#fit that into a concise sentence

[ask-the-prose]

Step 0 of Writing a Story

Everyone has a different method of planning and writing a story, whether it’s a novel, novella, short story, fanfiction, or anything else. The steps can look different for everyone and go in many different orders depending on what works for you.

But I want to talk about Step 0: developing the premise.

Many of us will use story premise and story concept interchangeably, but they’re quite different. The premise takes your concept and focuses it, including the basic bare-bones of the plot. A premise should have a few things: a protagonist, their motivation, obstacles they will face, and a setting.

The Protagonist

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve discussed characters and how to build a character arc; this comes into play here. Your protagonist is your main character, and the story revolves around them and their actions, motivations, and goals.

Your protagonist does not need to be the “hero,” “likable,” or “relatable.” They can be anything you would like them to be, so long as the story centers on them and their actions. Who is the story about? What is their name, and who are they at their most basic?

It’s important to know what the protagonist’s motivations are regarding their goals. What is their goal, and why do they want/need to achieve it?

The Setting

The setting is where the story takes place. This part can be a lot of fun! But when writing your premise, be sure to keep it concise. Worldbuilding comes later, and the premise is mostly about the plot.

What is most important to know about your setting? Is the world magical? Are there zombies? Condense it down to a sentence or two.

The Obstacles

The bread and butter of your premise comes down to what’s stopping your protagonist from achieving their goal immediately. As romance writers put it: why can’t they be together now?

The obstacle can be an institution, a person, or a group of people. The conflict between the protagonist and the obstacle is the core conflict of the story. Condense this struggle down to a sentence or two.

Drafting Your Premise

Now it’s time to put it all together. Some tips for drafting a strong premise:

Cut out extra words - imagine you’re trying to fit your premise into a tweet. What can you cut without losing meaning?

Use active voice

Leave room for curiosity

Your premise can be your guiding light for the rest of your story, from outlining to drafting to editing. The premise is there to help you build your story concept into a fully-fleshed project. Your premise should be short and to the point, something you can explain in an elevator.

– Indy

#writing advice #writing tips #writing resources #writeblr #writing help #writing a premise #writblr #writing community #writing guide #novel writing #story writing #writers on tumblr

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

12 - The Cost of Our Sins

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 10.2k

Warnings: Angst/hurt comfort, slow burn, traumatic and disturbing imagery, gore, physical abuse, confinement and restraints, reference/allusions to rape, trauma response, torture, suicidal ideation, past character death

Notes: I am so sorry for..well...pretty much everything, cus the horror show does not end at the last chapter strap in because part 3 starts now. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here.

Numb is all you felt, a radiating sensation of death that sat through your body still on it’s side. Your eyes could not open, as you felt the pooling of blood in your stomach. The warmth soaked feeling where a son once lay inside you. You had looked into Robb’s eyes as yours faded with him. You had gone together, and now you lay there with the seconds of an awoken mind. Eyes fluttering open was not that of the scene you died, but something worse.

It was fire. Blood and fire all around as you barley could open your eyes long enough to see what your sins had cost you. Was it the Seven, the Old Gods, or the fire god your father had found in that sought to punish you? You lay looking through bars that caged you at the hell before you, it was your punishment for all crimes you had found in. 

The world before this ended you and Robb Stark together and somewhere in this hell your gods decided that you could not reunite until you were given fair just sentence for your sins. Push through this, you thought, let the gods do with you as they wish and they will allow you to return in the veil to him, to him and your son. 

Chanting that in your ears sounded like they were moving underwater, you felt too heavy to lift your head to look. Your body burned and bled still and your muscles could not move but that of your eyes to the blur around you. The chanting grew louder and louder as a group rounded a corner of wherever you were brought too, and it was your husband that they called too. A chanting of King in the North, over and over as you watched his own punishment. The gods were far more cruel then you ever imagined as you watched what they forced you to atone in.

It was Robb, but propped up against something, the black outfit was the very one you recalled your living self, lovingly dressing him in. And the shine in his bright blue eyes as they looked over you with as much love as you had in your heart. But it was soaked in blood as you lay, and not the face of your husband. 

Instead, the sight of The Young Wolf was that as you were The Silent Stag. His head bloodied, but like it had formed into that of a giant direwolf, like he turned into his very companion in Grey Wind as it looked propped on his body. The gods, forcing him to live what he was called and you as your own as you lay in a choking cry unable to find the strength to speak or cry to him through the blood in your mouth. 

His sight was mocked by the demonic creatures you could barley see around him, before the water in your eyes blurred him, before the fading came once more. You accepted the horror that he did not deserve. This was for your sins. 

Let the gods do this, and once more you would wake. In the realms beyond the living, Robb at your side with an arm around you, as you held your son, little Ned. You promised to always be together. 

The gods would punish you, and allow you to be together once more. You and Robb just had to endure this horror, and you would finally be together again. 

That was all you had to do to get back to him. 

Skies were dim as you ventured further into the lands, leaving a drab feeling blanketing over the land that fit the state of mind you lived in. According to the rumblings in the men, you had been in and out of conciseness for almost a fortnight, leaving you to assume that the last of the summer sun had died out and only the dim of autumn remained. Not that you missed the sun, the last time it shined in any way that you could appreciate was so far off you bared not thinking about it. 

Watching the men around you act like normal had made you angry in those first few days you woke up, but now it was all meaningless to try and keep that energy up, you had none left in you really. The small cage off in the distance was your home for a bit, mostly a place you were tossed to wait and see if you would ever wake up, but then once you had? They kept you shoved in there just to keep you from lashing out. 

The first day one of the men had approached you to give you water, only to slide his hand into the bars as your hands were tightly bound. He still wore an ugly dressing over the mark where you bit him, your mouth still stained somewhat with blood from how hard you dug your teeth in. After that, multiple men had to drag you out and hold you down so they could gag you which had stayed on you for the most part, including now. 

But you were too exhausted to fight, your face and skin were constantly flush and hot with sweat as your head grew more fuzzy and dizzy each day. Once it was determined you were indeed alive and not going to bleed out, apparently some kind of infection set in just to make you more pathetic. Currently as camp was made for the night you were granted some freedom. 

The men assigned to watch you noting that you were mostly docile, leaning your head against the iron bars with a distant and dispondant look, to weak to even roll your eyes at their comments. You had been allowed to be let out, and brought to a tree where you now sat tied up against. What a sight you must have been, flush and sweaty, covered in grime to the point it matted in your hair, and still wearing the very dress you had been that night, still soaked in dried blood. 

It was a living nightmare, your dreams flashing in a repeating horror with the strings of music that would forever haunt you, only to awake to the men all finding it in their cold hearts, to sing it outloud. You wondered if they even knew other songs, or if it was just all a sick game to torment you as they dragged you with them. If one more of them sung that Lannister song, you were going to find a way to free your hands just to cut off your own ears. 

Perhaps it was the fever in your head, but you had no sense of what to feel anymore. It was so twisted all wrong, and you had not the heart to find it’s truth in front of all these people. Not them, not after what they’ve done. 

Your eyes flickered up in a painful glare as footsteps approached, and the figure kneeling in front of you raised an eyebrow at your state. “Now, my lady, if I take this off are you going to behave, or will you need a refresher?” His hand pointing to your eye. Right, that must be just adding to your state, likely bruised by this point when he had hit you hard across the face after you kicked away the food he brought you. 

You wanted nothing from Roose Bolton, but he insisted on finding ways to keep you alive. A true mockery that felt now. Your stomach burned where the slices refused to heal or fade. You looked off to the side dejectedly, and he took that was an answer. 

Pulling the fabric down from between your teeth you bit your tongue and continued to not look in his direction. “It’s been almost a fortnight since you’ve eaten, and days since you’ve had any water. If I’m going to keep you alive, we’re going to have to fix that problem.” 

“Then don’t keep me alive. Wouldn’t be the first time.” You barley recognized your voice, it was hoarse and so rough that your throat screamed at you to douse it in water and smooth it down with honey to ease the pain. Tearing your eyes back up to him as your head lulled to rest back against the bark you raised your eyebrows at him in challenge. 

His ability to keep calm in any situation no longer was a point of impressive resolve, but an angering fester in your stomach at his lack of humanity. “It was not a matter of personal affairs, just politics, my lady.” 

Your breath cracked out a single laugh that almost made you cough. “Where is the utility in keeping me alive, when you sure tried your best to do the opposite?” You couldn’t ignore the burning inside of you, it was as if you’d pull your dress up and see a blackness toxifying around what was left. 

“This is neither the time nor place to discuss such matters. Not in your fragile state.” Huffing another cracked laughter you asked him what he even wanted. “Right now I want to ensure I can get myself, my men, and even you into the Dreadfort in one piece. When we arrive I will have our maester treat you, then we can speak more.” 

You felt dizzy even just sitting up against a tree like this, the air was obviously getting colder judging by the state of dress going around but you neither were covered in anyway to help, nor did you really feel it. It was as if you were in the dark swampiness of the Crannogmen lands but instead of a misty air it was humid and sweltering like a Dornish sun. All you could muster was a huff. 

Leaning forward with a skin of something, he opened the cap and took a sip before holding it up with an expectant look. “It will be far easier to get us past the Ironborn if I have you on a horse instead of dragging you around in a cage. But I need to know you will cooperate if I do. I’ll even keep let you stay ungagged.”  

Leaning forward with the skin once more before he was uncomfortably close to your face, “I wouldn’t test me further, my lady. The only thing keeping these men from raping you every night is my order, and I’m quite sure in this state you wouldn’t survive as many as have talked about it. So either it’s me, or I leave you now to the mercy of my men.”

There was no place in arguing, you had nothing to fight back with. Jaw clenched as you fought back the angry pounding in your heart, you nodded. Roose seemingly satisfied enough that he gently placed the skin to your mouth. The water down your throat felt so soothing that it made your insides wish to cry, but you had no energy for it. So you let him give you the water, and come morning maybe you would feel less like a floating bundle of delusions. 

He left you alone after that, but just as he said none came over to you. You think there were groups that had their eyes on you, but it was difficult to see. In the dark, the blurriness of your vision only let you see what was in front of your face and everything else was blurs of shapes and fire. 

Late into the night, you fell asleep once more. The only thing which came to you, was the sight of Roose plunging the knife he struck you with into the chest of Robb and the strings of music that had played only seconds before it all. That’s all you saw anymore, and you couldn’t remember if you ever dreamed in any way before that night, all you saw and heard was those two things again and again. 

One man, dark eyes with a creeping look that would once have made you on edge was the one who fetched you come morning. He spoke some, expected nothing in return. Pointing a knife at your unresponsive face as he threw out, “You run or hit me, and I’ll knock that pretty face around enough to leave a mark that’ll stay ugly. Got it?” Merely untying you did nothing, since your hands were still bound tight enough to keep you from struggling them from behind. 

Yanking you up to your feet he walked you though the camp to where the horses were stood ready to go. Another man next to what seemed to be his, smirked as he nodded to you like a silent object. “Know it’s been a rough few years when even this one looks good ‘nuff to make a man jealous.” 

Knocking him in the arm, he moved with him to hoist you up onto the horse, your vision spinning drastically at the movement with no way to steady yourself. The first dark eyed man, Locke, climbed up behind you, taking your bound hands into his grip and yanking you back to hiss in your ear. “Be smart now, lass. There’s nothing round us but Ironborn and best bet no one’s gonna protect your honour once you’re alone with them. You gonna be a smart girl?” Nodding with a clenched jaw, he hummed satisfied. 

Shoving you off of him before the rest of the men all begun to take off. They’d have to take the day to sneak past the bordered scouts and by then, if they pushed hard they could make it to the Dreadfort by next daybreak. You couldn’t possibly wonder what awaited you there, but at the minimum, threat of death was far from any worry in your mind. 

Waking up for good had felt like a new kind of death, a confusion that tore you up and threatened to swallow you whole. Making no sense at first, you had died you knew it. Or, you thought you did. Not a thing had felt like the way you were fading and yet you were here now. You dared not think of the memory of fire and chanting you were so sure as a deathly torment of the gods. If you thought of that, you might bringing up the only thing in your stomach, of water and bile and you refused to look at yourself in anyway. The red staining your dress was there until the mercy of new clothes might be granted if ever. 

You had no right to be here, you had promised him. You and Robb promised the other that it would be until your last day, together. Not one without the other, you found your fate dying beside him but yet you were alive and the memories of him would paint before your mind like cries in the night. 

Something was quite wrong inside you, but you felt like there wasn’t enough awareness in you to see what it was or what was missing. All you knew is that you were trapped in this memory of that night, and you couldn’t see a single thing in the world around you except that and here. 

If there was a world and people that existed besides this nightmare, you could not find them. 

“So you admit you murdered Qhorin Halfhand?” 

Standing in the main hall before three men, having found nothing right when Jon awoke. Lord Commander Mormont as Sam said, dead. Murdered in a mutiny, and leaving him to hope that he learned enough from the Old Bear to get through to the rest. 

Jon saw nothing but conflict in his actions, and as he stood there now it was clear that it didn’t matter what they thought of him, it mattered that he make them understand what no one else seemed to truly get. Neither side got it, it seemed. “I didn’t murder him.” 

Ser Alliser Thorne looked him down with the same contempt he always had, and if he had his way without question he would’ve ended Jon then and there the second he rode through the gates. “No? You put your sword through a brother of the Night’s Watch. What do you call that?” 

“He wanted me to kill him.” 

