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possessingtheproperspirit · 3 years

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Fic writer interview

Thanks for the tag @thequibblah, @alrightevanns and @sunshine-marauders! :) I feel like this should be subtitled 'Okay, But We Didn't Ask For Your Life Story'.

Name: Cer (or cesays on here, or cells55 on AO3, because why have the same username when it could be much more confusing).

Fandoms I write for: Marauders, although I have vague ideas for Golden Trio-era stuff, it's just not quite devastating enough for me ;)

Two-shot: I haven't written a two-shot for this fandom, just a few one-shots and a multichapter. I like one, three, or multi. Don't ask me why because I have no idea.

Most popular multichapter: Not a lot of competition, ha, but The Price We Pay is my multichapter fic. Nine chapters in so far!

Worst part of writing: Having the time, energy and ideas all aligning together. When I have the inspiration, that's usually when I'm exhausted and/or too busy.

How you choose your titles: For almost all of my fics and for chapter titles, I usually get to the stage of posting the work on AO3 and then think, oh bugger, it needs a title. Lyrics are a classic, or a word/phrase that has thematic links. The one exception was Not Waving But Drowning, the first HP fic I wrote which I had a title for after writing about 500 words. (If you were thinking, you know what, I really want to read Remus Lupin slowly cracking under the strain of intense grief, his friends suspecting him and the pressure of the war as October 31st creeps steadily nearer, check it out! It's my favourite of the ones I've written, but then, I am an angst monster).

Do you outline: It varies. Most one-shots just sort of happen when I get a fraction of a scene in my head and it all just flows from there. Apart from Expectant, but that was because I thought I should probably consider what emotional points I wanted to hit for each month of Lily's pregnancy instead of winging it like I usually do. For The Price We Pay, I got to chapter 3 and then decided I should probably do an outline, but I haven't stuck to it entirely and I don't plan very many chapters ahead. I just jot down the key focus of each section of a chapter, or sometimes, just write "?????" and hope that inspiration hits me later. It's kind of a miracle I ever get anything done.

Ideas I probably won’t get to but it would be nice: I have this idea of Harry, post-BOH, in therapy, percolating in my brain. I'm not sure I'll ever write it, but it seems interesting and fun in theory!

Callouts: Cer, I feel like literally no one but you cares that you started the last sentence in the same way as you're starting this one, just chill out and WRITE SOMETHING.

Best writing habits: I have a notebook that I keep on my bedside table which has really helped me get more stuff down. Something about actually writing by hand feels freer, in a strange way, although later typing it up and finding that it was not as much as I thought it was is a bit irritating, ha.

Spicy tangential opinion: Eeeeek I don't know that I have one? At least not one that's different to what I've seen from other people. Perfect characters are dull characters.

TAGGING: @efkgirldetective, @mppmaraudergirl, @scriibble-fics if you haven't done it already! :)

#fic #writing #jily

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scriibble-fics · 3 years

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Magic

Excerpt from a new Jily seventh-year one-shot that has ballooned dramatically, to the surprise of no one. There's more to come!

As January slips by, days pass without a kiss at minimum, although they’re few and far between. On the other hand, they don’t waste a single day without some form of verbal interaction—laughter in between classes, or banter at mealtimes, or bickering at prefect meetings that almost always serves as a precursor to snogging. Increasingly, new activities join these pastimes that have somehow become cherished. Lily grows closer to his friends, and James makes quick inroads with hers, although sometimes her mates look a little too flattered by his attention for her liking. He requests her help in Potions, and they spend long hours together in the dungeons accomplishing more than just snogging, although that comes with the territory as well. In turn, he insists on aiding her in Transfiguration after Sirius offers continued help, and the way Sirius winks at her when James turns his back has her convinced that he’s pleased for reasons beyond escaping the extra work of tutoring her. Truly, Sirius surprises her more and more as the days melt by, because he easily detaches himself from James’ side to allow for the quiet, private conversations that begin to happen organically between them in the common room, and he even distracts her friends so it can happen. None of her friends complain about this new arrangement that secures Sirius’ attention, but Marlene seems perhaps the happiest of all.

