the man in question is Dean.
Dean's not like present-Dean.
Once upon a time there was a girl named Jeanie who never needed a fairytale for comfort’s sake and she often got exactly what she wanted.
And one night, they run out of condoms.
Look, Dean never had a fucking thing for Ann and Nancy Wilson, okay?
Sam wakes up, laid out on an empty stretch of road, unfamiliar straining of well-worn, too-washed material on skin.****
“I promised that I’d still be here. Just ‘cause I’m a demon doesn’t mean I’d ever lie about leaving you all on your own, Sammy.”
Um. I really need to work on my first lines. Ack.
I mean, I think I focus on opening sections or rather, the first couple of paragraphs, something like that, but most of these could be better. Better edited or more engaging somehow. I do tend to use the first line of my story as the lj-cut to the story itself so it's something I definitely take into account but I am sort of annoyed at myself for writing such LAME beginnings.
Also I continue to have a love-hate-love-HAAAAATE relationship with my own fic. I was embarrassed at looking at some of these stories for the first time in a long time.
explanation of the asterisks:
* This was a character study piece of three separate characters who each got their own sections which is why I quoted the opening lines to each part.
** A Five Things fic so er, it's totally not cheating! :-P I totally didn't include the opening lines to each section because the starfucking line made me laugh.
*** A co-write with that asshole from the Bronx, ignited-something. She totally wrote that opening line.
**** Again, that jerk who is always mean to, Stefackles Wonky Eye Padaevil, co-wrote this with me and that is her opening line more than mine.