#thank you for these questions they're so fun

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Quite Elementary

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x GN!Reader

Summary: For Career Day, you invite your boyfriend to talk to your students about what he does as The Falcon.

Joaquin Torres Masterlist

Every year, Career Day is something well-received among your students. However, this year is extra special because you recruited your own boyfriend, Joaquin, to take part in it.

It's during lunch time when he as well as several other people come in to set up for their Career Day presentations.

Parents, relatives, and members of the community all file in, setting their things in the back, introducing themselves to each other. You can't help but smile with pride when a few are a little starstruck when they see Joaquin. You know that Joaquin is also loving the attention.

You huddle the group together and give them the rundown, "Alright, folks! First off, thank you for setting time aside in your busy schedule for my students. It's a pleasure to have you all today. I know my kiddos are very excited to hear what you all do. I just ask that you try to keep your presentations to about five to seven minutes long. I'd like to make sure each presenter has enough time for the Q&A portion. Any questions?"

The group shakes their heads, "Alrighty! I'll go grab the kids and bring them back. There's some coffee and pastries for you by my desk!"

You give them a nod and head out into the hallway. You hear footsteps following you and you stop. You look at your boyfriend with a playful smirk, "Need something, Captain Torres?"

He smirks back and chuckles, "Come on, angel, don't be like that. You barely looked at me when I came in."

"I'm at work, Joaquin. I need to be professional."

"Fine, fine, just a little kiss though?" He juts out his bottom lip and gives you a puppy dog look.

You giggle, "Fine," you lean in and peck his lips, "I love you, I'll see you in a few."

"Love you too, angel," he replies to you and then heads back into your classroom.

______________________

All of your students gasp when they file into the classroom. They begin to whisper with each other and point at Joaquin, who switched into his Falcon suit.

"One, two, three, eyes on me!" to call out to grab your students' attention.

"One, two, eyes on you!" The respond back.

You smile, "Perfect. Now, as you can see, we have some very special guests. So if you all could take a seat at your desks, we'll begin with the Career Day presentations!"

Your third graders all rush to their seats, all exuding excitement. Once everyone was settled in, you announced the first speaker, "Alright. First, let's welcome Roberto Dominguez who will talk about being a chef and running his own restaurant. Everyone let's give him a hand!"

Your students all applause and Roberto stands at the front of the class.

You make your way to the back with the other guests. Joaquin immediately wraps and arm around your waist, "They're so excited," he whispers in your ear.

You nod, "I know. It's adorable. I love to see how interested they get."

"When am I going up?"

"Best for last," you give him a wink, "Don't disappoint."

He scoffs, "I got this, angel."

__________________________

The second to last speaker, just finished up their presentation by providing little pocket art kits to each student.

"Let's give another big thank you to Caden for their presentation and for the little gifts."

"Thank you, Caden!" the students holler out.

"You're very welcome!" They respond with a wide smile.

"Alright, last, but certainly not least, we have Captain Joaquin Torres, also known as The Falcon!"

Joaquin breaks out into a wide smile when the children's applause and hollers outshine the previous presenters.

Joaquin laughs and holds a finger to his lips, "Alright. Settle down. Can't let anyone else know that we're having a lot of fun here, right?"

He claps his hands together, "Okay. Hi, everyone. I'm Captain Torres or The Falcon. Whichever, I don't mind," he smiles as he looks at the group of children.

"So I'm in the Air Force and what we do is fly airplanes, go on missions, and help protect the country. Me, specifically, I'm part of the ISR. That's the Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance division. So I help gather information about anyone who is trying to hurt us or the country. And, I also help Captain America with his missions too, as you all might've seen." He says the last part in a very cocky manner that you can't help but roll your eyes to.

"Who has some questions for Captain Torres?" you ask your class and just about everyone's hands shoot into the air.

You giggle, "I'm not surprised. Okay. Amrita, you first."

The young girl smiles brightly at Joaquin, "Do you fight bad guys every day?"

"Not every day. I fight them a lot, but definitely not everyday. Sometimes I'm just on base, sitting at a desk gathering information."

You pick your next student, "Jacob, go ahead."

"When you fell into the water at Celestial Island, did you die?"

You give your student a stern look, "Jacob, that's not an appropriate-"

Joaquin interjects, "It's okay, ang-I'm mean Teacher Y/N. I can answer it." He clears his throat, "I almost died, but because of the amazing work of doctors, like Doctor Iqbal who spoke earlier, they saved me. Because us heroes aren't anything without the great healthcare workers that patch us up whenever we get hurt."

You give Joaquin a nod of approval and then turn back to your class, "Okay. We have five more minutes before school is over so I'm picking three names from the name jar."

Your class groans in disappoint but Joaquin speaks up, "Ooooor I can come back again and you can ask me questions next time!" The children nod their heads eagerly in response.

"Fine. But I'll still pick three people to ask the final questions." You go to the name jar and pick out three popsicle sticks. You read out the names, "Joanna, Diego, Alida."

Joanna stands as she asks her questions, "Are you and Captain America best friends?"

"I'd say yes, but he'd say no. Regardless, we're very good friends."

Diego goes next, "Can you show us your wings?"

"Unfortunately, no. It's not safe, but trust me, I tried to convince Teacher Y/N to let me bring them."

Lastly, Alida asks, "Are the Avengers coming back?"

Joaquin takes a second to think on his answer and he softly smiles, "We're working on that."

"And that's it for Career Day. Let's all give a big 'Thank You' again to everyone who presented today!"

"THANK YOOOUU!" your class exclaims.

"Alright. Everyone do your clean up tasks and gather your things." As your students scatter around the classroom, you and Joaquin head to the back near your desk where the adults resided.

You shake hands with each of them, "Thank you again so much for coming. The children and I really appreciate it. Please, take any left over pastries, if you'd like."

Joaquin leans against your desk as you clean up, "So how'd I do?"

"Great! Although you really didn't have to answer Jacob's question."

He shrugs, "It's fine. I think it's also important for them to know that my job can be dangerous."

"Yes, but-oh. Did you need something Marcus?" you ask when you see one of your students at your desk.