She and James have talked before these conversations, of course. They’ve been housemates for years, after all, and he’s never shied away from paying her attention that she typically hasn’t wanted. Yet most of that attention has erred on the side of either endless banter or endless bickering, and the quiet, fireside chats that happen with more and more regularity feel worlds apart from either of those things. Sure, they still laugh and they still argue, although the laughs are quieter, and more smiles than harsh words accompany the arguments. He watches her plait her hair or rub her neck while they talk, his eyes soft as they discuss their respective career aspirations, and trade gossip about fellow students, and whisper secrets about their friends, and recount memories of the past and hopes for the future. He tells her about his brilliant potioneer father and brilliant herbologist mother, and she can almost picture them as he talks, his father’s spectacles and messy hair and his mother’s rigid posture and kind face. In turn, he asks probing questions about her own family, until she reveals bit by bit about her jolly, constantly-teasing dad and loving caretaker of a mum. Eventually, she even tells him about Petunia too, although it comes even more difficultly than any mention of her parents.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister,” he says one particularly chilly night as wind whips past the common room windows. She feels her shoulders shift outside of her control, and he catches the subtle change. He always does. “What?”

She’s trying, just like she’d promised Marlene, and it doesn’t come easily. “I’m sure her friends have said that to her about me.”

He takes that in for a moment. “Maybe,” he says eventually. “She’d be stupid not to claim you, though. Besides—” It sounds like he’s carefully counting each word. “Family isn’t about blood. It’s a choice. I mean, look at Sirius.”

He means it metaphorically, not literally, but they both look towards where Sirius lounges nearby, laughing with his friends and hers. It’s late, and particularly late for a weekday, so Sirius’ laughter sounds especially loud in the near-empty common room. Watching him throw his head back in amusement, it’s nearly impossible not to smile with him, and James does.

She doesn’t. If anything, Sirius’ laughter triggers something even sadder inside her, and for reasons she doesn’t fully understand, not at first. “It’s not fair,” she says quietly, words spoken without thought, and it all clicks together abruptly, like a radio station suddenly in tune. Her throat burns, and she clears it as she looks towards the fire. “Sorry. Sorry, I—” Her explanation falters and then dies in her mouth. There are probably words express it all—the sudden clarity in Sirius’ constant gregarious nature that he uses to win people over like his life depends upon it, her own people-pleasing ways, the ease of their bond that she’s never understood before—but trying to find them hurts too much to even contemplate past a couple of painful seconds.

James reaches for her hand, which has clenched into a fist atop her lap. Somehow, the slow stroke of his fingers eases the tension that has turned her knuckles white. Her hand opens, and his thumb caresses each of her knuckles as color returns. “Save your apologies for the next time you piss me off,” he says, and he turns her hand over in her lap.

She watches as he presses their palms together, his fingers dwarfing hers, and her mouth smiles before she catches herself at it. “It seems like I’ve been pissing you off less lately.”

He returns her smile, his fingers lacing through hers in a brief, warm squeeze. “It’s hard to get mad at you when you’re getting me off all the time.” Something shifts in his voice, something that squeezes her insides.

“Same, but don’t take that as a challenge to piss me off.”

He chuckles softly. “You know me too well. Well, I’m glad we finally figured out how to get you to tolerate me.”

His hand remains locked in hers, his thumb once again slowly brushing over her knuckles. She’s not sure which is more difficult to look at: their hands, fitted so neatly together, or his face, which radiates more warmth than even moments before. “Tolerate,” she repeats, skeptical. That hardly sums up the things he does to her body—and to her mind, and, increasingly, to her heart—on a regular basis. “The same goes for you.”

“Evans.” Her name comes out chidingly, and he waits until she looks at him before he goes on. “I don’t just tolerate you. And I’d—” He takes in a deep breath, eyes flickering back and forth between each of hers. “Your sister is stupid,” he says again, but it sounds entirely different somehow. “Anyone would be lucky to claim you. I told you—you’re magic.”

It’s not the first time he’s declared as much to her since the train, but it’s the first time that it sounds like something other than heated talk spoken against her mouth or skin. For the first time, she catches a glimmer of what he means—or a glimmer of what it means to her, at least, since she has no way of knowing if he feels the same. Something stretches between them, a moment that’s brief but heavy and undeniable, and she wants to look away, but she can’t. She’s suspended in time, held entirely in place on the other side of his gaze.

It’s magic, what holds her there, a magic unlike any she’s ever discovered.

“Thank you.” Her voice comes out soft and a little small. She sounds nothing like herself.