Lord Janos Slynt sat to the left, leaning partially across the table with the same puffy and slime filled smugness he always held. Full of respect for none but his own reputation, and yet he was here down in the icy ends of the world like the rest of them. “The bastard son of a traitor. What would you expect?” 

The man was lucky Jon wasn’t as young and brash as he was in his first months here. He tried putting a knife through Ser Alliser in a rage for a similar comment once upon a time. Instead, he kept his composure and attention on the later man and Maester Aemon listening intently to his right. “The Halfhand believed our only chance to stop Mance was to get a man inside his army.” 

Ser Alliser interrupting with a gritted roughness that Jon could sympathize with. “Don’t talk about the Halfhand as if you knew him. He was my brother.”

They were all brothers now, even you, Jon thought. Ser Alliser certainly wasn’t a fan of Jon, nor he in return but he knew losing a brother wasn’t easy and it certainly didn’t make Jon feel like he was doing the right thing when he killed him. He agreed with the man himself to do it, and he agreed with why, but he still put his sword through the Halfhand. His first true kill and that would forever be a bloodstain on his hands. “Then you’d know he’d do anything to defend the Wall. The free folk would have boiled him alive, but letting me kill him-”

Slynt had the gall to laugh, like there was anything in Jon’s entire existence anymore that even could give the slightest bit of amusement. “The free folk? Listen to him, he even talks like a wildling now.” 

The rage for a minute spilled out of his mouth as Jon raised his voice to him, “Aye, I talk like a wildling. I ate with the wildlings, I climbed the wall with the wildlings, I-” There was that wave again. One that made him feel uncomfortable and bordering on a guilty kind of dirty that he couldn’t scrub away no matter how hard. It was there and they would all only see one thing, but it didn’t feel anything the way they were going to. 

Then Jon thought of you, and it just made it all the worse. But he had to be honest in some regards, he wasn’t going to get through to these men by lying. He had to just say it the only way any would care or believe him with. “I laid with a wildling girl.” 

“You admit to breaking your vows, then?” 

If that’s what they were going to focus on, what would it even take to convince them to take him seriously on anything else. He did break his vows, but not willingly, and not with the only person who deserved to have them broken for. 

Janos Slynt continued his petty tirade that Jon was growing increasingly annoyed with. “The law is law, the boy must die.” And what law did you break to get here, my lord? What had you done to find yourself from City Watch Commander to the Night’s Watch, what mercy were you shown to not die for your crimes, Jon thought. 

Maester Aemon however, seemed to care not for where they saw fit to debate Jon on. “If we beheaded every ranger who lay with a girl, the Wall would be manned by headless men.” 

Ser Alliser trying to argue, “There’s a difference between sneaking off to the Mole’s Town brothel and sleeping with the enemy.” Somehow Jon knew that telling him the only alternative was death, wouldn’t exactly give him any more leniency, but he like Aemon, had no time for this. 

“Aye, there is a difference. Sneaking out to a brothel doesn’t give you detailed information about their enemy plans and numbers. And while we sit here debating which rules I broke, Mance Rayder marches on the wall with an army of a hundred thousand.” 

They tried to protest that was impossible, but he’d seen it. He had walked through that camp and felt nothing but a building dread for what was to come of any of this. “He’s united the Thenns, the Hornfoots, the Ice-River Clans. He has giants fighting for him.” 

The degree to which Jon was getting fed up with Janos Slynt was immeasurable. The man laughed while looking at the other two who didn’t find anything funny about it. “Giants?” 

Jaw tight, he looked to the waste of air with a barley held back lack of respect on his face. “Have you ever been beyond the Wall, ser?” 

There was that huff of pride in his face once more. “I commanded the City Watch of King’s Landing, boy.” 

“And now you’re here. You must not have been very good at your job.” Jon would have no way of knowing it, but another voice with serious eyes and a dismissive snark echoed in Janos Slynt’s ears. 

The voice of a woman who he had no reasonable way of knowing meant a single thing to dark curly haired man in front of them. The girl had spent many of her days on the council questioning his capabilities, and insulting him all the same as this one. But Jon ignored his outrage as she always would.

“There’s a band of wildlings south of the Wall already led by Tormund Giantsbane. I killed their warg and three others, they shot me full of arrows. Their orders are to attack Castle Black from the south while Mance hits it from the north. Their signal for the attack will be a bonfire, Mance said it would be the greatest fire the North has ever seen. That’s the truth. All the truth.” 

They didn’t execute him, or at least not that day Jon thought to himself. As he slept that night though, he still saw you dying on the floor in your own blood. Sam had tried asking him about the girl, about Ygritte. Especially since he now had Gilly in his life but Jon knew there was no comparing. From what he could tell, Gilly had more of a strange sheltered life then any of them, and she was nothing like the aggressive and hypocritical anger of the wildling girl Jon had travelled with. 

But he didn’t want to talk about Ygritte, he didn’t want to talk about having to send his only protection in Ghost away just to save his cover from that of death. Didn’t want to talk about what he was forced to do and how he tricked himself into thinking it was all fine just to cope with it. 

Only a few times did Sam try to gently bring up the other, but Jon shot it down every single time. He already felt pain and anger about it, about Robb. Jon certainly didn’t want to talk about you. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

Jon had a job to do, and he was haunted enough in his dreams of your death to have Sam try and comfort him about it. Besides, he didn’t even have Ghost now. He hadn’t seen him since sending him off and all he could remember in his waking hours, was the two of you sitting in front of the Weirwood. Ghost still tiny curled up in your lap as you sat in his arms. 

He was losing everything it seemed, but he’d be damned if he lost this place, the only thing that served from the gods to provide Jon with any kind of purpose. In this coming war, or the one foreboding against them in the distant colds of the far North. 

The Dreadfort was a befitting name you supposed. It stood tall in what looked like the middle of nowhere, cleared land all around the high walls, that build up on the inside to the highest fort in the dead centre with edges at the top looking like sharp, imposing teeth. As your eyes drifted along it, a woozy feeling came over you from the last push to get into the lands past the remaining Ironborn. Gates opening, the court was as drab and deary as the rest of it and yet the people all scattered around were normal. 

Roose Bolton climbed from his horse first to greet a figure awaiting in the distance, and introducing his new wife. Walda was a bit younger then you, and certainly held more life in her eyes and face then you did. A brightness as she was brought into the castle where you were pulled off the front of the horse by two men. 

Turning from the other man, Roose looked to them with orders, “Put her in a cell, and have Maester Wolkan look her over.” You hardly had a chance to see or hear anything else as you were dragged into a deeper part of the structure. The cells in your vision were along a single wall and quite small as the only light was a small set of torches lit along wall corners. 

None said a word to you, but you went willingly as they opened the doors. Cutting your hands free behind your back before tossing you in and closing behind you. The echos of their feet fading off until it was the flickering of the flames left alone with you. 

Wincing as you dragged yourself up with palms braced on the ragged ground before finding a resting spot against the wall and side of the cell. Resting your head along the bars you couldn’t figure out what it was you were feeling. Your body held an ache all over where some places burned like a festering would alight. 

Eyes barley focusing on the wall beyond your cell, they wanted to let tears fall freely but you simply had nothing left in you. The shock of waking up had passed by this point, and now all that was left was the murky depths left behind and only one thing at a time could come to the surface for air. You could still hear the strings playing, the hall filling with music that had you, nor anyone, suspect a thing until it was already over. 

You hardly thought any other music existed, it looped in your mind as did the damning stop of it as the instruments blurred to weapons. Perhaps it was your doom to sit reliving such a moment and yet you found nothing in you to say Roose Bolton took you just to let you rot. 

He had tried to kill you, and you had even lay there beside Robb thinking he had succeeded until..the wall torch fire before you flashed to another fire, and that turned to yells and chanting and in a split second you flew a hand to to grasp tightly at one of the bars as your lungs gave out. You told yourself not to think about it, you said you would never look back to that sight-

A door opening had you slam your eyes shut, breathing so harshly out that you felt the dizziness spin around you. Your hand still gripped the bar so tightly though that it strained your hand into a cramp as you willed your panic to swallow. “My lady,” 

Slowly you opened them, trying to stay still as you glanced up and to the side where a man you didn’t recognize stood. Two guards behind him, but you did note the chains across his robes before sighing and turning away. 

The guards entered behind him to stand at attention as he came towards you. “My lady, I am Maester Wolkan, I am here to see how your health is faring.” He knelt down in front of you as you huffed out a painful spit of air as it trying to fake a laugh. “I understand you have been through a lot, if you would allow me?” 

Rolling your head to the side so he could see your still discoloured eye, he tilted your head back and forth to see the other cuts along you. “How long have you had this fever?” You didn’t answer, you didn’t even know. It had been days since you woken up, and it’s felt both like years of pain have passed through you and only seconds since losing everything of your life. 

Wolkan lightly soaked a cloth in a small basin of water before dabbing it across your forehead, the coolness of it making you hiss towards the feeling against your burning skin. Taking it upon himself, he washed away some of the blood and grime on your face as the water left a cool sheen on it.

“Can you stand on your own?” Your eyes narrowed in confusion before remembering he was there to look at your wounds, when truthfully you didn’t see the point. Nodding, you hissed in lifting yourself up, letting him look over your arm, pulling apart the torn fabric near your shoulder to look at the deep unhealed scar inside of it. “Any pain or difficulties moving this arm at all?” 

You shook your head no, passing your notice, that it made him pause, looking at you almost puzzled for just a moment. He must have been told some of the wounds, as gently asked you, “I will have to undo the laces against your back to check the one there.” You didn’t react, just looked to the nothing on the dark walls as he looked where you pushed away the memory of an arrow. Not the one which hit you, no, the ones that-

“This might seem a droll indecent, but I was informed you had received a significant injury on your stomach and I will need to take a look at it.” You were stuck at the arrows, not thinking of anything else after reliving the seconds as they hit him, and your eyes finding a watering that luckily was hard to see in this light. 

The man had to gently pull up the skirt of your dress, trying carefully not to peel it on the sensitive skin as he revealed what you had no bravery to look at. But by not looking at it, you also missed the shocked, almost dreadfully fearful astonishment in Wolkan’s face. “My lady how did-” 

“Ask your lord, he will know better.” 

The finality in your tone ended that line of thought in his head, but his eyes were so focused on the wounds that you begun to shake from the lack of energy. Dropping it back down he gently grabbed your upper arms, “Here, you can sit once more.” 

It took some time for him to come to an assessment, packing up some of his things. “I fear you have an infection, my lady. The lack of food and water likely making it overstay it’s place for much longer, I will have simple water and broth sent down to you for the next while. As well as a potion that will help speed the process.” Glancing down to your stomach and then your dulled eyes he paused, “It is the-”

“I don’t want to to hear it, just send me what I need to take and I’ll take it. Now if we are finished Maester, I’d like to be left alone to rot in the quiet.” Watching you for a few significant moments, he respected your wish and made his way to leave. 

Normally he would inform you the degree which it would make you ill before getting better, but he had the feeling you had very little care on such a side effect. Such a state you were in, how bloodied and unwell you were as Lord Bolton dragged you across much of the North, and then was the wounds on her stomach..as far as Wolkan in all his knowledge could tell anyone, there shouldn’t have been a soul who could have survived that. 

It hadn’t healed, but it was as if it was to stay open and deep without having any impact on the skin around it. It was a gruesome, violent, jagged series of scars all connected together, and yet it was as if they existed separate of your body.

In the main hall, the Greyjoy in Ramsay Snow’s care looked as unwell and ragged as the lady in the cells, but subservient to the point it made many uncomfortable. “If Bran and Rickon are alive, the country will rally to their side now that Robb Stark is gone.” 

Theon pausing in his actions shaving the younger man, a horror in his eyes that was desperate to be pushed back down before it swallowed him whole. Ramsay with no genuinity in his sorrowful tone. “Oh that’s right, Reek. Robb Stark is dead.” 

Roose Bolton notably said nothing to stop his sons torment of Theon. Turning to Locke instead he gave the man an offer, “Find those boys and I’ll give you a thousand acres and a holdfast.”  

Locke asking on any ideas where to start, and the beginnings of a true mistake unknowingly spilling from Roose’s mouth in instruction. “Jon Snow is at Castle Black. Their bastard brother, he could be sheltering them, he may know where they are. Even if he doesn’t he’s half Stark himself which means he could prove to be a threat. Especially if he learns of our most recent prisoner,” Pausing as he looked to Ramsey with something that Theon couldn’t yet grasp, how could he? He didn’t know any of who else they were keeping here besides himself.

Looking back to Locke, Roose was specific with your name on his lips that way too quickly made Theon swallow harshly, “Make sure no mention of her presence here gets out. Jon Snow was close with the girl, and she is his brothers widow. If he isn’t hiding the boys, he may still learn that she’s being kept here. And I don’t care to have him bringing a fight to our doorstep to get her back.” 

His instructions included killing you, that much was made clear from Tywin Lannister but apparently you were a frustrating little fighter. It was a surprise to find later in the night, you were still alive. He had come up as the blood was all still fresh, knocked you with his foot onto your back and you were as dead as every other corpse in the hall. You and Robb both pale, blood had spilled out and stopped, and not a pulse to be felt as both your eyes sat wide, colourless, and defeated. There was no question about it.

Until later when he had returned. Ensuring the giant direwolf had been taken care of, walking back in before the Freys and his men could do whatever with the bodies they wished. But as he approached the King and Queen, and with no one in the hall to have done so, suddenly, your eyes had been closed. And you had the faintest of pulses he’d ever felt, but it was there. He was sure he watched you die himself, but now you sat in his dungeon as a plan begun to formulate in his mind. 