Marcus holds up a drawing to Joaquin he had probably been working on during the presentations. It was seemingly a drawing of him and Joaquin and a Mexican flag.

Joaquin kneels to be at eye level with your student, "¿Es esto para mí?" Is this for me?

Marcus nods, "Quiero ser igual que tú." I want to be just like you.

You don't see Joaquin's face, but you're sure he's smiling, "Muchas gracias, Marcus." Thank you very much, Marcus.

"Buen dia!" Good day!

"Igualmente!" Likewise!

You and Joaquin watch as Marcus as well as the rest of your students exit the classroom at the sound of the bell. Once you and he were alone, Joaquin begins to tear up.

"Hey, what's up?"

He shakes his head, "Nothin', it's just," he looks down at the drawing he was given and holds it up, "This is what I wanted, what I hoped to achieve one day. For kids like Marcus to see me and be inspired."

You wrap your arms around his waist, "Many do, Joaco. I hear and see them talk about you and pretend to be you on the playground."

"I just hope I continue to make them proud."

"You will," you kiss his cheek, "Let's head home."

[hvnsinureyes]

You’re friends with Luka except it’s much deeper then that. Like when he first got drafted and moved to America you two became friends. So he considers you his first friend he ever made in the states and that’s really special to him. He considers your apartment the perfect safe space and is over there more than his own big ass house. He’s secretly been in love with you for YEARS, but will probably never tell you because this friendship is just too good to ruin and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you ended up leaving cause he couldn’t keep his feelings to himself. He def spoils you like you’re his girl too, he genuinely puts any other boyfriend or situationships to shame with his birthday gifts. Imagine trying to date a girl and her 6’6” millionaire nba player best friend giver her a necklace that’s worth more then you make in a year☹️. Ughhh he’s so down bad you’ll tell him you’re going on a date and he tries to plan other shit for yall to do together instead. Yap session over 💗💗💗

not even a request but i just had to write a blurb abt this like omg i'm in love?? thank u anon!!

it's honestly sick because everyone practically screams that luka is in love with you, but you don't understand where they're coming from!

when luka first met you, it was just so easy for him to get caught up in your world. you were so kind and accepting! while other people would make fun of his accent or barely make an effort to get to know him, you introduced yourself first and absolutely fell in love with his origin. whether you knew anything about slovenia or not, you happily listened to him talk about his home country. not with fake interest either, you actually paid attention. you didn't mind helping him get settled into dallas either. never shaming him for asking stupid questions, patiently explaining things over and over until he understood, and taking him out to restaurants and places where he could forget about basketball for a bit and have fun. so of course he's a little attached and maybe somewhat fell in love with you!

people look at you crazy when you say that luka stays over your apartment overnight or for a day or two (sometimes a week, to be honest). you always say that he should appreciate his house more, especially with how hard it is to actually find one nowadays, but he always brushes it off saying, "yours is more comfortable". when really, it's because he can't stand being in such a big home all by himself. you bring so much liveliness in every room you're in, so why not just stay with you half of the time?

since he's always around, even when you're going shopping, he insists on paying. it's almost annoying how quick he is to get out his card and slap your hand away when you try to pay with yours. over the years he gets really sneaky with it, like waiting until you go to the bathroom so he can pay by himself. what kind of best friend would he be if he didn't spoil you?

and yes, anon you are so right! there is barely any room for boyfriends and situationships because luka makes sure he takes up your whole space. they can try to butt in between you two, but it never works. none of them end up staying because they know they'll never be like luka. gifting you a whole vacation to cabo, buying you a birkin or cartier necklace like it's nothing? it's like that one druski skit where his girlfriend is getting better gifts from other people! he's watching them get all upset at you squealing over your new gift (knowing that theirs is next and definitely doesn't amount to his) with a shit eating grin like, "do better, bro." he is sooo evil.

and god forbid he finds out you're using tinder or going on a blind date. like hello? you'll be getting a 3 hour lecture about how guys can be either murderers/kidnappers, creeps looking for a hookup, or desperate old men. even if they're a normal guy, he still doesn't buy it. why not just have a movie night instead? or go to a restaurant? like don't be silly, just hang out with him instead!

he'll bring you to his games making sure you wear his jersey, post you on his insta, shout you out during speeches and everyone's like ??? are you sure you guys are just best friends? you're so smiley thinking he's just being sweet but no babe, he wants that cookie bad. it's so painful to watch because luka is so ready to be your man, but so much is holding him back? what if you say no? you guys could be friends yes, but it would never be the same. luka wouldn't know what to do if you weren't in his life anymore. you made his nights in dallas less lonely, making sure to appreciate his culture but also help him get used to a new one. giving him the comfort he needed, but couldn't get for so long.

ugh he's so cute i cannotttt :((

[thehypnone]

Symbol on the Surface Epilogue

WC: 2k

Relationship: SwissAlps & the kits

Tags: Domestic Fluff, Ghoulish (=Elvish Sindarin) Language

Note: We're here! Thank you to everyone who supported this fic, I've been having lots of fun writing it. And this is definitely not the last you will hear of the kits; I love them too much for that, they're really like my own by now <3

Chapter 1 here or on AO3.

Read under the cut or on AO3.

Swiss didn’t rest well between tour legs, he must admit. It was not easy to do so with three ten year old demons—who are like human fifteen-year-olds—bouncing off the walls, excited about their next shared adventure.

It’s yet another tour that the kits went on with the pack; but only the third leg on which they will have jobs of their own. Aelin with the costume department, Arya as a guitar tech apprentice, and Amon helping whoever needs help at a certain moment—he’s the type of person who can do absolutely anything if he only has the space to focus. 

Swiss is about to leave the dressing room and join the rest of the band behind the stage to prepare to get on, but he notices a lanyard left on the couch. It wouldn’t be anything surprising amongst the mess all over there, if not for the fact that the lanyard in question—or rather the piece of plastic attached to it—is a pass for the crew to move around freely. If this is here, with Swiss being the only one left…

“Arya…” he rolls his eyes seeing his kit’s name on the placard, “where the Hell did they go without this. Arya!?”

