#setting the scene i'm writing

[peachpety]

First Lines Tag Game

a big Thank You to @phoebe-delia for the tag! view pheebses [phoebi's? lol] first lines HERE..."They’re relaxed and naked under their silk dressing gowns, sweat clinging to their skin like morning dew." like, PSHAW [fans self]. doesn't get much better than that, y'all, wow. tagging @vukovich & @xanthippe74 & @ladderofyears

here's the first lines from my last 10 fics posted to AO3.

Playing for Keeps [Drarry, G, Harry POV]

Harry slides closed the cabinet’s overlapping glass doors.

Birds Behaving Badly [Drarry, E, Draco POV]

An incessant tapping at the glass rouses Draco from the bed.

The Breakfast Club [Drarry, T, Draco POV]

Draco slouches against the stone wall next to the gargoyle outside the Headmistress’ office.

Come to Your Senses, Draco Malfoy [Drarry Microfic, T, Draco POV]

A glimpse of ridiculous dark curls and Draco’s heart rockets into his throat.

Massively Magical [Dron, E, Ron POV]

Ron approaches the bar set up in the Manor’s conservatory and orders a scotch neat.

No Bones About It [Drarry, T, Harry POV]

Harry slaps a plastic skeleton hand on the worn wooden counter next to the till.

Deadheading the Odd Dahlia [Drarry, E, Harry POV]

Harry alights from the Apparition point—an old outhouse marked as A Place of Historical Significance—and takes a moment to let his stomach settle. 

In a Jam [Drarry, T, Harry POV]

Ron sighs dramatically from the couch. 

Harry and the Typical, Awful, Chaotic, Very Promising Morning [Drarry, T, Harry POV]

In Harry's some-odd years on this earthly rock, spinning around a dying star, he’s learned a few things about himself.

Come as You Are [Drarry, E, Harry POV]

Harry guides his truck into the parking space and slams the gear into park.

[lucky-fy]

For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)

I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).

The general pitch is as follows :

AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.

In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.

They bond :)

NB: I commissioned another piece, go take a look :D

[celebrimborium]

Stop fighting me and together, let us fight them.

[wardingshout]

there is nothing I wouldn't do for them.........

[athousandbyeol]

try looking closer. you'll really see it. try looking closer and you'll see. can we get even closer?

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Wow, writing stories is hard.

[heyimkana]

overwhelmed by the urge to delete the fics i just posted 😔

[etirabys]

if AI completely "obsoleted" writing/painting I'd

paint about as much as I do now – how well other entities paint compared to me has <3% bearing on my own internal drive to paint

write almost not at all – my drive to write is >90% driven by the dearth of other entities who are writing what I want to read

[fictionadventurer]

Blue: A Retelling of "The Blue Castle" by M.J. Rednow

Valancy is not a rebel. Every moment of her day is controlled by the artificial intelligence that monitors her movements, but she doesn't dare to resist strict rules of Stirling Society. Any who object are cast out of their safe city and banished to the toxic, dangerous Wilderness. Yet Valancy dreams of freedom, inspired by the secretly subversive writings of John Foster. His supposedly scientific texts speak of the beauty of nature and spark thoughts of society beyond Stirling control--yet, for Valancy, these can be nothing more than dreams. Then the infallible AI medical doctor informs Valancy that she has less than a year to live. Valancy realizes that she doesn't want to die never having lived, and she begins to push back against the restrictions of her life. She speaks out against the pointless rules, helps an invalid deemed useless to society, and is eventually cast out into the Wilderness, where she marries a mysterious outcast who teaches her to brave the wonders and terrors of nature--and maybe, to bring down the Stirling society once and for all.

[buddiesmutslut]

👶👶👶

I'm soooooo excited about this story, you guys don't even know.

Eddie has no idea that one random phone call on a Wednesday afternoon would be the thing that changed his life so completely. He won’t understand the importance of it for several weeks, won’t even remember it for the longest time, but it sets off a ripple, one that grows into a wave and rewrites his life. 

–

His phone ringing in his pocket has him automatically worried, given that the person who calls him the most is currently sitting beside him on the couch, telling him all about the most recent shark documentary he watched in preparation for shark week. 

Since Chris came home from Texas a few weeks ago and Eddie cut his parents off and blocked their numbers for the time being, he knows it can’t be them. 