Time was difficult for you to gauge, but far longer had begun to pass then you realized, weeks and months that felt like seconds or years. In that time, Roose building the steps to a proper claim, and promised his bastard son, that if he could prove himself and retake Moat Cailin, then he would reconsider his position. Afterall, if you were alive anyways, you were of no use to Roose in the hands of his bastard, but in the hands of a legitimate heir? Perhaps the gods left you alive for a reason. 

Roose just had to make sure that the half Stark at Castle Black heard no word of you being alive. Too many people underestimated Robb Stark for too long, and the same mistake would not be made twice, not for his brother. Ramsay has his own way of things, but Roose Bolton did not want to be the one to underestimate Jon Snow.  

Gods, how much time had even passed? You felt in a daze that never ended, even worse then before. A servant for the Maester brought down a vile smelling potion which tasted even worse. Since you had kept nothing down. The broth and water seems to be your only diet to make having it come right back up less disgusting. 

You were dripping in sweat, your head running so hot you wondered if the fire of the torch would even burn you. Sometime in the hours, or days that had passed you would see things your mind told you to not believe. Some of it you knew, most of it felt like a life that was beyond understanding. 

Laying in bed, there was rain pouring out the high windows that blended with the river in the distance, the light of the moon dripping you in shades of blue matching his bright eyes as you lay bare on your side into the equally as bare chest of another. His hand drifting across your stomach so gently in touch as you nuzzled into their neck. The feeling of his curls dancing around your cheek before the strings begun.  

The begun and as they played you opened your eyes in the same position as his hand raised now soaked in blood. Looking to you his blue eyes were in a terrified horror before you could see them go out all the same. Only as you lay there on your side, feeling the blood rushing from your stomach like it was to never end, did the room twist and turn to a red.

Red tones and fire all around as a voice in a foreign accent spoke in your ear. Their red hair hanging low as she spoke and if you had the strength to turn you could see the tight red ruby choked around her neck as she spoke. “Your Great Wolf to stand with you and your children together.”

You wanted to turn and lash out, scream that he was dead and so was the child in your womb but all that happened was blood rushing now from your mouth too. Too much blood that you begun to choke on it as you turned to her the red ruby trailing up until a pair of eyes met yours. Eyes of blue that sat on the head of a wolf it did not belong with, only as the faint chanting begun did your eyes snap open.

Turning to the corner behind you did you violently cough up nothing but water and bitter bile that scraped at your throat. One hand pressed against the wall and the other braced on the floor as you brought up what was hardly even there. Your throat burned as your stomach did, the servant who was bringing it down for you to drink would tell you it is to cleanse your system of the rot and it only felt like it spread violently. 

No sense of night or day, you hardly even had enough resolve to pay attention to the schedule of the guards. The servant of the Maester seemed kind, but he was a young boy who didn’t know any better you suspected. No one else spoke to you, or much looked at you. 

As you heaved to catch your breathe in between the pressure on your chest as you spit up more bile, you wondered if it mattered anymore. If none of them knew who you were, it would not matter what happened to you you maybe life would be easier if you just died on them. 

It would be easier for you as well. But there was nothing for such a thing in the cell. Just dirt, and your own fluids that mixed horribly. If any were to find you now, they’d easily mistaken you for a filthy craven, and you felt like one. 

You barley heard the footstep over the heaves of your breathe until they were speaking to you right outside the bars. “Oh my word,” Gasping you flung yourself back, almost pressing up against the wall with fright. You barley could recognize the fellow kneeling down looking at you, but you think perhaps he was in the courtyard when greeting Roose. 

Hair dark to an almost black and laid flat across his forehead with eeiry pale blue eyes that were wide as they looked at you. You said nothing, untrusting of any face that looked at you in such a place. Looking you over, he sighed to himself. “I heard we had a guest, but such a shame to find you in a state such as this, my lady.” 

Straightening your back, you dragged your knees up to your chest, as you narrowed your eyes. He simply shrugged to himself before holding a hand out through the bars, seeing you not move an inch as he grimaced and pulled back even slower. “Not a woman for formalities, I can understand that. Especially in a state such as this,” whistling out he looked you over in a way you could only describe as making you feel even dirtier then you were. “Why they didn’t even bother offering you new clothes, you’re stuck in the same bloody ones as you arrived. That will not do, a lady should at least have a pretty dress to go with such a pretty face.” 

“What do you want?”

He reacted none to the bluntness, your voice scratched badly like claw marks scraped down your throat. “Well I would be remiss if I didn’t pay the late Queen in the North a visit.” You bit your tongue to the point it threatened to bleed, it was a mockery. Is that what you were supposed to see yourself as anymore, here thrown away in the dungeons to waste in the home of the very man who murdered your king? “Oh, I’m so sorry. Sensitive subject, I know.”

His voice was so exaggerated in his inauthenticity, you bought not a word and you thought you likely weren’t supposed to. “If you’ve come down here to mock me, fair not. Bolton’s men have seen fit to do that the entire journey, I am not with a lack of torment.” 

It felt so unnerving, his eyes. The way they lingered on you in ways you couldn’t immediately detect the intention of and a glint behind them that terrified you beyond what anything you’d see. But you were lucky, you were too faded inside to show it as he spoke once more. “You wound me, my lady. We’re in the North you see, we supported our King in the North and his Queen. But, I suppose if he’s good and dead that doesn’t really make you one anymore does it?” 

You didn’t care if you were a queen, you cared that you were Robb’s wife and now you broke your promise to stay together. You swore a vow in love and now you sat with his blood in your mouth and son dead from your womb. “Then again, you are still a Baratheon, does that make you a princess now? No, that doesn’t seem quite right either does it. A girl like you doesn’t scream princess.” 

Finding the strength to turn away from him, you looked at the nothing of the dark wall. Your name quiet on your lips. “That’s all I am I suppose.” 

“I seem to have you at a disadvantage, I know your name my lady but you don’t know mine do you? You’ve likely heard of me, most call me Ramsay, others call me Roose Bolton’s bastard son.” Your back chilled as you shivered, despite the sweat and the heat in your mind. So his family is all in on it, that was just what you needed to hear. 

Turning your head to face him as it leaned against the wall, you raised an eyebrow dully. “Did you want something, or can I die in peace?” 

He tsked as he stood up. “Now my lady, you can’t die. We haven’t spent nearly enough time together for me to be sick of you. I came to tell you, once you’re better, I can find you a nice room, a hot bath and we’ll see about any nice, pretty dresses we can get for you.” 

Clearly, he did not care if you bought into him. It didn’t matter if you left this cell or not, you couldn’t see past the blood and the fog in your head marred by the strings of music. He only took a few steps away before spinning back to you in a dramatic fashion. 

“How silly of me, I did come here with a present actually. You see, I have a little task I have to leave for, and I just couldn’t bear the thought if something happened to him and you didn’t get a chance to meet each other. My own servant, a very special boy I’ve whipped him up to be.” You narrowed your eyes as you felt your limbs weigh too much, you’d have passed out from exhaustion were he still not insisting on talking. 

“If he does a good job while we’re away, I may just start lending him to you once we get you back on your feet. I’m sure he will be the perfect company. Reek, come say hello.” If you had anything left to bring back up to the surface of the world, you would have. 

Instead you lost all breathe, head spinning as you found the appearance of this so called present. Much like you, marred in grime and dirt and sickly appearance to their skin that matched with the matted hair grown out. As if their entire existence was in a detrimental fear, you felt a weight in your throat that kept you from any words. 

Dark eyes that refused to look at a thing slowly drifted upwards until they met the agony of yours and your heart pounded until it flattened to nothing and left you woozy. There was a recognition in his eyes that you were to delusional and feverish to understand. 

Something that in Ramsay’s delight of torment, did not see. A pain of who he was looking at and what state they both had ended up in, alone in the world trapped within the confines of the family of flayers and torturers. “Now Reek, it’s not polite to stare. I’m sure the lady isn’t quite ready so soon after her husbands tragic death, besides not like you have the ability to do anything about it.” 

He shook and you narrowed your eyes in confusion with a tilt of your head, you felt the need to vomit once more as the potion swam through your stomach like it had for days now. Leaving you once more, Ramsay had to pull him away when he took half a second too long to part from your eyes. The dungeons fell quiet and dark once more and your mind only had enough time to feel even more confused until your stomach forced more burning up. 

“And Theon? I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask him why. Then I’ll take his head myself.” 

Collapsing to the ground with a cry of pain, you curled up with your knees back against your chest. The hurt and betrayal on his face that day, the way only you seemed to give him any peace as you both stood unified in what he commanded. But this was no longer such a day, such a time. 

The blue eyes you wanted to see were darker then those pale ones, and with an adoration you wanted to scream at. Robb didn’t want this for you, Theon. Neither of us did, you thought. You demanded justice at Robb’s side, but this was not justice. 

If what you were holding back cries of pain for was not justice, you couldn’t imagine what found it’s way into his terror to make Theon Greyjoy look as frail and petrified as you felt. 

He was fighting to call himself one or the other. Reek was screeching in his head that he would be punished for this, but Theon kept climbing the stairs anyways. It was quite late, and he was already under orders to bring you a meal but he was not given orders to speak to you. So why was he walking down and fighting to not do so?

Walk in, open the gate, sit the food down and return like Reek was ordered to do, but as he stood outside the cell door, it was like for a moment Theon screamed at him and sent Reek down past his consciousness. Voice stammering and weak did he mutter your name, he did it twice and maybe if he had to do it a third he would chicken out and leave. But you looked. 

Sat against the wall with your knees to your chest, arms wrapped around them and your head tucked in the middle, you rose up and it was clear as day the tears. Theon wasn’t sure he’s ever seen you cry. Very few would have and you were good at keeping it to yourself, but then again, Theon was good at many things Reek was not. 

Placing a small vial on the ground before moving to sit the tray beside you. He couldn’t even stammer out the words before you huffed out another tearful cry and kicked the tray from you. Sending him back in a jump. The way you looked up at him, who even were you on the inside? Did you not see yourself anymore as Theon saw Reek in his reflection? Had you even seen the state of yourself, eyes dulled to a weakness you’d never shown, eye still discoloured from where someone must have hit you and a flush to your skin that he knew came from having nothing in your system. 

What happened? How did it happen? How did Robb- 

He breathed out heavily as he snapped his head to attention. It poured out before he could stop himself from saying it. “I was wrong. I- I took Winterfell and I was wrong…” You said nothing. Your lips parted but closed once more with a heavy swallow. “I…” 

“Theon,” your voice was so quiet. Somewhere in his mind, he recalled the people called you the Silent Stag, always quiet you were but just as notable. But this quiet wasn’t that, this was a whisper that worried it was too loud even in the stone of a dungeon. “I..we didn’t- it’s my fault.” You inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut for the action before opening them with a calmer look that refused to look at him. 

“I didn’t know they’d do this..any of this..and we sent them. I’m sorry.” 

Both inside him struggled how to feel, Reek had nothing to accept an apology for and yet Theon knelt forward to the ground. Crouching he slowly opened the vial with a shaky breathe before holding it to you. He wanted to speak and you could see it but neither pushed until he whispered it out like a deathly vow being broken as you drunk the liquid. “I didn’t kill them. Bran and Rickon. I didn’t kill them, I lied.” 

Your lips fell open as neither of you looked anywhere but between your bodies on the floor. “Roose Bolton killed Robb. Shoved a knife in his heart, and a few times in me.” Likely you didn’t know why you showed him, or even told him, but Theon’s breathing quickened as you lifted the fabric. The skin underneath was utterly blood soaked in ways he’d only ever seen on those of the dead. But why were they on you if you were here? “If that isn’t vengeance..”

Theon wanted to stay and talk, but Reek heard the sounds of footsteps far in the distance and tore himself back. “I-” He didn’t look you in the eye, he couldn’t at this point. “I’ll come back.” 

Your voice was far away, your eyes had lulled shut back into a dream of stringed nightmares as you muttered, “Of course you will. He’ll order you too.” 

Your nails were bloody, but you think it was starting to carve properly. The nothing drawing in the wall that kept you occupied for most of the day now. It was silent for a while once you were better, guards came to bring you a meal and then it was back into the quiet. There was no outside world here, no wars once fought, no lives trying to find peace, nothing. Just the walls of your cell, and the carving you were scraping into the stone wall. 

No sense of time came to you, it could have been years and you would be none the wiser of anything. Another war could have come and passed, not an inkling would’ve found you. You only saw the guards and the dungeon. You only dreamt of the blood and the strings as you awoke everytime knowing you failed him. 

Every attempt to come out into your soul was hollow, something was missing and it was part of what made you human. You could only see the curls against blue eyes that looked to you desperate not to see you go. It broke your heart everytime you saw him. 

The horror in your heart was settled somewhat in those final seconds, you would go together as you promised. From this day until our last day. And yet his last day was not yours, and you lived on without him. Guilt and shame ate away at you for breaking your vow to always be together, wherever his soul sat with the gods now you wondered if Robb was ashamed of you. 

You lived on without him, and you lost his unborn son. There was nothing left of Robb Stark with you anymore and the only proof he ever was, was a scar running so jaggedly along your lower stomach that you could feel each time Roose stabbed it back inside you. Tracing it gently enough with your fingers. A terrible stroke of luck, or was it the gods forcing it onto you?

Because the longer you sat in that silence alone, the more you came up with ways to fix it. What reason were you to still be here, why were you still alive if your existence was less then a rats. It wouldn’t be easy in here, but you could do it if you were really desperate. You wanted to the more weeks passed into months as you were alone down here. Shut away from the world, a dead wife to the King in the North, sequestered down in a dingy cell in the Dreadfort. Captive of the family who did this to you, and nothing to do but think of how much Robb would hate what you’ve become. 