He leaves the room and goes storming through the corridors of the venue looking for them. Instead of Arya, he first comes across his son who seems to be fixing a hinge on one of the storage cases lining the wall.

“Amon, have you seen your sibling?”

“Arya? With the techs already,” he says simply.

“Huh? Since when?” Amon only shrugs and Swiss pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, before turning on his heel to head in the opposite direction. Still, he chuckles under his breath, “I’m too old for this…”

On his way to the backstage, the multi ghoul passes the costume area, where Aelin is adjusting something on Papa’s fancy chasuble.

“Hey, princess,” he pauses, deciding he can spare a quick moment to see what his daughter is up to, “Iluve maer?” (Is everything alright?)

“Mae, fael nodui mirilli dangar, varna hain,” Aelin explains, presenting the needle with a silver thread through it in her hand, “Cel le amman os?” (Yeah, a few gemstones just came loose, I’m securing them. / What are you running around for?)

Swiss lifts up the lanyard in his hand, “Eglar Arya ha.” (Arya left this.)

“Cari ha tira,” Aelin chuckles before turning back to her work and the multi ghoul takes it as his cue to leave; truth is that the sooner he gets the lanyard back to Arya, the less chances of potential arguments with the venue’s security and overall chaos are there. (Of course they did.)

Meanwhile, by the stage, Arya is wrapping up some spare cables—or rather attempting to, as they’re being rudely interrupted by a security guard, who just won’t leave them alone.

“I’m going to give you thirty seconds to show me some ID before I drag you out of here,” the man threatens, “and call the police for good measure.”

“Listen, man, ask literally anyone around here and they’ll tell you I was born into this crew,” Arya grumbles before rolling their eyes and turning back to fiddling with the cables, as they mumble, “So get off my damn back.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so, young lady,” the security scoffs and puts his hands on both their shoulders to grab and pull them away. Arya turns their head in disbelief that the man dared to touch them, ready to punch him. They don’t have to, though—instead, the offended expression on their face turns into a smug smirk.

“Did you just touch my child?” Swiss growls into the security man’s ear, having turned up just in time to witness the last few seconds of the exchange. He’s glamored, of course, but his deep and gravelly voice alone is enough to send shivers down the man’s spine; albeit, it might, or might not be aided by a tiny spark of quintessence.

He grabs the other’s arm and pulls it off of Arya before turning him around, so that he faces Swiss. He lifts the lanyard that’s in his other hand and dangles it before the security guard’s face.

“Your…you’re one of the–you’re in the band?” he stammers, looking between Swiss and Arya. “And this is your kid?”

The older multi ghoul hums affirmatively and raises an eyebrow; he leans in, sticking his face mere inches away from the man’s. From the side, Arya can see Swiss flashing his golden eyes with a bit of fiery red, effectively confusing and scaring the man.

“Don’t do that again,” he tuts and as soon as he lets go of the security guard, he hurriedly shuffles away. The multi ghoul sighs, watching the man all but run away. He turns back to Arya, then, “You know he’s just doing his job, right? Rules are rules, you should have the placard on you at all times.”

“I knoooooow,” Arya whines, scratching the back of their head awkwardly, “but then we wouldn’t get to see that look on his face. You scared the shit out of him!”

Swiss can only shake his head with a quiet laugh; this kit really has turned out too much like him for their own good. He brings them under his arm and puts the lanyard around their neck.

“I like terrorizing humans,” he admits, “but behave, please. For your other dad’s nerves’ sake.”

“For my nerves’ sake what?” they hear just a second before Mountain rounds the corner with a look full of his suspicion on his face. 

“Nothing,” both Swiss and Arya reply in unison. The earth ghoul knows not to trust such a display by now, but no one seems to be hurt or planning anything disastrous, so he figures he can let it slide. At least for now.

“Sure,” he chuckles, then turns to his mate, “We’re hitting the stage in five, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Swiss waves his hand dismissively, fluffing up Arya’s hair with the other. Just then Amon and Aelin come around, each ready to receive their tasks when the show starts; they notice the small commotion and walk up to the rest of their family.

“What’s up?” Aelin asks, coming under Mountain’s shoulder, while Amon stands between his dads and siblings.

“Just some pre-show hugs,” Swiss laughs as he squeezes Arya, causing them to giggle through some playful growls. Mountain, having two remaining kits by his sides, hugs them, as well; then he and Swiss look between each other and shuffle in closer to make this one big standing cuddle pile.

“Three minutes to stage time!” someone yells from…somewhere, and more ghouls show up around them.

“Oh, what’s that?” they hear Aeon chirp curiously, “I want a hug, too!”

“Uh-oh,” Mountain mumbles, and—sure enough—gets squeezed from behind by an incoming Aeon. Some ghoulette giggles can be heard from the other side and the pile grows; then grows even more when every band ghoul joins; leaving the kits all but squished in the very centre.

“One minute!” a stagehand announces, and the group hug starts to loosen up. Said sixty second pass like one, and so does the entire ritual with everyone being busy either on stage, or behind it. 

It’s usually a bit of a blur after the shows for everyone—the band exhausted and the crew having to get everything packed up in a very short amount of time. It’s complete chaos and it’s a few hours before everyone can breathe a sigh of relief.

Swiss and Mountain always take turns tucking their kits in before bed and making sure everyone is alright. Tonight it’s Swiss that goes around the bus to peek into Amon, Aelin, and Arya’s bunks respectively. 

“How are you, little man?” he asks Amon and receives a nod in reply. The kit isn’t very talkative normally, but after a long day he doesn’t talk at all. Swiss winks at him and leans in to place a kiss between the earth ghoul’s horns before pulling back and shutting the bunk’s curtain behind him.

Aelin’s next and Swiss catches her sucking on one of her fingers. “Everything okay?”

“I’m good, I just poked myself with a needle earlier,” the water ghoulette explains, “Can you take a look?”

“Yeah, of course, princess,” he smiles and sits on the edge of her bunk. Aelin gives him her hand and guides a little lamp onto it, so Swiss can see what’s up. “It just seems like a deep poke in a bad spot. You want me to heal it?”

“If that’s alright…it’s pretty annoying,” she giggles, and so does Swiss. It only takes him a second to make the tiny wound—and the discomfort it was causing—disappear.