The 118 don’t really call each other, relying more on text messages to handle any communication, and he just talked to Pepa the day before, so he can’t imagine it’s her either. 

Buck pauses in his story, eyeing him as he fishes the noisy block from his pocket, leaning across the couch to peek at the caller ID, probably just as confused as Eddie himself is. 

Sarah (Alec’s mom) certainly doesn’t clear up the confusion. Alec is one of Chris’ friends from school, they’ve had a couple of play dates (although Eddie’s been forbidden from calling them that since Chris turned 11), but Eddie doesn’t think they’ve ever spoken on the phone before. 

The fact that it’s also only 1pm and both the boys should be at school has him feeling a low-level of worry as he slides the button on the screen and lifts it to his ear. “Hello?” 

[awyeahitssam]

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom. 

“You’re late.” 

Harry considered his response as he stepped farther into the room, head tipping up to take in the fifty some-odd witches and wizards that made up the Wizengamot. They were all watching him keenly, some with open derision and others with curiosity. His head pulsed faintly at the weight of the attention on him, their emotions eagerly battering his Occlumency shields. Harry worked to think through the sensation even as he reinforced his mental defences. He could already tell by the sweat beading on his back that this would be a trying experience. The fact that this section of the Ministry was deep enough to obstruct the weight of all other presences did not make up for the fact that he was in front of fifty people rather than the expected four to six. He hasn't practised for this, has had no means to. 

Fudge sat in the middle of the first row, and the smugness he and the witch to his right were emanating made it rather easy to pinpoint who had been responsible for the sudden change in the time of his trial. 

"Am I?" Harry asked, and the jolt of astonishment, annoyance and fury that swept through various members of the court almost had him gritting his teeth. Harry imagined that Fudge's anger and embarrassment would have been obvious to him even without his abilities. The man had turned faintly red at the question, face pinching. 

"You were sent notice of the change in time this morning," the Minister barked out. "It is not the Wizengamot's fault you are late. Now sit down."

Harry allowed his eyebrow to quirk, slow and incredulous. This version of Cornelius Fudge was far different from the one he had met two years ago.

“While I would hardly blame the Wizengamot as a whole, it sounds as if whoever is charged with correspondence is at fault. Per a standing law written in 1839, all changes in time and venue must be completed in excess of twenty four hours prior to a trial's start time. Said correspondence must have been confirmed as seen by the person or persons on trial and their representatives at least sixteen hours before the scheduled start time.”

“That is for an official trial,” the Minister returned, voice sharp despite the fluster and anxiety Harry could sense beneath it. 

“Apologies for my presumption, then,” Harry said dryly. “I assumed that any trial which our entire governance presided over would be considered official.”

“Besides which, there is no such specificity to that law,” A broad, square-jawed witch to the left of Fudge said, giving the Minister a quelling look. 

The Minister did not respond to the implied reprimand, instead puffing himself up a bit and saying, “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry was surprised to see Percy Weasley, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stared down at a piece of parchment, quill poised to write. Unlike most everyone else in the room, his attention did not seem to find sole focus on Harry. Harry didn’t expend any effort to attempt to see how Percy felt about the entire situation, his focus drawn to an approaching presence. It was a whirlwind of concern, faint annoyance, and a dash of enjoyment. 

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, emphasising the word hearing, and Percy began taking notes at once, “into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Fudge continued on, listing interrogators, and Harry’s attention was distracted from Fudge’s words, the approaching presence, and his Occlumency shields by a jolt of glee and greed. His gaze flickered up to meet the icy grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy. The realisation dawns quickly that the Dursleys address was now a matter of public record. Harry had already decided he wouldn't go back, and this only provided more incentive. 

He hesitates around the thought of whether the Dursleys will be targeted. Whether he should warn somebody that they need to be moved. Whether he cares enough to, after so many years of their oppressive hatred.

Behind him, the door presses open. 

“—Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Dumbledore’s voice isn’t projected like Fudge’s, but there is no doubt that he is heard. The press of the Wizengamot’s emotions is momentarily overwhelming: annoyance, bemusement, fear, anger, respect, deference, joy… Harry’s own anger is hardly a blip amongst the cacophony. 

When he strides into Harry’s view Dumbledore's expression is serene, but Harry can feel his spiteful enjoyment at the reception his disruption has created. He looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his crooked nose. 