This shell was not the woman he fell in love with, and you weren’t entirely sure you could even get that woman back now. Maybe part of you really did die beside him, and what remains in your body now is just the base of grief and anger that will burn through you until you’ve had enough. 

The gods were cruel however. The day he came to see you, it was the understanding of why they bothered to keep you alive. A confident man, Roose Bolton walked up to your cell with the same collected look he has had since the day you met him. Glancing around the cell, he could see you made very little use of the space, as if always having to be positioned against the bars to see the opening of the main door.

“I assume by now you realize no one is coming for you.” Your eyes glared up at him in a silent contemptuous irritation. “The Seven Kingdoms all think you’re dead. Tragically killed at the side of your husband-”

“They know you’re the one who put a knife to him? Or have you let Walder Frey take all of the credit for that?” Roose raised an eyebrow at you, unexpected of the sharp and angry tone that came from an otherwise unwell prisoner. “Suppose it isn’t really you who the southerners care about anyways. You get to claim you killed an unarmed King, and his pregnant wife when you only did it because you had Tywin Lannister to hide behind the skirts of.” 

Stepping forward to you, he looked down with ease as you craned your neck up to find his own, the anger in your voice did not match your eyes. “It is encouraging see you have put your time down here to good use. I kill Robb Stark and yourself, and in return I am given the title Warden of the North until the son of Sansa and Tyrion Lannister comes of age to take over. Unfortunately, there has been a problem in his planning.” 

You twisted your face at the unpleasant imagery.

“Sansa has fled King’s Landing after the murder of King Joffery, and her imp husband is to go on trial.” A year ago you would have been thrilled at the news that your repulsive once cousin was dead, now though it was a non victory that felt hollow. The world indeed kept turning outside the walls and you were none the wiser of a single tinge of it. “Sansa’s son by Tyrion was intended to be the key to the North for the Lannisters as they have no other ties, now there is no child to inherit the North from me.” 

Biting your tongue, you exhaled harshly through your nose to will the angry beating of your heart down to something manageable. “Did you come here to gloat about your new title or did you just want to remind me of what you’ve done.” 

“My men are reclaiming what’s left of the Ironborn that stands in the road to Winterfell, and we will soon move there once my son has cleared the way. You will be coming with us. Willingly.” 

Your voice scratched as you huffed a laugh, “And do tell, my lord. Why would I ever go with you willingly?” You watched as he knelt in front of you, and the frustration in your voice did not match how you pressed yourself against the wall further. 

With every inch of your body you hated the quiet calm in his voice as he nodded to your attire. “Because if you do, I will make sure you are cleaned, properly fed, groom you up and dress you like a lady and not like that creature my son drags around. You won’t be able to leave the castle walls, or go anywhere outside without being under guard. But I won’t throw you back into a cell.” 

Not a thought came to you that imagined yourself like that anymore. Your life was drenched in blood and memories of pain that blurred out the rest in it’s grief. Would you feel more like a person to even just breathe fresh air? Was that worth playing along with the man who betrayed his people and murdered your king and child? 

Roose did not wait for any kind of response, moving towards the cell door when you asked, “Why? If I’m just a prisoner why bring me to Winterfell? No one even knows I’m alive, what would it matter if you keep me locked away in here?”

The blood inside you cooled to a freeze as you looked wide eyed with a hesitant fear that you know he caught onto. “If Ramsay is successful in retaking Moat Cailin, he will be granted a legitimate son and become a Bolton. The Lannisters won’t help me keep the North, but perhaps I don’t need them to. All the Stark men are dead, which means if Ramsay is a Bolton, he will be my firstborn son and heir. And he will be needing one of his own.” 

Roose didn’t elaborate but he didn’t need to. You almost begun to bite your tongue so hard on unknowing it could have bled. You felt sick as you had days ago, but this was an illness rooted in a fear and bloody memories of your last. “You truly think I would ever let him-” 

One eyebrow raised, his voice was patronizing as it was condescending. “Do you think you have any choice in the matter? Shall I reminder you how it is the world works?” 

You glared up with as much energy as you could summon, a sneer on your own face as you sharply bit back, “Do use small words, my lord. I’m not as bright as you.” 

You didn’t expect it to even effect him in the slightest. He rarely budged on anything, especially now when it is was he holds all the power. “You are a highborn lady, and if my son should succeed he will be a legitimate highborn to inherit my own lordship. You are also my prisoner, and I don’t think I need to remind you of my own stance on prisoner treatment. Ramsay doesn’t need your permission to use you to produce an heir.”

Do not show anything else you told yourself, do not let him see the fear in your heart. “I’m not a Northerner, Lord Bolton. I have no claim that could help you.” 

A lightness in his eyes was the most genuine you had seen in since that night and you felt even more ill thinking on it. “No, but you were the Queen that Robb Stark chose, you were the Queen every Northern chose, my lady. That is claim enough for what we require.” 

By the time you found any bravery left in your voice you called out to him before he could leave you alone in the darkness of the dungeon once more. “Did you ever believe in him? Or was it all just a lie the entire time? You served him for almost three years, was none of it ever true?” 

Roose sounded as if he was giving a simple order to a servant, no care for his monstrosity. “I believed in Robb Stark right up until I shoved my dagger covered in your blood into his chest. But loyalty does not buy me money or power, and Tywin Lannister simply had the better offer.” The dagger sat on his waist, blood for you to see and all. You’d felt many illnesses down here, but it was that which made you loose every sense left to you. 

The door closed and once more you were left in darkness. You weren’t sure when the tears had started, but this time you let them fall until your eyes dried out like sands in the Dornish summer. 

You should have died with Robb, and you truly were beginning to think it was necessary to find a way to go back to him, one way or another. He had told you once you in those days before your wedding that you belonged in Winterfell, but what was your belonging in such a place without the wolves to keep you company?

The gods granted you a chilling answer to that question when some time later, they sent Ramsay Bolton down to your cell in the middle of the night, a disturbing glint in his unsettling pale eyes trained only on you. 

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

[wrenreid]

Off Limits

Part Twenty-Seven

My freshman year of high school, I was put into a junior level government class. I was only in there because it was the only class that fit into my schedule other than ag classes I couldn’t have been less interested in. I didn’t talk much in the class because everyone was older than me, and they thought I was a kiss up because i always made good grades. I didn’t particularly love the class, but of course, I still did my work and did it well.

Toward the end of the year, we did a mock trial. We drew for positions within the trial, mr flynn the judge. I drew attorney.

The case was a business lawsuit, I was the lawyer who was going against the business for their supposed cruel acts.

Mr. Flynn told us that we would receive extra credit if we dressed up, so me, a fourteen year old with a desperate need for academic validation, borrowed one of my mother’s pencil skirts and a suit jacket from my dad. I looked like a mini Aaron Hotchner, even my mom said so.

I remember preparing for the trial for at least a week, being a little excited about the project. I wanted to win the case, especially since I was, as I believed, on the right side of the law.

My opposing attorney was Noah Kincaid. He was a smart but cocky kid who also cared about winning the trial.

I remember standing up from my desk when is was my turn to ask questions to the kid under oath. I felt as though I had stepped into myself for the first time. It was just a mock trial that lasted half an hour, but I felt proud and confident. I was good at it.

Mr. Flynn pulled me aside after class and told me I should consider law school in the future. He said, and I quote, “The way you handled yourself was the most confident and concise I’ve ever seen in a student. You surprised me, Hotchner.”

I didn’t take it to offense that he said my skills surprised him. In his defense, he’d only heard me talk when I turned in a paper or answered a question, which the latter was usually rare since I didn’t particularly like to “show off” in front of juniors who already thought I was a kiss ass.

I did, however, take his first sentence as a compliment. I was confident and my statements and questions were concise.

I smiled, nodded, thanked him, then left. A lawyer was not on my top five career choices at the time. I didn’t want people to think I was doing it because of my father. I was definitely not. But after some research and a few binge watches of crime shows, I knew I actually did want to be an attorney. Not because of my father but almost in spite of him.

My dad quit his job as a lawyer and took the job Agent Gideon offered him at the BAU. I resented him for it, still do, but that’s besides the point. He wasn’t around much in my most influential years, and at fourteen, I decided I would be a lawyer, and if I happened to have a family, I wouldn’t take a new job that prevented me from being there for them.

So now, I’m currently four weeks away from grad school and three years away from the BAR. And I’m going to rock the shit out of them both. Because I can and because I’m determined. It’s also way less about my unresolved daddy issues now than it was in high school and even some of college, it’s a dream of mine.

Spencer has made it his mission to make sure I enjoy the last month of summer as much as I can. He’s taken me out on a million dates like picnics, movies, late night drives around the city and out into the country, and more every chance he gets between cases.

At least now we don’t have to sneak around and lie about our relationship. Though I was prepared to keep this from my dad for however long necessary, I’m pretty glad we accidentally outed ourselves at my graduation dinner.

My dad cooked a big meal for me, some family, friends, and we invited the team too. Spencer and I didn’t even sit near each other. We barely talked the whole dinner just to be safe.

But as love-sick, horny couples do, when we saw an opportunity to take a minute alone, we did just that.

Having your father catch you making out with a guy will never not be awkward, but when the guy happens to be his employee, it’s fucking weird.

Though, I will say, the look on his face was priceless. I’ve hardly seen him have that much emotion on his face.

After a very awkward, flushed-face, and stuttered explanation from Spencer and me, we were able to calm my father down. He was a lot more excepting than I expected; I think he finally realized he can’t dictate my life, and he saw how happy we are together.

The rest of that dinner consisted of a lot of teasing from Derek Morgan, my brother being grossed out by me having a boyfriend, and everyone asking about law school.

I’m excited and anxious to start the rest of my life as a law student. I’ve prepared for this for nearly 8 years now, and I’m getting closer and closer to my dream career. It’s terrifyingly exciting. I’m grateful to have my family and Spencer by my side through all of this.

hey, so this is it for this story! this is also most likely it for my fanfiction in general.

and for a little life update: i started college a month ago, and i’m adjusting to my new life which has been interesting and scary and fun. im also in a healthy relationship and have been for a while which has been pretty amazing. i hope all my mutuals/ readers are doing well. thank you guys for sticking around :)

tags: @pauline5525mgg @theintimatewriter @lilibet261 @greysviolets @jazzymariexoxoc @one-sweet-gubler @thatsonezesty13 @necromaniackat @awhoreforspencerreid @sebs-oxygen @scarredelirium @bts-sugaplum @awesomeness1679 @preciousbabypeter @yazzyu @cynbx @r3idsp3ncer @1010lizz @tiredbut-here @skulzombiw @lena-1895 @eevee0722 @shakespear-picaso-lovechild @daydreamingqueen1 @regulus-black-223048 @virginmusicloverr36 @jazzerbelle14 @kylakins88 @f-me-reid @lovejules888 @marimorena06 @daph-421 @idkusername8787

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #mgg x you #spencer reid smut #mgg angst #mgg fic #spencer reid and reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid series #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #mgg #dilf spencerreid #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem!readr #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid x original female character #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid hair #dr spencer reid

[moralesmilesanhour]

send me flowerbyte prompts!

Hi! I wanted to contribute more to the flowerbyte tag but I don't have a ton of ideas, so this is me asking for some of you guys' ideas :)

How this works (pleeaaase read the whole thing carefully):

send me a prompt (can be your own idea, or something from a writing prompt list - doesn't matter!) and if I like it I'll write a one-shot based on said prompt.

you can do this by sending me an ask! if it's in my comments or messages that makes it harder for me to keep track of everything, so please only use my ask box.

if you're coming up with your own prompts, please keep it concise. No more than 1-2 sentences - I should be able to fit it into a one-shot. Y'all will not have me out here writing novels lol that's for another time

I reserve the right to be selective blah blah blah u get it

That's it! Ask away <3

#flowerbyte #cybershock #cyberflower #margo kess #miles morales fic #miles morales #fic request #moralesanhour #blabbering

[90percentstudios]

In your opinion, who is by far the worst written character you've made? Explain. (3-5 sentences)(That's a school joke btw but I do actually wanna know who you think your worst character is.)

oh my god, this is shaping up to be a bit more than 3-5 sentences but i just watched a contrapoints video and i'll never be concise again.

if a screwdriver is a good screwdriver because it manages to fit the screw, a character is a good character because they serve their purpose in the plot. a purpose like protagonist, antagonist, foil, silly buff tiger that is incredibly shallow but that's kind of the point so how can i argue that she's a failure of a character when she's literally my favorite and i would die for her? ... anyway i forget what point i was making but here are my worst written characters because they (arguably) failed to fit the screw.

cop-out answer: my first draft of cody from 2017/2018 was sooo one-dimensional. he felt like a homestuck dirk knock-off made more bearable because he wasn't condescendingly smart or serious. i couldn't develop his character because he was just so damn happy all the time. new cody is my favorite character, and therefore objectively the best written character in existence. he's got more realistic problems, genuine relationships, and is a great conduit for me to vent the problems i have with authority figures that i didn't even know i had.

real answer: the pa1 characters are pretty shallow. in their defense and the defense of those who love them, their simplicity ups the comic appeal. like brownie wants to delete herself via chocolate. is it realistic? no, but if it were i guess it'd lose silly points. the ridiculous pa universe's suspension of disbelief relies on everyone being a stupid nonsensical dog. so imo they fulfilled the purpose i had for them, which was creating a joke fantasy in which you had no choice but to make friends or die, my two favorite things at the time.

but i have a new favorite thing now, and that's making high complexity, open-ended statements about society or whatever. a better written pa1 would mean including exposition about patches' horrible home life/antisocial diagnosis, or a scene where olive and co attempt to call 9-11 like any sane dog would do, or more stuff about the contentious history between cats and dogs to explain coco's murder of the entire school.

speaking of, i think my worst written character is pa1.5 coco. she fulfilled the role of causing the apawcalypse in pa1, helped stop the apawcalypse in pa2, but somewhere in between there should've been a scene where everyone shakes and sobs over the realization that murder = bad, even if you are a funny gay halloween cat.