“All fixed up,” he says and kisses Aelin’s forehead, too, before tucking her in properly. When he goes to Arya, they’re chewing on the inside of their cheek and seeming to be lost deep in thought—though Swiss’ presence snaps them out of it.

“Mama, I don’t really–” they start quietly, “I don’t leave the lanyards laying around on purpose, I’m sorry, I just keep forgetting…”

The older multi ghoul chuckles, bringing Arya against his chest, “I’ve figured as much.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I guess I wanted you to come to me with it,” Swiss admits, “and I’m glad you did, and sooner rather than later, too. I’m proud of ya, kid.”

“But what if I–”

“I’ll talk to your Papa and the Papa to figure out a way to keep you out of trouble when you don’t have the placard,” he offers and Arya all but throws themself at him for a hug. “But that doesn’t mean you get to care less, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” Arya promises and Swiss grants them their goodnight forehead kiss.

“I know you will, kid,” he chuckles, “you always do.”

He gets up then, shuts Arya’s curtain and calls out for the last time today from between the bunks, “Maer ól, hini.” (Sleep well, kids.)

“Maer dú, Mama,” three quiet voices answer. (Goodnight.) 

The multi ghoul turns to his and Mountain’s bed, then, and grunts in exhaustion as he flops down onto where his mate is already waiting—looking just as tired. This tour is probably the last one for both of them and even though they would love to see Amon and Arya replace them, it’d be too early to let them on stage; especially with a band like Ghost. Definitely not before they are at least twenty years old, so there’s some time left.

Swiss turns to lay his head on Mountain’s chest as the earth ghoul brings an arm around him to keep him close.

“Sleepy, my heart?” he asks a few minutes later, rubbing the other’s back.

“A little,” Swiss mumbles. Like a liar—there’s a tiny wet spot on Mountain’s collar from his drool already. He chuckles, before pulling up a blanket and all but tucking Swiss in.

“Hey,” Mountain pokes his nose, “I love you.”

Swiss can’t help but chirp happily before kicking up a tired, but adorable, purr. “I love you, too…”

———————The end.———————

Taglist: @jazz-bazz @skele-bunny @ratsummer @karmicbias @mac-and-thefox @wine-irytatus @ghoultrifle

[sentientcave]

Masquerade

You've come to this masquerade ball to finally dispatch the man you've wanted dead for nearly ten years, but he's always ruining your plans, one way or another.

Contains: 2nd POV OC (sorry about all the blushing), werewolf MMC (sadly he doesn't do any fun werewolfy things he's just a guy with sharp teeth here), vague fantasy setting, murder attempts/reminiscence of murder attempts, a long and storied history only alluded to, what do you do when your bitter enemy turns out to be a silly little guy who just wants you to love him?, oral sex (w receiving), P in V sex, this spawned a whole ass novel and it's so so different but this lowkey holds up.

See end for Notes

~10k words - NSFW - 18+ MDNI

“My, don’t you look exquisite,” a voice purrs in your ear.

You freeze in place, glad that the mask hides the colour that springs to your cheeks. You feel like a naughty child caught with your hand in the cookie jar, an unwelcome guest at his masquerade. You thought you could escape notice, slip through the crowd of finely dressed nobles and plunge your knife into his chest at last. But he had managed to find you first. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t been to the garden to pick up your hidden cache of weapons, you had nothing but your silver hair-stick to dispatch him with.

His heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Don’t muss up your pretty hairstyle just yet, darling,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rasping like sandpaper. It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Or perhaps, after all these years, you’re simply predictable. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

You flinch at the cold press of his mask against your bare shoulder. You shouldn’t have disguised yourself as a guest. You feel defenceless, wrapped in silk and sheer chiffon, a neat little morsel delivered straight into the wolf’s jaws. He could shift in a second and shred you into little pieces, like he had threatened to do so many times before. You try to still your frightened, thumping heart, and pull away, turning to face him at last. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, because it’s worth a try at least, but he’s laughing before you can even finish, the smiling mouth of his gold wolf mask mocking you. His yellow eyes glitter from it’s depths, watching you.

“Oh darling, I would recognize you anywhere. I hoped you would be unable to resist my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

“Yes, dearest. All of this was for you. I knew you could not resist the chance to get so close to me again.”

“To kill you,” you remind him hoarsely.

He chuckles and takes your hand. “Perhaps. For now, a dance, I should think. You haven’t danced all night.”

You dig in your heels, trying to resist his insistent pull, but he simply wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “I don’t dance,” you tell him sharply. “Let go of me.”

“You’re a liar,” he replies, spinning you into place, one hand on your lower back, pinning you against his chest, and the other still clasped around your wrist, sliding up to engulf your hand. He simply tugs you along with him as he moves, sweeping you along to the music, holding you so unbearably close. He could lift you off your feet with ease, if he chose to, and you don’t have enough power to resist. His scent clouds your mind, cedar soap and clean, animal musk, one of many hints of the wolf that dog him even in his human shape. “You forget, I knew you in your past life. Or have you forgotten that I once sat in your father’s halls? I have seen you dance.”

It was so long ago now, another life, before he was only the wolf to you, and before you were the thorn in his paw, that you almost had forgotten. You had hardly given him a second thought at first, he was just another visiting knight, here one day and gone the next, handsome, but beyond the concerns of the girl you once were. “You failed to make an impression,” you tell him sharply, although it’s not true. You do remember his yellow eyes watching you one night, though he never asked you to to dance. He never spoke to you at all.

Not until after. He saved you, of course, from the bloodbath, because he had claimed you. He hadn’t so much as said a word to you before he burst into your bedchamber, monstrous jaws dripping with your fathers blood, yellow eyes wild. You still remembered beating him back with the fire-place’s iron poker, and jamming the tip into his chest before you ran for your life.

“I knew you were mine from the first,” he continues. He seems frighteningly aware of your thoughts, as if his own version of the memory is playing out behind his own eyes. “My lioness, avenging her wicked father with a poker. I still bear your mark, just above my heart.” He presses your entwined hands to his chest for a moment. “I’m certain you remember that, at least.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The only unfortunate part,” he says patiently. “Is that I did not take you as my mate that night.”