A few of the Wizengamot members muttered to one another, but most were quiet, eyes locked on Dumbledore. 

While Harry’s presence had invoked interest and curiosity, the reactions to Dumbledore were far more substantive. Perhaps it was that the Headmaster had interacted with all of these people personally, socially, and they knew him by more than reputation. They had personal feelings and opinions fully developed about Dumbledore, while Harry was still, largely, an unknown. 

“Ah,” said Fudge, thoroughly disconcerted and flustered by Dumbledore’s presence. “Dumbledore. Yes. You—er—got our—er—message that the time and—er—place of the hearing had been changed, then?” 

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

It was a lie, Harry recognized, and one the Headmaster took a good deal of amusement in stating. Some of Dumbledore’s lingering frustration seemed to melt the longer he watched Fudge, the genial cast to his face a farce. He took joy in Fudge being wrong-footed, and the longer he fumbled, the more Dumbledore’s contentment with the situation grew. 

“Yes—well—I suppose we’ll need another chair—I—Weasley, could you—?” 

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest. 

Harry had never thought of Dumbledore as anything approaching petty before, and perhaps he typically was not, but there was no denying that he was fond of making Fudge feel foolish. Well, his name had been dragged through the Prophet by the Minister's word; Harry couldn’t be surprised by a grudge. Seemingly omniscient or not, Dumbledore was only human. 

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down. 

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.”

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment. 

“Yes,” Harry agreed, not looking at Malfoy this time. 

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” interrupted Fudge. Harry felt his vindictive pleasure at cutting him off—even with Dumbledore here, he was finding his footing—but as Harry failed to answer this question, his irritation rose to overtake it.

“You are expected to answer,” the witch to the left of Fudge said, raising a brow at him. She had been the same woman to defend the law he had parrotted. 

Harry lets his silence linger for a moment, feeling the anticipation of the Wizengamot build, before returning, “Will I be allowed to do so in full?” 

His voice is perfectly respectful, but Fudge’s outrage still blooms. Dumbledore, a glance away, feels of surprise-concern-suspicion, and it makes the hairs on Harry’s nape stand at attention. 

“Yes,” the woman gave the Minister yet another quelling look, “of course you will.” 

“Thank you. To your last question, Minister, I did receive an official warning three years ago. The warning was,” it took a moment for Harry to recall the right term, said by three other representatives in three other trials, but the momentary pause has the interesting effect of focusing attention on him all the more, “improperly dispersed. The magic that triggered it came from a visiting House Elf. Being the only known magical in Little Whinging and without the supervision of an adult witch or wizard, the charms used to enforce the Statute of Secrecy were triggered. If anybody would like to see a memory of the event in question, I would be more than happy to provide it, assuming there is a pensive available.”

“There is no pensive,” a man with dark hair and an austere demeanour said, then emphasised again, “This is no trial.” 

“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising as he glanced tellingly down at the chair in which he sat, wrapped in chains. “Very well.”

“Either way, it is rather late to be blaming your troubled past on elf magic,” Fudge dismissed, and let out a short laugh, as if he expected others to join him in it. At his side, the woman still cloaked in shadows let out a titter. “A unique and unprecedented excuse, as, I suppose, we should have expected from a young man trying to squirm out of trouble.” 

It is Fudge’s tone, a mix of condescension and chiding, even as his emotions are anything but, that does it. Behind his Occlumency and building headache, Harry realises that he's angry. He is disgruntled, disgusted and dissatisfied. He had accessed the public records available, he had pulled transcripts from previous underage trials, and this—this is a farce. 

This is Fudge, afraid to believe that Lord Voldemort is alive and smearing Harry’s name because he can. Because Harry has nobody looking out for him, and he’s been fair game since nobody stepped in the first time Rita did it. Beside him, Dumbledore is perfectly silent.

Harry is a symbol, but he's also fifteen, and it's an odd thought that reeks of his Godfather. 

“You're fifteen, pup,” Sirius had insisted mere days ago, like it meant something, like it mattered. “You deserve the chance to be a boy without all of this added pressure.”

The glimmer in his eyes had been just as telling as the mingled pain-grief-exhaustion-despair. He was speaking from experience, Harry had thought, throat tight. It made Harry want to fight for his Godfather, for the boy that he once was. Where, then, was that impulse to fight for himself?