#cool kid cody #purrfect apawcalypse #90% denny

[emmetofthestars]

WEE WOO WEE WOO AMBULANCE ARRIVED !!! if you have any awesome oc thoughts can i pleaseeee hear about them?? whether big or small or concise or rambly or anything, a song that fits them, anything!!! I WANNA KNOW!!!!!

OFMG AHHH HELO HI.... im mostly thinking abt minic and rüttelberg right now ..... my little freak(?)s...... uhhmmm idk how many posts you saw about them but i made two tf2 ocs, theyre a red medic (minic) and a red engie bot (rüttelberg) and i accidentally created them as a result of gmod shenanigans :) im thinking vry hard about them currently and like. how they interact with the mercs.... because minic is essentially just a very small red medic. like. hes around 1/5 the size of rüttelberg. i imagine red medic just being weirdly afraid of him. hes so small yet he carries a crossbow that oneshots, gasoline and matches in his pocket that shouldnt even fit in there, and he smokes and drinks yet hes never drunk or otherwise mentally clouded, infact hes extremely intellegent??? minic is a strange little thing. hes never held a medigun, hes probably never even seen one. he knows what a crusaders crossbow is and he thinks his crossbow is the equivalent to one (the crossbow is a half life/gmod crossbow) so imagine seeing this thing point its crossbow at you fully thinking its about to heal you

soo many other thoughts and such and i cant really form . sentences... rüttelberg i love you. rüttelberg is just a name that minic gave him because he rattles around so much (minic only knows german). rüttelberg is like his beest friend and cowoker. essentially there to carry him places and protect him and whatnot. i dont know how they met but i like to believe they just found eachother one day

sillyass gif that i think describes their characters about well enough

#emmet answers #minic #rüttelberg #alr time to start tagging them by name so i can find shit later

[greenhousethree]

Apologies for gushing but your last fic twenty-two was just so beautiful! I'm wondering how you come up with so many good details in all your fics? I'm working on getting better at imagery and would love hearing more about your process, you just have such way with descriptions!

first off, thank you so so much anon! this made my whole week!

but oof, this one is tough since i'm definitely not an authority on descriptive writing (or any sort of writing, really), and i'm not particularly introspective about the process. and twenty-two more or less fell out of my head in one piece, which doesn't happen very often for me, so i'm working a little backwards here.

so at the risk of sounding incredibly preachy, i've taken a stab at articulating how i tend to think when creating scenes. maybe some of this will be helpful?

for me as a reader, details that tend to stick out are both extremely specific and concise. the specific part comes a little easier for me when writing - picking out little actions and details from everyday life that i don't tend to read about very often - but the language precision takes more work. if a detail requires too many descriptors to convey the full picture, i'll usually revisit and search for more specific words or axe it completely.

i think it's really important to trust our abilities to describe things uniquely! which sometimes means swinging for the fences and missing entirely with an analogy that doesn't work, but i find that so much more interesting than relying on clichés.

i'll add to the choir of advocates for killing your darlings. deep down, you know if something doesn't fit. i keep a "dump now use later" doc as a personal pacifier, because it feels easier to delete an *incredibly clever* bit of wording if i think i can recycle it someday (spoiler: i won't).

i try not to think about this too hard, but syntax is a really helpful tool for flow and for characterizing a narrative voice (she says in full awareness that hermione's inner monologue in her fics sounds a lot like ginny's which sounds a lot like harry's... 😬).

i like to let descriptive verbs do the talking over adverbs an adjectives. again this is based on my preferences as a reader; i find actions to be much more immersive when they can stand alone without modifiers.

a wonderful beta changed my life by ruthlessly trimming the fat from one of my works. this is a little different than cutting out entire ideas that don't fit, more like removing filler from your sentences that dilute the point. i'm not necessarily advocating for a minimalist tone (lord knows we're far from that), but this kind of editing really helps the details pop.

a n y w a y , all of that feels very boiled down to a science, which might go against the point? i think it can be good to consider these things while editing, but i guess the biggest piece of 'advice' i would offer is to try and let your voice and your plot/ideas speak before any of the language mechanics. i usually feel most stuck when i'm too focused on phrasing something that doesn't serve the bigger picture, and zooming out to "what is this scene even doing here" often helps me realize that (ahoy, we've circled back to killing our darlings).

maybe some of that made sense, and if not i apologize, but thank you so much again anon for this humongous bit of flattery and for letting me ramble!

🌱

#sweated my whole way through typing this out #not much to see here kindly keep scrolling #anon ask #answered #writing thoughts #the craft

[purrincess-chat]

Cat’s Writing Tips: Trimming the Fat

Hello, and welcome to another Writing Tip Monday on a Tuesday with Cat! My name is Cat, and I was busy yesterday. For those that are new here, I’ve been writing unprofessionally for 16 years. I’ve learned a thing or two in my time, but feel free to take any of my advice with as many grains of salt as you see fit. Let’s get into it. 

If you’re someone who constantly has high word counts and are looking to cut them down to fit into a zine or just in general, then this post is for you! I’m talking to all my over-writers out there. Today I want to talk about how to trim down unnecessary words and phrases from your writing to be more concise and less confusing and redundant. Keep in mind that there are times when you can use these things, but I’m just saying that a majority of the time you shouldn’t. And before anyone gets their feelings hurt, I’m guilty of a lot of these during drafting too because sometimes it’s just easier to use them and get the words onto the page. These are all things to eliminate in editing. If it’s easier for you to use them during your actual drafting process, then by all means. Just be sure to go back and edit them out, and eventually, you’ll reach a point where you can avoid them during drafting all together. 

1. Filler Words

“Cat what do you mean by filler words?”

Words like “that,” “very,” “really,” etc. 9/10 you don’t need them, but let’s talk about each one specifically. 

That is one that I’m particularly guilty of. Maybe it’s a regional dialect thing, but I use “that” in my regular conversations when I’m speaking a lot. The thing about “that” is it’s usually unnecessary, and sentences can make sense without it. Key word: usually. I’ll give a couple examples to show you the difference between when “that” is appropriate, and when it’s not needed:

Appropriate use of that:

“Hey, can you hand me that?” She pointed to the wrench on the counter.

Here, context will matter, but it’s perfectly fine to replace an object in a scene with the word “that” in this context. Sometimes “that” does have a place, so I’m not saying go out and delete all the “thats” from your stories. Just assess whether or not it’s necessary in each context, like my next example: 

Unnecessary use of that:

Something told her that he couldn’t be trusted. 

In this context, the sentence can work without the word “that.” It still makes grammatical sense to say, “Something told her he couldn’t be trusted.” The word “that” is just an extra word filling up space in the sentence. Delete it. 

“Very” and “really” tend to serve the same function, so I’ll lump them together. These two words offer a scale your readers don’t need. In most cases, it’s best to replace these words with stronger verbs, more specific adjectives, or just delete them all together. I’ll give some examples:

Weak: A very big cake sat on a table, colorful birthday candles waiting to be lit. 

Stronger: A large cake sat on the table, colorful birthday candles waiting to be lit.

Weak: She was very tired.

Stronger: She was exhausted. 

Weak: This wasn’t really how he planned on proposing.

Stronger: This wasn’t how he planned on proposing.

These words aren’t as descriptive as you might think, and more than anything, they just bog down the sentence. Your writing will pack more of a punch if you replace them with better descriptors and actions. 

2. Epithets

“the brown haired girl”

“the blonde”

“the writer”

“the musician”

I see epithets used a lot, and I want to commend epithet users because it comes from a place of good instincts. You use them as an alternate means to describe someone because you worry people will get tired of reading a character’s name over and over, and you are correct. People will get tired of that, but they’re also going to get tired of the overuse of epithets too. Here’s my two cents on the matter:

Epithets are fine if the character doesn’t have a name or if they don’t bear any importance to the story. Let’s say your character buys a coffee in one chapter from a random coffee shop they’ll never visit again. Saying something like, “The barista handed him his coffee,” is fine because the barista is serving one purpose in the story--they’re a barista. They don’t need a name because the readers are never going to see them again. 

However, if you’re using epithets for important characters or even the MC, what you’re really doing is creating distance. And in some cases you’re also confusing the reader just as much as if you used their names over and over. 

“Hey,” the blonde said. 

“How’s it going?” the brunette replied.

“Great! How about you?” Her friend smiled. 

Like, you see how that’s just as annoying? I promise you, I would much rather just read the characters’ names in this situation, but how do we fix this in a way that doesn’t involve repeating character names or pronouns, which can also get tricky in scenes where people of the same gender are talking? There are a couple of different ways. 

-Break up long conversations with action or description

Very rarely should your characters just be standing around doing nothing except talking. Create movement in the scene, utilize the surroundings, have your characters do something instead of just talking. Even if that’s all your characters are doing in a scene because a conversation needs to be had, you should still break up the conversation every now and then. How does your MC feel about what’s being said? What things might they be leaving unsaid? How does what they’re feeling manifest physically? What is their body doing?

Ex from my own writing:

“Can I make you some tea?” She offered, setting her bag on the stairs.

“Sure.”

Perfect. Tea was a good excuse not to look at him. She kept her back to him while she worked, pretending that she didn’t know where things were to stall for time. His eyes followed her every move. Watching. Waiting. She couldn’t keep this up forever, so she might as well get it over with.

“So, what’s up?” she asked while filling the kettle.

Instead of immediately continuing the conversation, you can pause to give the reader a breather, but it really depends on the situation. If you’re going to break a conversation, be sure it makes sense for the character to pause and reflect. If characters are having a heated debate, inserting a paragraph where the character is reflecting on their feelings might pull the reader out of the tension in the moment. Just be aware of what the tone and intention of the scene is. 

-rather than overusing dialogue tags, consider occasionally using an action tag. 

“Said” is fine. I’m not advocating for the overuse of action tags or giving every piece of dialogue a hyper-specific tone descriptor. But if you write an entire conversation using only things like “said” “asked” “replied,” you’re going to suffer from White Room Syndrome/Talking Heads Syndrome. 

“Cat, how is this different from the previous example?”

The previous example was about interjecting a non-dialogue paragraph and getting inside the character’s head or following their actions. This example refers to how you tag dialogue itself. I’ll give another example from my own writing:

“Wow.” Marinette’s eyebrows raised. Her makeup never looked half this good when she did it herself—a skilled hand made all the difference. She peeked up at Gabrielle applying her own lip gloss and pursed her lips. “So, what kind of party is this?”

“Relax, goody-two-shoes, the most exciting thing at this party is wine. My parents don’t let me go to trashy parties.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes, removing her large trench coat to reveal a sparkly black dress with mesh cutouts along the waist. “Just try not to act too lowbrow, okay? Don’t embarrass me.”

“I’ll do my best?” Marinette said as they pulled up to the front steps.

“Great.” Gabrielle tossed her compact into her purse and kicked open the door. “Oh, and just because we’re arriving together does not mean you are allowed to socialize with me here. Don’t hang off me like a sad little koala. Go dance and have fun with other people.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re friends,” Marinette said.

In this case, having action tags instead of dialogue tags helps keep the scene flowing without the repeated use of their names becoming redundant. Keep in mind that there are more ways for characters to interact during a conversation other than just speaking. Body language can tell the reader a lot about how characters might be feeling and what their relationship is to the person they’re speaking to. 

But just like the last point, I’m not advocating for you to go and delete every dialogue tag in your writing and replace it with an action tag. Use of action tags still needs to make sense and add something to the conversation. Using action just for the sake of action can be just as redundant and annoying to read. Conversations are a balancing act. Remember: “said” is fine, but using only “said’ is boring. Writing is a balancing act, so assess your scenes carefully. 

-create distinct character voices (*a topic I’ll touch on another day in more detail)

I’ve talked about dialogue tags, action tags, breaking up conversations with inner monologues, but what if I told you some lines of dialogue don’t need any tags at all? I’ll give an example from my own writing:

“I know I messed up. I’m sorry.” He lowered his gaze. “I learned my lesson.”

“Good. With your silly little conscience out of the way, we can actually get some real work done,” Chloe said. “I do have a few ideas for you, but…”

“But what?”

Chloe leaned against her fist with a wicked grin. “I need to test your loyalty. If you’re going to lie down with the dogs, you can’t be afraid to get dirty, so I need to know you’re capable of breaking the rules.”

A chill prickled his spine, and Adrien shifted in his seat. “What kind of rules?”

“See? This is why I have trust issues, Adrikins.”

In this example, I have two lines of dialogue that are untagged, but in both cases, it’s still clear who is talking. Given that this is a conversation between two people, and by sheer adherence to the “new speaker, new paragraph” rule, you can rightfully infer that Adrien is the one who says, “But what?” Similarly, you can assume the last line is said by Chloe, but the last line in particular is very specific character voice. Chloe is the only person who calls him “Adrikins,” so even if there was another person in this conversation, you’d still know it was her talking. Giving your characters a specific manner of speaking can help readers infer their dialogue in situations like this. This specific manner of speaking is known as “character voice.” It’s literally what it sounds like--the “voice” that readers will hear in their head for a specific character. If your character has a distinct and strong voice, readers will be able to pick up on their dialogue more easily. 