His words lance through you like lightning, burning everything in their path. Your knees nearly buckle, and if he were not holding you so securely, you would sink to the floor in a useless puddle of silk. How dare he make you weak, after everything he’s done to you? But anger gives you strength, reinforces your spine with steel, and you wrench away, glaring at him, wishing you could set him ablaze with your eyes.

The music falters. You look up, at the musicians gallery, then around the room. Everyone watches, pretending not to, jewelled masks concealing furtive eyes and whispered words. Your own mask feels insufficient, lightweight and flimsy under the wolf’s eyes when your eyes return to him. He takes your arm, his grip tight, but not bruising, and guides you out of the ballroom, into the cold night air. The dark gardens are just a little too far for you to jump down from the wide stone balcony, and there are no stairs leading down. If you jump, you’d probably break your leg, and then you’d be helpless.

“What do you think of our home?” he asks. “Have you snooped around yet, my darling? Planned all your exits and hidden away your weapons and armour? I made sure you’d have plenty of opportunity. I know how you love to prepare.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t found them already.”

“I have been busy with other preparations,” he says mildly. “But I thought I smelled something of you in the corridor by the library.”

You flinch, only confirming that you had in fact been there, hiding your leather armour inside a large vase. “Preparations for what?”

“Your homecoming. The king has made it clear that it’s time to reign you in, or he will have someone else deal with you.” He pulls the mask off at last, setting the golden wolf on the balcony. Sweat glimmers at his temples, catching light from the ballroom behind them. He offers you a wry smile, his sharp white teeth flashing. “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“Lenient?” you ask, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to kill you.”

“Those who attempt such things do not usually live long,” he reminds you. “I don’t often show mercy. I’ve allowed you to live free, in the hopes that you would come to me willingly, in time. Now it seems I can no longer afford to continue our little game. You will stay with me, or someone else will be sent to arrest or kill you.”

You press your palms into the smooth railing, wishing desperately that you could absorb the cool, dependable steadiness of stone through your skin. You look at him for a moment while he stares out over the dark gardens, his yellow eyes tracking movement you can’t see.

He’s always dressed in black, like a man in mourning, his black curls cropped short around his slightly pointed ears, beard neatly trimmed. He wears little jewellery for a man of his station, just the yellow-gold signet ring with it’s heavy, dark blue sapphire on his finger, and the gleam of jet buttons down the front of his tunic. You were more used to seeing him in his armour. The heavy black plate suits his brutality better than black-embroidered silk.

Silk offers no protection, no shield over his wicked black heart.

You pull the hairpin from your own neatly arranged curls and move fast, striking at his chest, but he catches your hand easily, his amber eyes meeting your fury with amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks. “Stubborn creature.”

He plucks the pin from your hand and spins you around, pushing you into the railing with the oppressive weight of his presence. Your protests are weak and hardly noticed, but you fall silent when you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the back of your neck. He gathers your hair up and pins it back in place, not as neatly as you had done earlier, but sufficiently.

“What are you doing?” you ask numbly.

He turns you around, still standing far too close. You stare forward, at the point where his skin meets the collar of his tunic, your eyes glued to his pulse. You wish for teeth as sharp as his own, so you could tear out his throat. His fingers curl under your chin, nudging your face up, forcing you to look him in the eye again. “Just returning your pin,” he says, smirking. “Why do you seem so flustered, darling?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you ask. Your hand lifts up to knock his away, but you touch him instead, fingertips ghosting over his knuckles. You know he’s capable of crushing you with hardly a thought. You’ve spent the last ten years learning all you could about him, hunting him down again and again and again with a single-minded determination. He likely could have killed you a thousand times over, if you’d been just a little less careful, or he a little less eager to capture you instead. He should have killed you. You don’t know how to stop anymore, you don’t know how to let go of the terrible anger that burns you up every time you think of him. You want him to suffer, to lose everything, to hurt the way he hurt you. “I’ll never stop.”

There is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and it pings against your heart uncomfortably. “I never could,” he says, all traces of his smirking, superior air gone. His thumb strokes along your jaw. “I begged the king for your life. Your father may have been a traitor, but you were an innocent girl, and I do not enjoy killing innocents.”

“I’m not innocent anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve committed no crimes that I cannot forgive.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” Your voice is hardly more than a hoarse whisper. You want to shout, but his hand on your skin seems to leech all the power out of you.

“You have it regardless,” he whispers back, low and intimate as a lover. He touches his forehead to your mask, his eyes boring into yours, twin suns scorching everything in their path. “And someday I will earn yours.”

“Never,” you hiss. You return to your senses and push his hands away, shoving hard against his chest. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”

He tugs your mask off and tosses it to the side, tired of pretense. “If you hate me so much, why does your heart beat like that?”

“I’m afraid of you,” you snap.

He laughs harshly. “No you’re not. You’ve never been afraid of anything, my darling. It is one of the things I love best about you.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. You can feel his breath on your skin, the sharp smells of whiskey and mint setting your nerves on edge. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you, and you freeze, heart pounding, face turned towards him, waiting for the axe to fall.

But he withdraws instead, leaving you to face the consequence of unrealized want. His words prick at you like the point of a sword. Love. As if he would know the first thing about it. As if he knew you.

But he does know you, you realize with a start. He made you. His actions had set you on your path, and his choice not to kill you, each time that he should have, had created the determined, single-minded, furious woman that you had become. The carefree girl who you had been was long gone, dead the first time the wolf’s jaws closed around your throat. It burns you to think that he’d shown you mercy all along, that you had escaped capture or death by his leave, rather than by your own cunning and skill.

His eyes remain on your face, reading your thoughts like you’re a book laying open, waiting for him to happen by and discover all your secrets. “You have become worthy of me,” he continues ardently, pressing your hand to his chest again, anchoring it with both of his own. “I would have kept you like a bird in a cage if I’d taken you then. A pretty thing to amuse me and adorn my halls. But you are no trophy, my love. You will not survive in captivity. Even now, with the king’s sword hanging over your head, I will not force you to stay.”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“I used to wonder the same thing. A cruel trick of fate, that my mate would hate me so fiercely.”