He doesn’t call her on it. He moves closer to her, shifting towards the edge of his armchair until their knees touch, and his other hand joins where he’s still holding hers atop her lap. “I’m rather good at palm reading, you know,” he says, and the magic between them snaps as the fireplace crackles, and so abruptly that she jumps a little. Before she can blink, things settle back into familiar patterns, from the lazy smile on his face to the teasing in his tone to her own immediate banter in return.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. You dropped out of Divination fourth year. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Flattered you remember my movements so closely.” He releases her hand so he can pull it into his own lap, and he traces a fingertip along her palm, drama exuding from every pore. “If you’re too scared to know your future—worried who might be in it, maybe—”

“Go on, then.”

The future—as told by James—holds things she expects and things that she doesn’t.

She expects him to predict a long life. She expects him to predict a continued close relationship with her friends. She expects him to predict a prosperous career in brewing, because she’s confided those dreams in him. He tells her all of those things as he tickles her palm with twisting caresses.

Yet she doesn’t expect his long description of her handsome future husband, a man who will allegedly propose many times before she’ll finally accept. She also doesn’t expect his recounting of all the children she’ll have, enough for an entire Quidditch team.

She’s laughing by the end, and he’s laughing with her. “That’s too many kids,” she says. “I’m not doing that to my body, and I can’t imagine that this wonderful husband of mine—”

“He’s handsome too, don’t forget.”

“Right. I can’t imagine that this wonderful, handsome husband of mine will expect it of me.” She wiggles her fingers. “Look again, will you?”

He obliges with all the seriousness of a seer, and his hair falls in front of his face as he bends in concentration. “Maybe not quite that many, but at least two, maybe three. It’s a lonely existence, being an only child. Your husband, he’ll feel pretty strongly about that.”

Thank god he’s looking at her hand. Thank god he’s looking at her hand and not her face, because—

All banter and faux predictions aside, she’s tempted to start practicing for those babies with him right then and there.

Accidentally or on purpose, she’s falling in love with him, and it’s all his fault.

#jily #jilyfic #james potter #lily evans #marauders #marauders fanfiction #scriibble has no chill #and needs to stfu up and finish EA #but inspiration is a fickle beast

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scriibble-fics · 3 years

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Rating: M [for inexplicit sexual scenes, because this isn't PWP! WILD.]

Summary: On an ordinary Tuesday in October of 1975, James Potter passes Lily Evans a note. She has no way of knowing it, of course, but it’s the first note of thousands that will pass between them in the years to come. [companion-ish piece to Eighteen Again, but can be read separately.]

#jily #jilyfic #james potter #lily evans #eighteen again #but actually eighteen #and younger #and somehow canon divergent from EA at the same time??#scriibble has no chill

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scriibble-fics · 3 years

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Title: Magic

Rating: M

Word count: currently just under 5k; slated to run about 5-7 parts and 40kish words

Summary: The first time Lily Evans and James Potter kiss, it’s an accident. Admittedly, that accident is all her fault, but it’s an accident just the same. [featuring FWB Jily, mutual pining, and idiots in love--because it's Jily, after all]

continue reading on ff.net

#jily #jilyfic #james potter #lily evans #marauders #marauders fanfiction #scriibble has no chill

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scriibble-fics · 3 years

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Title: Magic

Rating: M

Word count: currently just under 42k; slated to run 6 parts and 60kish words (lol the projected word count went up recently IT'S FINE)

continue reading on ff.net

#jily #jilyfic #james potter #lily evans #marauders #marauders fanfiction #my fav chapter of the fic #scriibble has no chill #like even less than usual #because it's a 'two fic update' kind of day

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scriibble-fics · 3 years

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Untitled: Grindelwald Wins Canon Divergence

Excerpt from the Grindelwald Wins Jily canon divergence fic I'm toying with. I always feel like there's more romance and smut than ~world building~ in my fics, so this is an attempt to rectify that with world building and romance and smut.

On an average Friday in October, at eight in the evening, James Potter’s life changes forever.

Further, all that occurs that day, and all that will occur in the future—good and bad—is Sirius Black’s fault.

After all, Sirius had refused to step outside to sign for the packages for delivery to Potters’ Potions Plus. He hadn’t even offered a very good excuse, just some vague muttering of taking inventory in the stockroom, when in reality, James had never seen him attempt so much as a glance at the books in the seven years they’d spend working for his parents. No, even as he’d watched Sirius’ graceful, loping form disappear from behind the store’s polished counter, he’d known that Sirius had avoided answering the door’s buzzer because he hadn’t wanted to fall into conversation with Alexei, the delivery wizard from Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary who always attempted an upsell. He’d left James to it instead, just as he had every week for seven years.

The delivery should have gone just like it had every other week for seven years, and it does, until suddenly it doesn’t.