“You matter, Harry. What you want matters.”

Harry does not want to play their games, though he has already begun to. He does not want to use the information he's researched, as he sits in a chair with chains, and struggles through polite phrasings. He won't let his research go to waste, though. He knows something for once, and he'll use that knowledge. 

The look he levels to Fudge, then, is faux-concerned. “I understand you've had no reason to research this, Minister,” he says, voice kind in a way that is mockery and can not be called such, “but I take the threat of having my wand snapped very seriously. According to public records, the Statute of Secrecy charms have been proven defective in the exact scenario I've discussed once before, in the case of Richard Pike, who’s classmate had an elf deliver things on multiple occasions until he was brought between a five-panel jury to plead his case.”

“Mind you, the Ministry hadn't been running a campaign to discredit Richard Pike,” Harry added casually. The reaction from a simple remark didn't disappoint; Fudge spluttered, the woman beside him leaned out of the shadows, revealing an overwhelmingly pink ensemble, and someone burst out, “Now see here, young man—!” before being abruptly silenced. “He was fifteen, too, but he actually had adults willing to advocate on his behalf.”

Dumbledore’s concern is growing beside him, but Harry doesn't turn to meet the man's eyes, and Dumbledore does not speak out, despite Harry’s accusation.

Harry’s rage is bubbling at the back of his throat, and he wants to shout, but he had learned about the ineffectiveness of screaming his ire long ago. That lesson had only been reinforced after his outburst at Ron and Hermione, and he is more than willing to try something else now. 

He takes a moment to consider his approach, and then goes with something that feels natural, a release that will keep his shouts in check; Harry laughs.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?” A cold voice comes. 

“Not really, Something is ridiculous, though, and I’m sure you’d all rather I laugh than deal with a moody teenager's temper tantrum.” He lets his smile go a little sharper, and feels the good his reminder does. There is a particularly keen sense of culpability from a woman he faintly recognizes from his research; Head of the Panel for Underaged Sourcery, Irena Covey. Is the guilt for allowing this to spiral so out of hand, into a room meant for criminal proceedings, or something else?

“I have before me the entire government of magical Britain, wasting their time at a hearing for underaged magic which is typically handled by an empaneled jury of four. We are in the bowels of the Ministry, in a room that has not been used for anything but trials of the most dangerous criminals, and yet this is not a trial, but a hearing to decide disciplinary methods, as if there is no doubt of my guilt and I must be punished.” 

“My ‘crime,’” he uses the air quotes readily, “is using the Patronus Charm to protect myself and my cousin from a dementor. My cousin, who knows about magic and does not count as a breach in the Statute. If you'd like to see the memory of the encounter, I give full permission to have it pulled from my head. If you'd like to give me veritaserum—well, I have no parent to consent to the use of a regulated substance, but that's never stopped anybody before. I’ll submit myself willingly to that as well. And if,” he smiles sharply, “you'd like to handle this especially quickly, and get back to your doubtlessly busy lives, I will swear upon my magic that I'm telling the truth. How's that?”

It’s nothing that can be compelled or asked for, not ever, but the offer is a powerful thing. Vows on your magic can be taken as irrefutable testimony, and are rarely given, as they rely on objective rather than subjective fact, a twist that always leaves one with the slightest chance of turning squib.

He feels the shift in the air, the reconsideration of biases, the sharpening curiosity.

“I find your tone disrespectful, boy,” says a man with the longest straw-coloured hair Harry has ever seen. It lies in neat curls, soft and touchable, but the man’s face is cold and his tone hard, and Harry can’t pinpoint his intention with so many other people in the room. 

“Perfectly understandable, sir. I find this entire theatrical display disrespectful. You are all very important and busy people, so I can understand that you are frustrated with having your time wasted. However I hope you'll forgive if my frustration outweighs your own, as I am being treated like a war criminal rather than an underaged child due to a bewildering grudge that our Minister seems to be harbouring.” 

“You want to snap my wand?” Harry asked the Minister if Magic, eyes blazing but posture relaxed, “Then you can be certain I will put up a fight.”

He let his eyes trail over the rest of his jury, the heady, odd feel of their captivated attention allowing his shoulders to relax into something looser and more confident.