“You killed my father,” you hiss at him. You yank your hand away, desperately stoking the anger that has kept him at bay all these years. Each time he calls you mate and darling and love your resolve quakes, and you have no sword in your hand to make him regret it, like you usually would.

“He was a traitor. I had orders.”

“And what comfort will that be when your orders are to kill me?” you ask, sneering up at him. “What will you do when your orders are explicit and undeniable, and you are to kill me on sight?”

“I’ll never see you again.”

You aren’t sure what you expected, exactly, but it always trips you up when he speaks plainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

“What do you think it means?” He hurls the words back at you, his anger lighting from your own. “It means I would pluck my own eyes out before I’d kill you. If the king ordered me to hunt you down I’d stay one step behind you until we reached the very ends of the earth. If he came outside this very moment and told me to snap your neck—” He shudders, shaking his head like a dog shakes off the rain, and when he looks back at you the anger is gone, hidden away again behind his steely resolve. “Loyalty only goes so far. He knows not to make an order I cannot follow. If he truly wants you dead, he’ll ask another.” He glances over his shoulder, keen yellow eyes fixing on a point somewhere inside. “I hope it does not come to even that.”

“But why?”

He lets go of your shoulders and turns around, stalks a few feet away, and turns again, pushing both of his hands through his hair in frustration. Because I love you!” he snarls. “You had me the first day you tried to run me through. Oh I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, beautiful thing that you are, but it was the first moment that you tried to cut my heart out that I knew there could be no other. You have no idea what it’s like, to love such a stubborn, foolish, bitch of a woman? Do you understand what it will do to me, when you leave? But I have never been able to keep you by force.”

“But you let me go,” you say numbly. “You said—”

“Let you go?” He laughs, striding back towards you. “Oh my love, you misunderstand. Just because I couldn’t kill you does not mean I didn’t try to keep you. But you have slipped every chain I’ve placed upon you. I’ve never pulled my punches. I would not disrespect you so.”

“You called it a game—”

He inclines his head towards you. “I did. Perhaps I should not have. But it was easier to think of it as a game. A test of my own worthiness. I admit, I have always looked forward to your attempts on my life. It’s good, I think, for a man to be beaten once in a while, to keep him sharp. Otherwise he forgets to be vigilant.” He sighs, touching the edge of an old, silvery scar on your shoulder, brushing a loose strand of your hair out of the way. “Besides. We’ve both made our marks upon the other.”

“I’ve gotten you more times than you have me,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously. “Two or three times I really thought I’d finished you off.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

You think about it. “Yes.”

“Care to make a wager, dearest? If you’ve left more marks on me than I on you, you may ask anything of me.”

You draw in a steady breath. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Not so confident now, are you? I only want what is freely given, so you needn’t worry. You can name your own penalty.”

“How magnanimous.”

“I can be,” he says. “Now, shall we inspect each other here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

The thought of being alone with the wolf makes you shiver, but it’s not revulsion that you feel, it’s something far worse. The dark, cold balcony seems a world away from the golden ballroom with all it’s legions of beautiful, elegant guests, but it’s only panes of glass that separates you from them, hazy from condensation, opaque enough that you doubt anyone can see through them. It makes no material difference, in the end, but it’s winter, and the cold seeps through your dress easily, your skin only warm where he touches you. “Ah, yes,” you say nervously. “Perhaps somewhere more private.”

“And warmer,” he adds. “As stunning as you look, I do not believe you are dressed for the weather.”

As if on cue, a snowflake descends from the dark sky. You reach out your hand, catching it against your palm. A moment later, the sky is thick with snow, fat, fluffy flakes catching the light and turning the world white. You look back at him. He looks softer, somehow, with that little dusting of snow catching in his thick curls, melting flakes glittering like diamonds on his shoulders. For the first time, you’re struck by how young he looks. He was a man grown at your first meeting, and you had always thought of him as much older, but you know now that he couldn’t be ten years your senior. You suspect it’s much less than that.

It changes something in your perception of him. Softens him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, stepping in close again. Although you’ve hardly moved an inch since you came out to the balcony, he’s full of restless energy, moving away and back again like he’s tethered to you by some invisible string. He tilts his head to the side, his keen predator eyes practically glowing in the soft light.

You were glad your face was already flushed from the cold. “I was just thinking. You look so…” You trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

“Handsome?” he suggested. “Strong? Irresistible?” He wiggles his thick black eyebrows, grinning wickedly, making you laugh despite yourself.

“I was going to say young, actually,” you say. “I was wondering what sort of boy you were.”

He holds a hand out to you. “I’m sure there’s a portrait somewhere, if you’re curious. Now come along, pet, I don’t want you catching a cold out here. I do have a wager to win.”

You hesitate. All the ancient, bitter anger and sadness wars with something new in your chest. It’s been so long since you wanted anything more than vengeance. Ages since the last time you felt deep, aching want for someone’s hands on you, if you ever even had. The obsession between you, at least, was mutual, and you had traded the excitement of romance for the thrill of the hunt, the clash of your sword against the wolf’s. His taunting sounded better than flowery poetry to your ears, and you could not help but seek him out every time the loneliness of your new life became too much to bear. He had been your focus, your centre, your reason for existing for so long that you can no longer deny what this is.

Love is not always kind. Between the two of you, it’s become a desperate, wretched thing, living on scraps of attention and hungry looks traded in battle.

His fingers close around yours, and you realize that you’ve reached out and taken the offered hand. You look at him, and he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen before, half-hitched up on one side, almost shy.

He twines his fingers through yours and leads you back through the ballroom, slipping around the edges of the crowd like the wolf he is. No one seems to pay either of you any mind, although you feel curiously bare without your mask, as visible as a hare in a field to the eyes of a hawk. But your hunter is holding your hand, his thumb stroking over yours soothingly, like he can sense your unease.