“Quiet out,” Alexei notes as James skims the thick stack of parchment on the clipboard in front of him. “You ever see the alley this quiet?”

James grunts in return, eyes fixed to the tiny numbers assigned to the prices column. Working alongside his mum, he’s long-since grown used to the way that she can add numbers in her head with the speed of magic. His own mental math comes along slower, and requires more concentration.

Alexei had obviously expected more of a reaction. “Even the shutters are closed most places,” he goes on, bald head tipped back to stare up towards the towering shops that surround them, some surpassing six or seven stories. “And the birds aren’t making a sound. Have you noticed?”

Truly? No. But he’d been stuck inside all day, catering to clientele and doing his best to copy his dad’s easy-going nature and his mum’s head for business, just as he’d spent most days since graduating Hogwarts. A headache had started to form that morning, nestled between his brows, and hadn’t let up since.

“I passed a great mob of people up near the Cauldron.” James hears rather than sees Alexei scratch his beard, his nails scraping across the rough hairs. “Looked like—well, you know how it is, James. Looked like a bit of a rough crowd. Some of it was just Grindel’s Gang, but I’d wager there was a mudblood or two or three mixed up there too, and maybe some others. It’s so hard to say. People go masked just about everywhere these days, so it’s hard to know who fits in where. It’s part of the reason people choose your mum and dad’s shop—people know who they’re doing business with. That’s important.”

“Alexei.” The sharpness in his tone surprises even James, and he lifts a hand to his glasses, pushing them up so he can rub at the corners of his aching eyes. He takes a breath, intent on tempering his tone. Behind him, the tiny shop bell in the doorway of Potters’ Potions Plus tinkles in the faint, cool fall breeze. “Sorry. I’m just trying to concentrate here.”

“Oh, sure, sure. Don’t let me bother you.”

Easier said than done.

“Do you hear that?” Alexei asks a second later, and James’ fingers contract painfully around the clipboard in front of him until his knuckles turn white. “No, seriously, James. Do you hear that?” Only the note of sheer panic in Alexei’s voice inspires James to look up.

He hears it all a moment later.

Screams. Faint, and echoing fainter still, but screams nonetheless. They’d formed a common fixture in Diagon Alley, and an even more common fixture in nearby Knockturn Alley, but had increased even more steadily of late.

“Go,” he tells Alexei immediately, thrusting the clipboard into his arms. “Get the delivery inside and then go, get out of here before—”

Alexei all but throws the clipboard back in return. “I can’t,” he says, his voice cracking. A loud gust of wind bursts through the narrow streets all at once, and the sheets of parchment stand straight up, straining as if to break free. Over Alexei’s head, James watches a huge cloud of smoke join the wind, black as coal and reeking of death. “You have—I need you to sign for it, show that I delivered it—otherwise—”

It’s all almost laughable, Alexei’s insistence and the exchange that follows, those motions of business that they both go through despite the ever-growing closeness of chaos. Truly, James’ mum would have been proud. Or horrified. Or both.

“I don’t have a quill—”

“Here—” Alexei produces a crumpled quill from his pocket—self-inking, praise Godric—one with the feathered tip bent painfully to one side. In several short, jerking strokes, James scrawls his signature to the bottom of the final page. The quill flies through the air as he tries to pass it back to Alexei, in his hand one moment and flickering through the air the next. It vanishes as if Disapparating.

Speaking of Disapparating—

“Shit, shit, shit—” Alexei speaks not for the quill that had fled his grasp, but with a glance towards the sky, as if he feels a change in the air that far surpasses the dark storm clouds that swiftly overtake the promising blue sky. “Shit—do you feel that? It’s—”

“Disapparation wards.” James licks his lips as the cloying smell of smoke drifts ever closer, followed by screams so shrill and piercing that the hair on the back of his neck erupts to stand on end. “Yes, just—go. I’ll get it all inside. You just—”

Alexei doesn’t need more prompting. Lowering his head, he charges off without another word, the clipboard secured under one arm and his face set into a firm grimace.

Although he runs in the opposite direction of the chaos—of the smoke, of the screams, of the wind, of it all—James never sees him again. He isn’t the first person in James’ life to disappear into the night and never return, and he won’t be the last.

Under Grindelwald’s regime, things are just like that.

#break #jily #jilyfic #james potter #marauders #marauders fanfiction #scriibble has no chill #welcome to my current when I get stuck in Eighteen Again #a very very early draft #when did present tense become my thing

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