“Magic is the only thing I have of my mother and father. So forgive this fifteen year old orphan for his sentimentality,” Harry bared his teeth, “but I plan on keeping it. Especially considering that I have broken no laws, and there are clear caveats in place that allow an underaged witch or wizard to use magic when in fear for their life.”

He let his gaze slide over the Wizengamot and paused to meet every set of eyes that were not looking away. His point has been well and truly made. Dumbledore is surprised by his outburst, or perhaps by its effectiveness, and faintly suspicious for some reason. 

“Strong words prove nothing,” a man larger than Harry’s uncle says when Harry’s gaze lands on him, and he doesn't believe Harry, but he is used to that. 

Harry thinks back to the books on magical vows he had studied during the tournament, and the book in the Black Library that he had read two days ago. He thinks of the vow that he had carefully drafted, under Sirius’ supervision. His godfather has emphasised the importance of his wording, so that there could be no mistake. 

“Harry, wait.” Dumbledore’s order comes curt and harsh, but Harry pays it no attention. He knows what has caught the Headmaster’s attention; the golden glow that had encapsulated Harry the moment he chose his words. It hazes around his form, and Harry looks down at his hand with interest and curiosity. 

There is a sudden murmuring from his audience as they catch on. 

“I, Harry James Potter, vow on my magic that on the night of August 2 I used a patronus charm to ward off dementors in Little Whinging, Surrey, in fear of losing my soul.”

The golden glow retreats. Several people gasp at the act, but it is no mere dramatics; the shock he feels pulsing through the room is genuine. He allowed the pause to linger for a moment before saying, “I would cast a spell to prove my claim, but this is a disciplinary hearing for underaged magic.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, but before he could speak a worn voice sounded from the top tier of the gallery. “I vote an exception be made. Raise your wands if you are in agreement.” 

It was nearly unanimous, and Fudge’s expression was taut. His emotions were hard to pinpoint, though multiple people were radiating fear, stomach-churning and vile. Madame Bones glanced around the gallery, expectant. “Mr. Potter, if you would?”

Obediently, Harry drew his wand and murmured a spell under his breath. It was a rather cheeky choice, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. His patronus burst into existence and lifted its head regally, sightless eyes fixed on the Wizengamot. After a moment it turned to Harry and met his gaze before bowing its head. Harry bowed his head back in respect, tension lessening as he felt the warmth and serenity his patronus gave to him, deeply soothing. It took a step forward and pressed its head to his chest, and Harry smiled. 

“Fantastic,” Madam Bones murmured. “Very impressive.”

She said it, but Harry could feel it radiating from all around the room; respect, wariness, keen interest. A couple of people even seemed amused by his gall, which, he supposed, was better than offended. Fear was regulated to an undertone in the room, pervasive but not overpowering.

Harry’s patronus raises its head, a huff ruffling his hair. He raised a hand to brush over its snout, feeling the warm, welcoming peace it emanated more than its fur.  It stares into his eyes for a long moment, grounding Harry, before lowering its head one last time and glimmering out of existence, purpose served. 

“Well then,” the shift in the room was abrupt. With two words the attention of the Wizengnot had been captured by a dark-haired woman, whose brown eyes were cataloguing Harry. The abrupt pull and shift of emotions might have been startling had his patronus not left him so balanced. “I might have agreed that all of our time was wasted on this day, Mr. Potter, if not for this exquisite demonstration of a mastered patronus. That it is tactile as well as spiritually corporeal is a rare and impressive feat, especially given your age.”

Beneath her intrigue and open interest, the turn of her emotions had an odd chill to them. Her fascination is detached and clinical. Her regard had the effect of sharpening the interest towards Harry all the more. Dumbledore’s emotions pulsed behind him, an odd mix of wary, vexed and rueful. 

“Perhaps, Lady Laurier, it would be most appropriate to turn our attention to how a dementor managed to make its way to Little Whinging in the first place.” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Bones clears her throat. “That is certainly a matter that needs attention. First, however, Mr. Potter’s verdict.”

“I believe that Mr. Potter’s vow constitutes irrefutable proof, and this tria—hearing should be closed.” Covey spoke up, her slip made all the more apparent by its correction. 