Despite that small reassurance, you’re grateful when you step into a nearly empty corridor. A few well-dressed servants carrying trays bustle between the ballroom and the kitchens at the far end, but your wolf leads you the other way, through a few hallways littered with decorative items and portraits of long-dead nobles with eyes that seemed to follow you. You had been there only a few days earlier, but it looks different now. Perhaps it’s that you aren’t on constant guard for the wolf. He’s already here, holding your hand, pretending that he’s not watching you, just as you pretend to look at the portraits and statues and expensive looking vases you pass by, stealing glances at him only when you think you can get away with it.

The silence between you is almost comfortable, both of you too caught up in your individual tumble of thoughts to put anything to words. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. You wonder if he feels like he’s won already, but there’s none of his usual taunting or his infuriatingly handsome smirk. He looks serious, black brows lowered in a sort of pensiveness that you’ve never seen from him. Of course, you had only once gone so long in his company without attacking him physically, and you had been tied to a chair, at the time.

“Do you remember, a few years ago, the hunting lodge just above Lake Pym?” he asks.

You laugh. “I was just thinking about it. Why?”

He stops in front of a door and leans against the frame. “Do you think you’ll be able to go as long without trying to stab me this time around?”

“That depends on whether or not you tie me up again,” you quip back.

“Don’t say such things,” he warns you, opening the door and holding it open, letting go of your hand for the first time in ages. Your fingers feel cold without his touch. “You’ll give me ideas.”

“You’ve made far too many confessions tonight for me to believe that you didn’t already have ideas,” you tease. Funny how easily that comes, like you’re old friends and not enemies. A tidy little fire burns in the stone fireplace, with a cozy arrangement of rugs and furs laid out before it. A low table sits ready, carrying wine and glasses and a few plates of the sort of interesting finger-foods that they had been serving in the ballroom. Raising your eyebrows, you look back over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the way in, which meant that it had been all prearranged.

He closes the door behind himself and leans against it, grinning sheepishly. “I live in hope.”

The room - his room- is neat, a big bed with four posts carved like small trees, green-velvet curtains tied back neatly, is the first sign that he might actually like colour. You imagined him always in sombre black and white, dark hair, white teeth, dressed like the reaper and often so employed. But perhaps he isn’t as stark as you’d always thought. His furniture is solid and well-made of warm-toned wood, and the bookshelves that flank the fireplace are stuffed with books, the odd space cleared out for knick-knacks and trophies. You had never considered that he might like to read. It isn’t something that has ever come up before.

The wolf sits down on the furs and nudges a black lump by the fire. The shape uncurls into the biggest, fattest, blackest cat you’ve ever seen and pads over to you, sniffing your skirts suspiciously.

“You have a cat?” you ask, because it seems unlike the picture you’ve built up of him over the years. Another thing you missed. You had been so focused on him as an enemy that you had hardly stopped to consider him as a man. You sit, and the cat drapes itself across your lap, purring already in anticipation of a good scratch.

“I don’t have a cat,” he corrects you loftily. “Smudge is the matriarch of a proud line of excellent mousers, and she is a valued member of the household. One cannot own a cat, I have learned. One co-habituates with cats.” He leans over and gives the cat a little scratch under the chin, his knuckles just barely brushing your knee as he withdraws. “She isn’t usually very friendly, but she must recognize a fellow assassin when she sees one.”

“I’m not much of an assassin, I’m afraid she’d be terribly disappointed in me. I’ve failed to kill my only target, and I have been at it for quite some time.” You give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “I’m sure her record is much more impressive.”

He frowns and looked at you in a funny way. “Have you never taken a life?”

“I’ve tried very hard to avoid it. You’re the only person I ever wanted dead, and I— I wanted to be better than you. I wanted my hands to stay clean, so I could beat you and still keep my sense of…” You look down at the purring black puddle of fur in your lap rather than at the wolf. “Oh I don’t know. Righteousness, I suppose.”

“So sweet that you wanted me to be your first,” he teases.

You know he means first kill, but you turn pink anyway, and there is no cold wind to blame for your rosy cheeks this time. There were many firsts that you had missed out on, in your bid for vengeance. “Perhaps I still do,” you snap, not thinking about the double meaning until after the words have left your mouth. You scramble to clarify. “My first kill— Not— Ugh.” He begins to laugh, and you cover your face with both hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Stop laughing!” Your voice is muffled by your hands, but there is no way that his keen wolf’s ears don’t hear you perfectly. “That’s not what I meant!”

He snorts. “I know, pet. It’s a bit late for that, I should think.”

You peek at him between your fingers, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Darling.” He leans over and gently takes hold of your wrists, prying your hands away. He is mercifully no longer laughing, but the look in his eyes only makes your face burn hotter. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never taken a lover.”

“There was never a good time,” you manage to squeak out. It was half true. There had been offers, and moments when you’d been sorely tempted to share someone’s bed for the night, but the few fumbling kisses you’d shared with young men had failed to thrill you the way that crossing swords with the wolf did.

He sits back with a groan. “You’re always throwing wrenches into my plans.”

“How on earth could that have anything to do with your plans?” you ask hotly.

“Darling, don’t be so naive. My plans were obviously to seduce you into my bed so I could out-perform every man who had ever touched you, forcing you to admit to yourself that we belong together. But I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Too easy!”

“I would never imply that you would be easily seduced, my love, only that I am fairly confident that you would have a harder time denying what we are if I were to employ my considerable athletic ability with the task of making you come undone.” He smiles ruefully. “But seduction isn’t fair if you’re a virgin. I’ll have to win your heart the old fashioned way.”

“The old fashioned way?” You stare at him, incredulous. “What, you’re going to court me?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” he says, turning toward the table to pour you a glass of wine. “It’s the long road, but you’ll find I’m usually more than willing to take the scenic route.”

“You’re insane,” you say weakly, accepting the offered glass. “You must be.”

“Must I be? Like you said, I’ve made far too many confessions tonight, you must know that I do not mean this as some passing fancy. I think it would be a waste to continue this bloody crusade of yours. For both of us. I confess my bias in the matter, as I rather enjoy living.” He shrugs, looking at you over the rim of his own glass. “Do you? Has your life been all you wished for, these past ten years? You’ve forgone comfort, education, friends, romance, children— Do you want none of those things?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then take them. Everything you want is yours if you stay.” He takes a sip of wine and winces, face screwing up like a child tasting something bitter. “Ugh, I hate wine.”