3. Adverbs

I feel like everyone gets heated about this one, and some writers will cling to their precious adverbs until their dying day. Cool, you do you, but I’m here to tell you that adverbs aren’t doing as much as you think they are. 

Don’t get me wrong, I like adverbs, and I’m not one that’s going to tell you to go out and delete every single adverb from your story. Adverbs do have their place and can add to a scene, but you need to be conscious of how you’re using them. Let’s talk about some examples of good and bad adverb usage:

Bad adverb: “She ran quickly down the road.”

Running is inherently something people do quickly. By definition, it’s faster than walking. 

Good adverb: She smiled sadly. 

Smiling is normally something people do when they’re happy. By adding the adverb “sadly” in this instance, it changes the meaning of the smile. 

When using adverbs, it’s best to ask yourself what exactly the adverb is adding to the scene, if anything. Is it changing the meaning of something, or is it being redundant? In general, most adverbs can be replaced with stronger verbs to improve a sentence or just deleted all together. 

It’s fine to just say: “She ran down the road.” But if you’re trying to convey a bigger sense of urgency in the way she’s running you could say: “She darted down the street.” or “She sprinted down the street.” Both of those are ways to say she’s running faster than normal. You could also get showy with it and say something like:

“The rubber soles of her shoes hit the pavement, ragged breaths weighing her lungs. Her child’s pained cries fell silent in her arms, and she cradled her closer. The hospital was still three blocks away.”

There are a lot of ways to eliminate adverbs from your writing to make it stronger. The world will go on without them. Please, let them go. 

There are plenty more things you can do to trim down word counts, but I feel like these are the big three I see a lot. Another option is cutting unnecessary scenes, but that’s a topic for another day. A lot of the time, you can easily cut down words by making these little line edits and improve your writing exponentially. If anyone has any more questions on how to trim these examples specifically, feel free to send me a message or leave a comment on this post. I’m always happy to talk writing! As always, we improve by helping each other, so don’t be afraid to ask. I’ll see you guys next time! 

#cats writing advice #writing advice #writing tips #writing help #writing ref #writing reference #writing community #writing

[screechthemighty]

Speaking of mentor figures, how about grieving the loss of one? Bit of a short update, but hey, an update's an update. AO3 link will be in a reblog, but here's the full chapter!

crash and burn (and then return again) | a titanfall 2 fanfic part three

.

The next day brought paperwork.

So, so much paperwork.

His recounting of Typhon could be given entirely in writing since he still struggled with being verbal. Writing it down was hard, but even the thought of giving a verbal interview, of having to actually talk about what he’d gone through, exhausted him. In writing, he could be concise, dispassionate, pretend it happened to some other poor SOB named Jack and he was just recounting it.

It didn’t really work that way, but at least he ended up crying in private and not on camera.

After the paperwork, it was time for another exam. The medic remembered him from last time and kept the AAC tablet out in case he needed it, which he appreciated. Fortunately, he was able to work his way up from one-word answers to short sentences as the exam went on.

Physically, he needed rest and to eat well. Psychologically, there were people he could speak to planet side that would help him out with this “difficult period.” He was given leave papers and a referral to a therapist who had experience working with autistic clients. “I’m not sure how much time you’ll be able to take, but take as much as you can,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen too many pilots burn out from overwork, and you’ve been through something unique.”

Not that unique after Broadsword, Cooper thought, but didn’t say. That was a bit too much for him to get out of his mouth at the moment, and at any rate, it felt a little too dark. You got used to gallows humor when you were in the military, but…

No, it was too soon to comment on either situation.

Cooper was walking from the med bay and debating whether he should risk getting food or just go back to sleep when Sarah Briggs rounded the corner. “Cooper, there you are,” she said. “How are you holding up?”

Bad was the first word that came to mind, but he shoved it back quickly. “Physically fit, ma’am,” he said instead.

“Glad to hear it. Did they get you set up with leave papers?” Cooper showed them to her, but kept the psych referral tucked in the back. “That’s good. Any family on Harmony?”

Cooper shook his head. All his family were still on Persephone, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the whole gaggle of his cousins, anyway. “I might.” Cooper paused to fully form the sentence in his head. “Someone I know might be stationed there. She’s with logistics.”

“She’ll probably be there, then. You’re more than welcome to visit. I know the head of R&D wants a word once you’re planet side. And…” Briggs hesitated. “Cassie…Captain Lastimosa’s niece, I don’t know if you knew about her…she may not know yet.”

Cooper’s chest ached. He did know about Cassie. Lastimosa had talked about her more than once. He was a little surprised that she didn’t know by now, but maybe they wanted to tell her in person. “She’ll probably have questions,” Briggs continued. “I don’t know if you’ll be up for it, but…”

“I’ll talk to her,” Cooper said. It would hurt, but… “She should hear it from me.” He’d been there when Lastimosa died. Stepped into his gear, his Titan, his mission. It was only right that she got the whole story from him.

Briggs nodded. “That’s kind of you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Appreciate probably wasn’t the right word, but Cooper didn’t want to think about that right now. A new question was gnawing at him, demanding some kind of answer. “What happens to me after, ma’am?”

Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Like I said, you’ve more than earned your pilot’s certification. They’ll probably want to run you through all the entrance tests, just to check where you need additional training, but that’s it. You’re one of us now, Cooper, if you still want to be.”

If all that stuff about parallel timelines was true, there was a Jack Cooper who was overjoyed to be getting that news. A Jack Cooper who had earned his way in under less bloody circumstances and felt he had the right to celebrate. The Cooper he was, though, could only feel a hollow ache.

He would have given up his dream of becoming a pilot in a heartbeat if it meant Lastimosa and BT could live.

But it didn’t work that way, and backing out now felt like spitting on everything Lastimosa had ever done for him. So, Cooper nodded. “I do want that,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am.”

He had to be worthy of Lastimosa’s sacrifice now. Worthy of all the trust and belief the man had put in him.

Worthy of all the trust and belief BT had put in him, too.

No matter what it took.

#fic: crash and burn (and then return again) #titanfall #titanfall 2

[barbiewritesstuff]

Five years

-- The film doesn’t release until next week in France but that doesn’t appear to stop my Jake thoughts, so, enjoy!

Taglist: @unsurebuttrying, @dempy, @peaches-1999 -- 

Jake has resigned himself that no one will come. No one ever comes. If he's lucky, he might get a text when he gets off the carrier, but it certainly wouldn't be more than that. It's not that they don't care, Jake knows, they are just busy. Mom and Dad are working, his sister is at college doing her phd and his brothers, okay, maybe his brothers don't care. 

He hangs back with Rooster and Maverick making awkward small talk for a while until Admiral Simpson mercifully interrupts. 

"Seresin, you're not going to see your family?" He asks

"There's no one waiting for me, Sir"

The Admiral raises an eyebrow, nodding towards the tarmac where all other families are waiting, "She's not with you?"

Jake looks out. He sees a woman about his little sister's age and height. Her long blonde hair hangs in loose waves on her shoulders, and her bangs covering the top of her glasses. Hangman has never been so happy to see you. 

A large smile threatens to appear on his face, he tries to keep a straight face as he jogs over to you. He even tries to look annoyed. He can't let you know he's happy you're there, you're his annoying little sister's best friend, he'd never hear the end of it if someone finds out he likes you. 

But then again, you'd be subjected to the same treatment if anyone knew you were here. 

Jake slows down as he gets closer to you, his poker face straining now, especially when he takes a proper look at you. You look nice. Your dress fits you well, it's short and flattering, and he'd happily keep staring at your legs for the rest of his life. Only one thing worries him when he looks at you. You look pissed.

"This book sucks ass!" You shout as soon as he arrives within speaking distance. You're holding up a book he told you about months ago, not expecting you to read it. He's touched by the gesture really, even if you hate the book.

"You drove the 16 hours from Texas to tell me that?" He asks, trying his hardest to sound annoyed

"Yes Jake! 'Oh he's a genius', 'A wordsmith like I ain't ever seen before' Bullshit! This man has the gift of gab, Jacob! He sure knows a lot of words and concise is not one of them!"

"You want to read a good book? Try this. Read it and weep, bitch." you say, slapping a book against his chest, your hand holding it there a moment too long, giving his heart time to override his brain and cover it with his own hand. You both blush as the contact. 

"I've already read it." he says, fairly certain his face twitched slightly in disappointment when you removed your hand. You shake your head slightly as if to chase a thought away.

"Cried like a baby?" you ask

"Oh yeah. I cried like a baby" he confirms, looking at his shoes. He’s not embarrassed by the fact that his team mates are watching now. It’s the intensity of whatever he’s feeling that makes him look away. 

"There's hope for you yet" you say. Jake looks at you again, directly in the eyes this time. You’re still frowning but whatever anger you had has disappeared now, or maybe it was never there and you just needed an excuse to come. No, there was definitely some type of anger, at what you’re not sure, but you’ve just realised what you’ve done. You are standing in front of Jake Seresin, in his tight fitting uniform. He's trying to hold in a smile.

"Look at me, I'm so angry I'm shaking" You breathe out, holding your hand in front of you and looking at it. Jake grabs it with his own. His hand is soft and warm. You’ve held it before, it never used to make you feel this way, it never used to make your breath hitch.

"That's withdrawal, sweetheart. From that ridiculous caffeine addiction you have" he eventually says, taking both of the books you’re holding and nodding towards the parking lot. 

"Don't call me sweetheart" you say, swallowing the rest of your sentence: because it makes my heart beat faster with yearning for something you will never give me, “I brought you pizza" you add

You walk to his truck where you’ve unceremoniously dumped the pizza boxes in your haste to make it inside the base to see him. You’re a little scared that the cheese might have shifted when you threw the boxes but it appears to be fine. 

You’ve picked up his favourite pizza. It shouldn’t feel so funny, because of course you’d pick up his favourite pizza, you’re nice like that, it’s the fact that he never told you what his order was. It’s the fact that you had paid enough attention to him to figure it out by yourself. He looks at you as you take a bite out of your own pizza.

"Stop staring" you tell him

You turn away to grab another slice of pizza from the box behind you.

"What are you thinking?" you ask. He’s trying to talk himself out of doing it, out of just turning around and kissing you. 

"I'm thinking you like me" he says instead, giving you a chance to reject him. Because he cannot do this. You are younger, you are cute and most of all, you are his little sister’s best friend. Doing anything, even just talking and eating pizza, would be the death of your friendship with her and punishable by death for him. You know this, so why did you do it anyway?

"You're full of shit, Jake Seresin" you snap back. 

He’s seen you with other people. With other guys. You’re not usually this abrasive, you’re usually nice, mild-mannered and polite. But with him, you’re always acting like he’s getting on your nerves, even when he knows he’s not. 

Like that time before your exams a few months ago, he’d spent the night explaining the same psychological school of thought to you for the fourth year in a row (even though he had plans, plans he cancelled almost immediately because pathetically, sitting next to you trying to explain Gestalt psychology seemed like a better way to spend an evening), and by four in the morning, you had gotten it enough that you’d be able to pass the exam without worrying too much. There had been a second there, in the silence of the house, after he had made you both drinks. There had been a second where he thought he might have a chance with you. You had leaned close, your lips almost touching and then, in the blink of an eye, you had played it off like you had meant to stand up all along, bringing your cup with you to the kitchen. You’d slammed a cupboard closed, “Would it kill you to close the cabinets when you’re done?” you had spat at him.

He didn’t know why he held onto that moment so hard. Maybe it was because he felt angry when he was with you. Not at you, he could never. But at the fact that he had never, in his life, wanted to kiss someone so badly. 

"Oh am I? So you usually drive 16 hours for random guys" he snapped back with no real bite in his voice.

"On the daily" You sass, then, in a softer and quieter voice you add, "You're not random, you're my best friend's brother."

There is a pause as you both bite down on your pizza slices. 

It’s a damn shame he is too, you think, because if he wasn’t you might have kissed him. You would have kissed him. Despite the fact that this freak of nature liked anchovies on his damn pizza. 

"What are you thinking?" he asks. When you reply, he thinks he might have died and gone to heaven

"I'm thinking I want you to kiss me" your mouth says before you can stop it. 

"My sister will kill you" he breathes out, putting his slice of pizza back in the box and staring at the tarmac in front of him. A jet is gearing up for take off. Jake wipes his fingers clean, and then that gorgeous fucking mouth of his and then he turns towards you, gently taking your slice and throwing it to the side before grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling you a little closer.

You shrug, trying to stay calm and keep your heart from leaping out of your chest, "She'll kill me just for coming" you say, your voice low. Forget keeping your heart from beating through your chest, he’s standing so close to you he can probably feel it and for every thud your heart makes, you swear you can feel an echo.

"Ah. 'Go big or go home', then?" he jokes, both of his hands snaking up to cup your face;

"Yeah. Make the trip really worth the ass kicking I'm going to receive" you release a breathy laugh

He hummed, "It would be mean of me to refuse, wouldn't it?" 

Jake doesn’t know why he’s stalling now. You want to kiss him, you told him as much. But you’re so close and he can’t concentrate. Why is he stalling? He knows how to kiss. He just has to bend down and do it. Three… Two… One…

"And rude, don't forget r--." you start but you never finish, because in a second, Jake’s lips are against yours in a bruising kiss. You don’t know yet, but he’s putting five years of pining, crushing and being head-over-heels in love with you into that kiss. He can’t find the words to tell you, but he’s damn well going to try and make you feel it. 