“So it shall be,” agreed Bones. “As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I accept into the record Harry Potter's magical vow. In combination with his subsequent proof of magic, this vow is considered irrefutable evidence. As such, all charges against the accused are dismissed with the Ministry's sincere apologies. I put forward my professional recommendation that future cases of underaged sorcery are dealt with by the bench traditionally empaneled.” She added pointedly. 

[grapenehifics]

WIP Wednesday

I don't mind admitting I've struggled* with this chapter (like the fact that I haven't updated this fic for eight months and counting isn't enough of a clue) but I am making PROGRESS and I am PROUD OF IT and so here is - once again - a little snippet to tide you/me over.

“I spent some time last night going over our options, and I’ve come up with a plan,” Anakin started, once they’d finished both eating and cleaning up from breakfast and waited for Owen and Beru to start their chores, and also waylaid Obi-Wan from trying to join them to help with the chores. Anakin had accomplished this by telling him it was ‘an urgent strategy planning meeting’.

(Anakin would make it up to him later, he told himself. They’d left the war so that Obi-Wan would never have to sit through an unwanted strategy planning meeting ever again, and here Anakin was, scheduling yet another. But once they were off this rock they’d be done. Anakin would get him a little house with a garden out back, maybe, and Obi-Wan could play in the dirt and conduct experiments on ground worms to his heart’s content while Anakin tinkered with cleaning droids or any other damn mechanical part he could dream up. At least until one or both of them got bored.)

Ahsoka quirked an eyebrow, or the spot where she would have had an eyebrow if not for the fact that Togruta don’t have eyebrows, which had to be an expression she’d picked up from all the humans she hung out with. “When? We were supposed to all be asleep last night.”

Anakin waved his hand, glossing over the fact that he’d done this and then gone to sleep, but only for two or three hours. “Doesn’t matter. Do you want to hear my plan or not?”

*'struggled' past tense makes it sound like the struggle is not ongoing. Have struggled, am struggling, will continue to struggle. But we persevere!

[faerieyuri]

emapollo yuri 😈

"what's in snackoos, anyway?"

Another day, another crime scene. Trucy was off running errands with Phoenix, so Polly was alone on the investigation today.

In the corner of the carnage, which seemed to have involved a deadly fight over a Christmas tree, Ema was pouting, as usual. More and more these days she seemed to be pouting in Polly’s vicinity, like a cat that just so happened to always be in the same room as its preferred human.

Polly approached gingerly, straightening her suit vest. Ema’s only response was a brusque nod as she shoveled another handful of Snackoos into her mouth.

“What’s in Snackoos, anyway?” Polly ventured. “You’re the only one I know who eats them.”

She looked Polly up and down, then looked away like she hadn’t just done that. “Well—” Crunch crunch crunch. “They’re—” Crunch crunch. “Kind of a chocolatey flavor, but also kind of umami? Hard to explain.”

Polly suppressed a sigh. Ema really wasn’t giving her much to work with.

Then Ema’s hand jutted out at Polly, wielding a Snackoo like a weapon. “Here. Try.”

Ema smelled really nice up this close. Floral.

Polly stooped down to arm height and opened her mouth, one eyebrow raised as if to say, Are we doing this?

Breathing audibly through her nostrils, Ema slotted the crisp into Polly’s mouth. Polly’s lower lip grazed Ema’s thumb as she pushed it in. Ema's breath hitched at the touch.

Now came the moment of truth. What did a Snackoo taste like?

Polly began to chew on the snack, which was flaky and airy but also—kind of chocolatey? But at the same time, the taste reminded her of jerky, kind of umami…was that sesame in there? It was kind of addictive, like she could eat them all day just to figure out what flavor she was detecting.

Wrinkling her nose, Polly stood. They were in each other’s space now, neither moving apart.

She would draw Ema in by her lower back in a moment, stroke her hair, brush their lips together. But first—

“Let me see that bag.” She grabbed the plastic bag from Ema’s hands and flipped it around to see the ingredients list. This would settle things once and for all.

Ingredients: wheat, natural and artificial flavors.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...”

[teddybeartoji]

i really have lost all confidence in my writing lmao i hate it

[unbearable-lightness-of-ink]

idk who needs to hear this but before you say a character's voice pitch dropped or rose by two octaves, maybe try doing that yourself. I feel like most people maybe don't realise how wide two octaves actually is. like. if your character is speaking at an average pitch of 100 Hertz, which is a little higher than the median for male voices according to one specific study (around an A below middle C concert, for other musicians) and their voice drops an. octave, they've already dropped about 20 Hz below the lowest voice's average pitch in the specific study I'm looking at. They're talking below the typical tenor vocal range and right at the bottom of the typical baritone. if they drop two octaves from that 100 Hz? that's one octave above the lowest key on a piano (not including Bösendorfers, I know I know, you music nerds). That's about 20 Hz below even a very impressive bass singer's range. there are people who can hit that, but it's basically not written into music because you simply cannot expect to have someone able to sing that note. the chances your character whose average is at 100 Hz is now talking at 55 Hz? so unlikely. I'm begging you. one octave is plausible. two is absurd.

(using male ranges bc I find people usually do this with male. characters + the line I'm currently blowing off steam about is a male character)

(the most likely case for a character with this range is a trans woman but then you'd have to convince me there's a reason she's switching registers so dramatically, since most trans women I know don't just drop back into their bass register for funsies since like the whole reason they have a high range is that they don't want to sound like that but idk you could convince me)

[patolemus]

Wip Monday

Tagged by @gege-wondering-around @dontcallpanic and probably @novasillies at some point (yes I know I'm the literal worst please forgive me). Because I can never do anything like I'm supposed to, I'm not posting on Wednesday. This is a little thing I've been toying with per @superfluffycam-blog's request, nothing concrete yet but the idea is slowly coming together. With my track record, I'll either write the whole thing in one sitting sometime soon or it'll take ages (speaking of ages the Time Travel fic Is Coming I fucking promise!! It's been a very busy month but I'm done with my classes in like two weeks and then I just have to get through finals. I'll be back to post deranged shit about sterek after that)

The house is quiet. It’s always quiet these days, his dad away at the station for what feels like one long infinite shift, and Stiles running around town with a bunch of supernaturally inclined creatures at odd hours. On the nights he’s not running from certain death, Stiles keeps to his bedroom, headphones on and blaring music loud enough his eardrums hurt because at least that way he can pretend that’s the reason he doesn’t hear any noise around the house.

It wasn’t always like this. Stiles remembers a time when the house was full of noise, all the time. The low tunes playing on the radio in the kitchen, the occasional clang of pans against wooden spoons, the buzz of the television broadcasting the latest baseball game. Small giggles and loud shrieks of laughter, soft humming in the living room as his parents slow danced in the evening.

No one hums or slow dances anymore.

Stiles’ footsteps sound way too loud in the otherwise silent house. He drops his backpack by the stairs to pick up on his way to his room later, and beelines for the kitchen. There is a lone plate sitting on the drying rack, the only sign that his dad has come home sometime during the day while he was away at school. Stiles is not naive enough to believe that to be a coincidence. He and his dad haven’t crossed paths since… ah, Stiles doesn’t even know anymore. Between the werewolves and the hunters and the kanimas and the fucking crazy that has become his life, the days seem to be going by way too fast to keep count of them. These days, Stiles only has space in his head for the dates of the full moons.

He gets started on dinner before working on his homework. Stiles makes food for two, even though he knows his dad probably won’t come home to eat it in favor of getting something from the diner—a salad, most likely, because he has all of his dad’s usual haunts bribed and monitored, as well as all of his deputies, to make sure they don’t sell his dad anything that might make his health go sideways. Stiles knows most of them merely indulge him because of their own affection towards him, but Stiles isn’t above using that to make his dad stays as healthy as possible.

On the off chance the Sheriff does come home tonight, though—a slim, slim chance, Stiles wants there to be food for him to eat. He doesn't want to give his dad another reason to be disappointed, another reason to be mistrustful. Stiles still feels cold all over when he remembers the resignation on his dad's eyes, how he'd said he didn't know who Stiles was anymore.

It’s... it's been a tough year.

And I'm afraid that's all I've got for you. I've always loved the stories that explore Stiles and the Sheriff's complex relationship, how Claudia's death altered their dynamic to the point where it was hard to figure out who was the parent and who was the child, how Stiles became this autonomous, independent character we see in canon at the age of 10 years old. This is, in theory, meant to be a character study centered on that topic. Will I succeed? Who knows!! Not me. Gently tagging @dontcallpanic @salty-fryingpan @endwersed @novasillies @hedwig221b and @gege-wondering-around