He doesn’t want to come back up for air, he’s happy to die here, actually. Forever stuck in your embrace, your arms thrown around his neck so comfortably that he wonders if they’re not made to be there. But you have to break the kiss at some point, and when you do, you rest your forehead against Jake’s while you catch your breath.

"How long are you here for?" he breathes out between pants

"Six hours. I have work tomorrow." you reply, disappointed that you didn’t take the day off, but then again, you didn’t think your five years of wishing Jake would kiss you would end today.

"Lots we can do in six hours" he says

Even though you don’t mean it, because you’ve certainly thought about Jake that way, you say, "You're a pig, Jacob" gently bumping his head with your hand.

He chuckles, looking down at his shoes, "I was thinking of a date. But if you're offering…"

Go big or go home, right? His sister’s going to kill you anyway, “How about both?”

He freezes for a second, then he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. His hands are still resting on your waist from the kiss and as he opens his eyes to reveal blown out pupils, you feel them gripping tighter til you’re sure there will be a bruise.

“How do you feel about a breakfast date?” he asks, letting go of you and unlocking his truck. 

Fuck work.

“Favourite way to end a night,” you reply, practically jogging into the passenger seat. The pizzas all but forgotten in the bed of the truck, Jake drives off towards his house, barely able to keep the hand that’s on his gear stick from sliding up your thigh. 

#fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #fanfiction #hangman x reader #original fic #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #hangman top gun

[strifesolution]

KPDR[GLFR,DPGK,!!!!!! THE END OF AN ERA...

We actually got to read the epilogue together on voice call, which felt like a fitting end to it all. We don't know what to do now, we're gonna miss this book club so much you can't even believe :sob:

So in honour of the book club we've formed, here are some fun facts about us while reading:

-I read the chapters incredibly fast, twice the pace of Alto

-Alto, when a scene would get emotional, would go onto your RTSoot playlist and listened to Buzzcut Season

-We both agreed that them sharing a kitchen was a miracle because it's SO stressful irl

Anyways this fic has completely rewired our brain chemistry, the book club system is genuinely so good and we're gonna miss this fic sososo bad, we cannot wait for the oneshots. I wish I could be more concise and precise with how we feel but orz. That's it. Orz. o(-(. OTL. I love my farmer boys :(

BOOK CLUB MY BELOVED 🫡 You will be missed...... until next time......it's very fitting you did that because that's how me and Van edit HAHA the amount of times they would swap up Daithi and Dan's names reading a sentence with both of them around was incredible. Also that time they pronounced Spiff as Speef.

Anyway. You are so right tbh i do not know how anything gets made in that kitchen. Dan probably kicks people out all the time. But tbh it was originally built with three kids in mind, so,

Bonus: there's multiple foreshadowing/setup moments for our future plans in the last couple chapters, this is most certainly one of them

#dynamite pass we will see you some day #just maybe not through dan's perspective #we're gonna write chapter 2 of the wolf first tho that's priority #5r6c #ask

[duckprintspress]

How to Pitch to Duck Prints Press

A post by Duck Prints Press staff editor Lacey Hays.

In the publishing world, the word “pitch” conjures up a certain image. Perhaps you’ve been asked to write an “elevator speech” so you can quickly pitch your story to an interested party at a conference or meeting. Maybe you’ve participated in Twitter pitch-parties where you only have 255 characters to hook an agent. Every publisher and agent has their own expectations, and we are no different at Duck Prints Press. Since submissions are open again, we thought we’d take out some of the guesswork and tell you what we, as a press, are looking for.

For authors who have never worked with us before, the application asks for two  submissions: a writing sample and a pitch. The requirements for the writing sample are listed as part of the rubric for each anthology. We’re often looking for something a little different with each project, so we highly encourage you to look over the rubric and follow it closely when selecting a piece of your writing to share. Otherwise, it’s pretty straightforward. We want to see the best of you—a polished selection of writing that sings to your abilities as an author.

What we’re looking for in a pitch is more subjective and a bit different from other presses. Many presses only accept fully written stories, so a pitch is used as a teaser to drum up interest. We choose authors for their storytelling ability, assessed by their writing samples, and then ask them to write us a new, never-before-seen story. While we don’t expect authors to submit completed stories, we do want to know you have a fully realized story you want to write that interests us and fits within the anthology’s themes and requirements. In essence, what we would like is a cross between a teaser and a summary—something interesting that tells us how the story will unfold and lets us see how it might fit in with the other stories in the anthology. Here are our suggestions on how you can create dynamic and interesting pitches specifically for Duck Prints Press:

Spoil us! No, seriously. We want to know the beginning, the middle, and the end of your story. Or, if not the end, at least give us a clear view of story progression with an intriguing hook. We need to know there is a story in your heart and that you know where it’s going.

Fit the brief. Every anthology is unique. Each one has a list of requirements, and your pitch should make it clear how your proposed story fits those requirements. If the anthology asks for a certain genre, a certain type of character, or a certain type of relationship, call those things out. Don’t make us guess.

Give your pitch some character. Who are the main players and what are their relationships? How do you want these relationships to resolve? Found family? Tell us! Enemies to lovers? Same! The characters don’t need names yet, but they nonetheless need to live and breath on the page.

Plot is everything. What does the main character (MC) want, what is in their way, and how does their life change? What motivates your MC? Who, or what, is the antagonist, and why? How do you want to resolve the plot (even if you leave off on a question?) You won’t convince us you’re ready to tell this story without conveying these aspects of the story.

Make us feel. Is there longing in your story? Passion? Anger? Romance? We want to get a feel for the tone as we read your pitch. Please make sure it matches the tone we’ve asked for in the anthology, though. A grimdark horror story for a “happily ever after” anthology won’t make the cut.

Take all the space you need. Each pitch has a maximum number of words. We give plenty of room to make sure you can fit everything you need because we’re looking for so much more than an elevator speech. Be aware of the flow, though. You want to be concise and exciting.

Edit, edit, edit. Your pitch is as important as your writing sample and should be edited to the best of your ability. It should be formatted well, have good sentence variety, use excellent grammar, and have been spell checked. We don’t expect perfection, but editing is a major part of our process. We like to see that our authors turn in their best work every time. It can often help to have someone else look over your work before you turn it in. We strongly encourage the use of alpha and beta readers for all press work.

Tag it. We ask that, in addition to submitting your pitch, you also submit a list of preliminary tags. Think about how you would tag this story if you were to post it on Archive of Our Own. Will your story contain potentially upsetting content like sexual abuse (on screen or off screen?) Character death? Harm to children? Our staff has a variety of life experiences and while we strongly believe in your freedom to write what you want, we believe equally in harm reduction and giving people the tools they need to curate their own experiences. We request more general tags as well. Are you planning a story that you’d call fluffy? Is it angst with a happy ending, or hurt/comfort, or whump? We’d love to see tags similar to those that would go in each section of an AO3 post: major warnings/potential triggers, type of relationship (if any), and “additional tags.” You don’t have to have everything single thing in there, and they can potentially change, but tags help us assess what tone and specific content you’re planning to include in your story, once it’s fletched out from short pitch to full length. Tagging is not optional.

Most of all, have fun! If you are in love with your story, we will see that love. You are applying to write with us because you have a passion for writing that you want to share with the world. Don’t get lost in the details and forget. We have authors from around the world who have written for a huge variety of fandoms, people who are native speakers and grammarians, people who speak English as a second (or third) language, people who dabble in every genre. What do we all have in common? A passion for the craft. We love to write, and we want to work with people who also love to write. You—yes you!—can do this, and we can’t wait to see what you have to show.

Looking for more information? We’ve got you covered; this is not the first time we’ve written about pitches!

Guest blogger Alec J. Marsh wrote a two-part series about Query Letters: Why Query Letters are Good, Actually and How to Write a Great Query Letter

The last time we opened for submissions, we did an anthology-specific post about what we look for in pitches, including samples of pitches we liked from applicants to our first anthology, Add Magic to Taste.

We also wrote a long post containing general advice on how to transition from writing fanfiction to writing original fiction.

Want some guidance on how to edit, edit, edit? Here are some quick tips on how to edit your own writing.

Who We Are: Duck Prints Press LLC is an independent publisher based in New York State. Our founding vision is to help fanfiction authors navigate the complex process of bringing their original works from first draft to print, culminating in publishing their work under our imprint. We are particularly dedicated to working with queer authors and publishing stories featuring characters from across the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. Love what we do? Sign up for our monthly newsletter and get previews, behind-the-scenes information, coupons, and more.

Through the month of January, 2023, all new monthly backers on our Patreon and ko-fi can claim a merchandise freebie in addition to all their backer rewards – which, depending on your backer level, could include a free copy of this story! Why not take a peek at what we have to offer?

#duck prints press #aether beyond the binary #guest blogger #lacey hays #publishing #weekly blog feature #writing advice

[kinfanfiction]

Bernard x Elf!Reader - Chapter 7 - Mistletoe

A/N: This is the chapter I have been SO EXCITED TO WRITE!!! (Letter reveal tomorrow!) 

Added my token cuss word into the fic. There was no other word more fitting to use and you’ll see what I mean.

     Today, as much as Bernard wanted to spend more time with you, he had to work on writing your letter. He sat in his office, finishing some work before he locked into writing your letter. He thought about everything he could write. He decided to start by writing down the meanings behind each of the charms on your necklace. Once he started, his mind just kept filling up with thoughts of you. Everything he saw and felt when you were around, and even when you weren’t. His thoughts flowed from one page to the next, and he realized he was writing far too much, and a lot of what he wrote hardly made any sense once he read it back to himself, so he decided to take bits and pieces from his rough draft and make it more concise, so maybe you might understand the depth of his emotions. In his letter, he made alluded to the promise that his feelings wouldn’t fade over time. He wrote about all the trips he wanted to go on with you, thinking about your conversation the night before. 

     You, however, were missing his presence in the workshop. You were used to this feeling, but being used to this sadness didn’t make it go away. Now that he wasn’t there, Curtis and his rulebook were back. Usually, you’d just try to hide away somewhere, or at the very least hide your face so as to not draw attention to yourself or your work. But today you felt a little more brave. Inevitably, he started going off about how you weren’t doing your project correctly, and in that moment you felt like you might explode. “You still won’t follow toy making protocol!”

     Luckily, you knew how to control your temper to where, once you spoke you only sounded slightly annoyed. “I’ve been making toys this way since you were a baby, no one has ever bothered me about it before. Not even Santa.” 

     “‘Not even Santa!’” He mocked, “Yeah, maybe the Santa you knew when I was a baby, but I’m sure our current Santa would enjoy seeing you follow the rulebook!” He continued to argue, and you really weren’t in the mood.

     “Curtis! It’s fine! Please, just give me a break!” You shouted, and by now the whole workshop was watching the two of you bicker.

     Curtis, in spite of how patient you were trying to be with him, was still very wound up. “It’s not my fault you refuse to follow the rules! Just because the head elf is in love with you doesn’t mean you can avoid all constructive criticism!” At this sentence you stopped and gave him a confused, and still very frustrated look. 

     “I don’t need your ‘constructive criticism’, I have gone many years crafting toys the same way and perfected each project I’ve been given without any issue. Also, Bernard is not in love with me, we are just very close because we’ve known each other for so long.” You told Curtis off on both parts of his snarky remark. Yet, where your words ended, the workshop collectively rolled their eyes. You noticed this, and turned to look at all their faces. They were silently telling you that you were an idiot for not already knowing Bernard had feelings for you. “Do you.. all think he’s in love with me?” You questioned. Everyone nodded at the same time. “Why?” Now Curtis was real annoyed.

     “Do we have to spell it out for you? We’re Santa’s elves. We see everything. The way he looks at you, the way he talks to you. The way he’s constantly reaching for you. Open your eyes! We’ve all known for so long that he’s in love with you, we’re just surprised you still don’t.” You looked at the other elves for confirmation, and they all nodded again. “Anyways, just try to follow protocol! It might make things easier for you.” Curtis spoke finally before walking away.

     You tried getting back to work, but Curtis words stuck with you all day. Was your best friend really in love with you? Were the younger elves reading too much into it, or were you not reading into it far enough? You tried not to think about it too much, especially as their theory began to make more sense as you looked back. There was a certain look he had on his face when he looked at you that you always took as a deep admiration for you as a friend, and more specifically you thought about the way he’d looked at you when he leaned in close the other day. At the time, you assumed he was tired, but now as you thought the moment through.. your head hurt. He seemed different when you were close by, but you already knew that, you just figured that your closeness as friends made him that way. 

     You had to focus on your work. It was the 23rd. Absolutely NO room for mistakes on the day before Christmas Eve. You couldn’t think about Bernard anymore. You cast aside any thought that didn’t involve the work in front of you. You went outside to feed the reindeers again, letting the cold distract you from inner turmoil. Then, near the end of the day you returned to work indoors, focusing on more candy making. 

     Bernard had finally written his letter in time for Christmas Eve. Tomorrow he could focus on getting Santa ready for takeoff, and then once he was gone Bernard could focus on you. As he was thinking of you, he realized it was getting late and you hadn’t come up to find him. So, he went downstairs to find you. He checked your usual spot in the workshop, and you weren’t there, so he went to the candy station, and he found you very carefully crafting candy canes once again, your eyebrows were knit tightly together and your tongue barely sticking out. He chuckled at the sight, and the sound of his voice made you jump and screw up your candy cane. “Dammit! You scared me.” You said putting a hand to your chest as you regulated your breathing.

     He widened his eyes, “I had no idea you’d be so surprised to see me. Everyone else has gone home, I figured you might want to?” He spoke more as if he was asking a question rather than making a statement. You looked around and noticed you were the only two elves left. You were indeed surprised.

     “Wow, would you look at that.. I really let time slip away from me today.” You spoke with a nervous chuckle. You put away all the candy material you had been working with and looked at Bernard with a curious look he recognized. You had something on your mind and it had something to do with him. He was too afraid to ask what you were thinking, so he silently hoped it was all good things. As you inspected him closely you thought about what Curtis had said earlier, and as you got closer Bernard grew more nervous. He felt like a mouse about to be attacked by a cat because of how you were staring at him, but quickly that feeling faded as you grabbed his hand and began to walk with him out of the workshop as always.

     You had to be sure he had feelings for you, and you had to find out in a subtle manner just in case he didn’t. You watched him as you walked, continuing to hold your hand in his. He seemed fine for now, smiling when you made eye contact. He was acting friendly. You didn't understand what the elves were on about. Then, when you got to your door, you made a mistletoe appear. You weren’t gonna kiss him on the lips or anything! That would not be subtle. You watched his reaction. He looked at the mistletoe and then at you, immediately blushing. It was just a blush, maybe he was just embarrassed at the idea of kissing someone he only saw as a friend? It was sort of a strange reaction from a friend, but it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a telltale sign. You had to play it off like you had nothing to do with the sudden appearance of mistletoe, “These things are always spawning around the North Pole as we get closer to Christmas Eve.” You stated with a shrug and chuckle, before giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He let go of your hand and took a step back, his whole face went red. He chuckled anxiously and put a hand to his chest. “I-Hm- Goodnight!” He stuttered, not sure what to do with himself as he began to walk away. With his every move, you felt more and more like such an oblivious idiot. He was in love with you. And now you knew it for sure.

     You spent the night pacing throughout your house, flooded with a mix of emotions. He was in love with you and didn’t tell you. You had been calling him your best friend for hundreds of years and for who knows how many of those years he’d been in love with you! You had never even begun to consider loving him as more than a friend, not because you could never feel that way about him, but because you just didn’t think of it. You never desired a romantic relationship with anyone your whole life simply because the thought of it felt unfamiliar, scary, and ultimately unnecessary to your way of life. Why have a romantic relationship when you can just do everything usually considered romantic with your best friend? Oh god and now you just felt so guilty. Here you were being romantic with someone who was in love with you because you didn’t know. If you’d known you would’ve-! Well, actually, you weren't sure what you would’ve done. 

     Now, you had to address your own feelings for him. Man, you were so unsure. Being friends with him was familiar, comfortable, and safe. But a relationship? You’d get closer and be more vulnerable with him in a way you’d never been with anyone before. Then again, you already were closer and more vulnerable with him than you ever had been with anyone else. So... could you be in love with him? In the end, you knew you couldn’t just decide to be in love, you had to truly feel it. You stopped pacing and sat down. You made a thinking face and just sat cross-legged staring at the fireplace from your bed. So, when you thought of relationships, the idea itself made you feel unsafe and insecure. To you, relationships were fickle moments where you poured your soul out to someone and they just... left. Yet... nothing about you and Bernard’s relationship was fickle. He’d always been at your side through everything. He made you feel safe, secure, loved, supported. You meant it when you said he was perfect. He warmed your heart in a way no one ever could. When he held you, you felt as if you could melt into his arms...

     Holy shit. You were in love with him too.

#bernard #bernard the elf #bernard x reader #bernard the elf x reader #the santa clause #the santa clause 2 #y/n #fem reader #fanfic #fan fiction #david krumholtz #chapter 7

[foolsocracy]

Personally, I'm on the "Sam Prime has only one life" train because it makes far more sense why he's looking for ways to extend it mechanically if he only has the one than if he has three. A single life is a lot more volatile; one mistake could end it in a flash. Three gives you a little more leeway, so you can learn and live again. For someone to be so intricately entwined with death and escape from it, it feels symbolic to only have one life. (Plus Philza and Techno each only have one, and their relationships with death are Also incredibly entwined with that fact, so it just makes sense to me.)

REAL!! anon you're so real. let me speak on this

Only having one life is definitely much more of a motivator for Sam's clone shenanigans. And i also think it would be important to note that, from what I remember, most of Sam's raving about new bodies is about avoiding injury & outside forces that could kill you. I think he does mention bodies breaking down with age too, but I think it comes across as secondary when he talks about it. At least from what I can remember.

Only having one life also works well with the fact that he knew Phil from when Phil was much much younger (100s? 1000s? of years!). I'm pretty sure both Phil and Techno emphasize that them having one life has to do with where they are from, rather than who they are. Considering that Phil met Sam prior to Techno, and Phil and Techno being from the same place, its pretty likely that Sam is from there as well.

Another thing I'd like to mention is Sam Prime's reaction to waking up after being in a clone body for so long. It was a shocked, "I died." The way he says it isn't a way I'd expect someone who grew up aware that you can die and come back to life twice. And you may be thinking, maybe he's crazy delusional cause he's Sam and he's convinced himself that he can't die in a clone. And this is true. BUT! Boomer also has a very telling reaction. Its very much along the lines of you couldn't have died, you're right here! Now THIS is a sentence out of the mouth of someone who only has one shot at life.

now onto how Sam has died and behaved like a 3-heart character. Sam on the DSMP has no memory of being Sam Prime, and so he believes he's the same as any other person from the region, aka someone who has 3 lives. It could be fun to think that he might have incredibly repressed memories of his lives (or lack their of) when making sense of a comment he made back in the Trapped in Prison streams: he goes through Limbo to get back to his body in between deaths.

"but ryin! he was being metaphorical!" maybe! but what if he wasn't! makes you think. Perhaps if Sam's consciousness is in a clone body when that clone dies, he travels through some type of limbo where he can locate and return to his own original body, another clone, or even re-inhabit the same body that just died. DSMP Sam isn't even aware he has clones or an original body to get back to, so he just reanimates the old one.

Another comment on this Limbo --- Sam Bucket. It is widely agreed upon that Sam Bucket is another one of Sam's clones, and I believe the same. But there are a few things BBH has said about him that really stump me: 1) you can't touch him, 2) he can teleport, to an extent (as seen in the Sam Bucket finale). It's very... ghostly, no? Maybe the case with Sam Bucket was that when he died and was possessed by the Egg, he also lost that knowledge of how to successfully transfer back to another body. Or maybe it was because his conciseness wasn't only his anymore, that it couldn't fit back into his bodies right. So Sam Bucket could be an apparition of the consciousness that was in the Sam Bucket clone, and continues to haunt the Egg. The teleportation could be explained that way, as he doesn't need to adhere to the laws of physics; or maybe since he is so closely bonded with the Egg while being incorporeal, he's gained the Egg's ability to teleport.

Now for why he is suddenly back in his body after DSMP Sam's 2nd death. This one can go a lot of ways. Here're some ideas:

Going off of Sam Prime's shock of having died in a clone, perhaps Sam's Dream & Ponk deaths would be the first one's he'd ever experience. I also want to relate this to the 3-lives system as well, so maybe after 2 'deaths,' the more powerful 1-life Sam Prime had is reduced to an equivalent to a single 3-lives life. If that makes sense. With only one 'life' left, it is instinctively sent back to the original body to sustain it with what is left.

If we want to add the previously discussed Sam Bucket theory into this, here we go. It still makes sense that Sam Prime would not be aware that that body died, as his consciousness never returned to the original body to be added to the mix. Here, it would also help to think of the 1-life as split not into the one death, two deaths, sent back to body, like the previous scenario, but instead the clones can go through 3 'lives' before being forced back to Sam Prime.

Maybe the energy taken from the 1-life Sam Prime has isn't so easily split up into the 3-life system. It could be where energy is just drained over time, and the Ponk death was the straw that broke the camel's back. Its convenient, but possible. Also, it was the only death Sam had after he saw Sam Bucket. Maybe being exposed to his own consciousness triggered something in his head where it defaulted him back to Sam Prime? Who knows

Anyway, that was a lot of words to say Yeah, I like the 1-life Sam theory.

#sorry for any typos #lmk if there r any or if something doesnt make sense #cause my ass is not reading this over #can u tell im crazy #im a lore head to my core... despite my artist exterior #c!sam #awesamdude #sam prime #anon #asks #thanks sm for the ask btw!! #if you couldnt tell i love talking abt this #cough cough 900 word response #cough #did cc!sam plan this out in his head? probably not #am i working with what i have? you best believe it! #where r my insane ppl at #feel free to chime in!

[dingusships]

I'm loving this theory so I made a little genetics doodle thing

OOOHGHOOO YOU GET ME!!! YOU GET IT HE’S A PERFECT MIX OF THEM.

He got the pointiness of his nose from Green & the longness came from from Sebastian for sure; dude his jawline & everything you listed fits. He’s the spitting image of both of them in both canons

He’s a conniving shithead partly thanks to Sebastian’s Jackass Genetics BUT has a good enough heart deep down from Green that he was willing to learn & do better later on. AYO WHAT IF…Ace got his knack for music from Sebastian’s side of the family. Murdoc’s does bass too, Sebastian was (albeit shittily) involved in entertainment/performance. BRO…

ALSO….HOLLERING BC I WROTE THE SAME KINDA THING WAY BACK.. yours is much more concise & nice tho LMFAOO 😭 Mine is very stream of thought & is missing images/parts of sentences but we noticed the same things !!! this is a Same Brain moment so it MUST be true

#I have a Bigass thing im writing for the other ask oghoohoh you and me our brains are huge and emitting lightning #ace copular #gangreen gang

[iottiematthews]

lottienat ficlet

“y’know, you’re like a cat.”

in the haze of smoke and vapour and wretched smell lottie can only begin to describe as “teenage stank”, she almost doesn’t hear nat’s quiet remark.

“huh?” she twists to look at the shorter girl who’s sitting to her right on the floor, head leaning back on the couch. her bleached hair is sticking up in places in a way that would have lottie’s mom absolutely fussing, but that looked sort of endearing on nat. she was smoking a cigarette with her eyes closed with an empty red solo cup clenched in her hand. 

peaceful, lottie thinks dazedly. if you believe it’s possible to achieve such a state of mind at such a raucous, shitty house party like this one. lottie doesn’t even remember why she’d come; she’d been more hung up on the fact that nat had agreed to go with her. 

“like… a cat. the ones that meow, ya know?” nat jokes faintly, and lottie giggles. she’s pretty faded, voice laced with much less snap in it than usual. of course, nat never snaps at lottie, but her voice always contains that bite. not now, though. 

“yeah, i know what a cat is, nat. how am i like one?” she asks, nudging nat’s head slightly with her knee. nat makes a little grunting noise before shifting up so she can turn and rest her elbows on the cushion of the couch, staring right into lottie’s eyes. 

jesus christ, her pupils are blown so wide there’s practically no white in them. her eyes are rimmed slightly red, though it’s hard to tell in the darker atmosphere of the basement, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on her face. still, when nat grins, her face lights up, canines stretching to fill her mouth like wrongly fitted dentures. or something. 

maybe not wrongly fitted. nat has a gorgeous smile, all teeth, like the artist who molded her face weaned the edges off into a sharp point like a statement to compliment the jaggedness of her eyeliner. lottie likes it. she really likes nat’s smile. 

“well, uh, let’s see. you’re, like, the princess of wiskayok, very cat vibes, you feel me? cats are like, the royalty of pets, or whatever.”

lottie cocks her head, amused, inclining her to go on. the corner of nat’s mouth tugs up and and she complies. 

“hm. you sorta slow blink like a cat too. you just have feline energy? i guess? well, wait, you’re not, like, catty, or anything, i just meant—“ and nat’s voice raises in urgency, eyes widening halfway through her sentence like she’s swallowed a stone and it’s just gotten lodged in her throat. 

lottie leans forward. “no, no, i think i get it,” she murmurs, smiling to herself. nat relaxes back into herself after lottie reassures her with a small nod. she likes seeing this side of her, the one that isn’t so tightly wound, snapping like a rubber band. maybe it’s the influence of the weed (it’s definitely the influence of the weed) but nat is softer now. lottie likes her in any form, under any influence, but right now she’s really enjoying this nat’s company. 

“you’re also really pretty,” nat tacks on after a beat of something hangs in the air between them. almost as if it’s an afterthought, but said so earnestly with such surprising care that lottie doesn’t think it’s a mindless remark. nat doesn’t make afterthoughts, after all. all her statements are concise, to the point, and sometimes cutting, but they definitely land their mark. 

lottie tries not to let the electricity shooting up her leg show on her face. 

you’re also really pretty you’re also really pretty you’re also really pretty

and just like that, every compliment, every half-assed attempt at flirtation the pathetic wiskayok boys have attempted fall flat in the face of natalie scatorccio and the cigarette between her teeth. 

lottie blushes, turns her head. “guess i could say the same for you, scat,” she snarks, nudging nat’s arm with her knee again. nat bares her teeth in that grin of hers and bats at her thigh. 

“bitch,” nat mutters, showing absolutely no sign of resentment in her big, big, big eyes. 

“thought you said i was a cat?” lottie simpers, voice sticky sweet. nat looks up at her again, eyes glittering with unsaid somethings. she says nothing, though, and lottie lets it pass. 

and before, well, lottie’s always preferred dogs, but maybe she’ll give cats a chance now.

#my sillies #yellowjackets #lottienat #lottie matthews #natalie scatorccio