“I know. I was wondering if you were going to drink from that glass you’ve been waving around.”

“I just wanted to indicate that it wasn’t poisoned.” He sets the glass to the side, still grimacing. “Just in case you were wondering if I was still trying to trick you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He stretches out in front of the fire, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve laid down my arms. If you must end this once and for all to free yourself, so be it. But I do think my alternative is better.”

You set your wine to the side as well and reach back to pull the silver hair-stick from your curls. You consider it, for a moment, pressing the point into your fingertip, not quite hard enough to draw blood. He watches with an inscrutable expression, making no move to disarm you. The cat slips out of your lap and stretches, moving off into the shadows again, either unaware or uncaring of the danger to her house mate. Or perhaps she’s simply more aware than you that there is no longer any danger.

You reach out and place the make-shift weapon on the rug in front of him.

The crackle of the fire is the only sound for a long moment. The wolf was rarely rendered speechless— getting him to shut up was usually the more difficult task. But he simply looks at you, like you’ve performed a miracle in front of his very eyes.

You slide one of the plates of food off the table and set it on the floor between you, something to hopefully distract his attention a little. You pick up one of the little triangle pastries and take a bite, catching crumbs with your other hand. You eat two more, realizing that you haven’t eaten in hours, and wait for him to break the silence.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, tucking both hands under his head. Firelight dances over his skin, burnishing his features like well-polished bronze. Although you have known him a long time, you’ve never studied him like this, while his eyes are closed and his usual grin is smoothed out into a peaceful smile. He looks noble, like a hero from the epics you used to read as a girl, more like you remembered from the days before everything changed.

“You’re staring,” he says without cracking an eye.

“How would you know? You haven’t opened your eyes in ages.”

“And how would you know that, if you haven’t been staring?”

He has you there. “Alright, fine. I suppose I was. I was just thinking about… about before.”

He opens his eyes. “How long? We do have a rather storied history, don’t we, love? I myself have been thinking of Lake Pym.”

You smirk. “I bet you have. I had a feeling you were rather enjoying yourself.”

“I was. It would have been more fun if you were a more willing guest, or if I at least didn’t have to keep you tied to a chair the whole time.”

“You wouldn’t even let me feed myself,” you lament, though you can’t help the traitorous note of amusement in your voice. “It was terribly humiliating.”

“Revisionist drivel!” he snarls playfully. “I did untie you so you could feed yourself, and you tried to stab me. You forced my hand.”

You blink. “I suppose I did.”

He leans closer. “I suspected you just wanted me to take care of you. You were too proud to ask me for what you wanted, so you forced the situation. And snapped at my fingers the whole time like an absolute menace.” He holds up his right hand and displays a white mark around the first knuckle of his thumb. “That’s one, by the way.”

“I only bit you because you stuck your finger in my mouth,” you reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose I did get a bit carried away, didn’t I? There was just this moment when I touched your lip…” He reaches out as if he wants to repeat the remembered gesture, perhaps hoping for a better outcome, but he hesitates, dropping his hand. You almost wish he hadn’t. “Are you still too proud, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He senses your weakness. The way the answer drips with doubt like blood from a wound. “Will you let me kiss you?” He moves closer, anticipating your answer before it leaves your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Yes.”

At long last, he closes the distance between you, hands cradling each side of your face. He just barely brushes his lips against yours, and holds you back when you try to chase him, his familiar wolfish smile lighting up his face. “Not so fast, my darling. You’ll have to ask nicely, if you want a proper kiss.” He unbuttons the cuff of his black shirt only a moment later, his eyes dropping away from yours for a moment, and then rolls up his sleeves. “Two and three, respectively,” he says, pointing out two more scars along his forearms. They were both from similar situations. Two times that you had disarmed him and made him bleed for it. You reach out and touch the silvery marks, feeling the smooth gap in his arm hair and the fully repaired muscle underneath the flawed skin. “You’re a better swordsman than I,” he says, reaching up to unlace the top of his tunic. “I might have had the edge of experience, at the beginning, but you quickly caught up to me, didn’t you? It was a good thing you were so scrupled about killing people other than me, or I’d have lost far too many good men to your blade.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“Is it working?” He pulls the tunic and shirt off in one go, baring his chest. There are a few scars there that you could not claim, and two that you can, although your eyes are drawn to one in particular. The ugly, uneven star right next to his heart, where you had run him through with the iron poker on the night of the wolf. “This one is my favourite,” he tells you, pressing one of your hands to the scar. “The first time you tried to kill me. Jon had to half-heal me himself, or I wouldn’t have made it to a proper healer in time. It’s partially why there’s such a scar. He’s always been terrible at the more subtle magics, but if you want something blown up, Jon’s your man.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you also note, in that treacherous little mind of yours, that he will not employ his considerable magical gift with the task of making me explode. He is still rather fond of me, even after all these years.”

“It is good, I think, to have a king that is so well-versed in the art of restraint,” you say mildly.

“Oh yes, I imagine it is.”

“So is it really just the five scars?” you ask. “That’s all?” Despite the truce the two of you had settled into, you felt strangely disappointed that your obsession with killing him over the last decade had resulted in only a handful of scars. It all felt like a waste. You try to console yourself with the knowledge that he heals more rapidly than most men. The scars you have left are despite that.

“There’s one more, on my thigh, but I imagine you probably don’t want me to take my pants off.”

You do want him to take his pants off. “Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you,” you say instead. “I suppose you’ve won, anyway. I have a lot more than six scars from you.” You had expected that his life as a warrior would have marked him more significantly. You’re covered in scars, faded and fresh alike, and there is no getting around the fact that you feel like you’ve stitched yourself up so often that you look as worn down as your oldest, ugliest shirt.

The disappointment in his eyes is gone so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, won’t I?”

“You’re just trying to get me out of my dress,” you say hotly.

“Obviously. You look very lovely in it, of course, but I have been hoping for the chance to peel it off of you.”

You shake your head. “I think you’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“Never. What would possibly deter me at this point, darling? If stabbing me through the heart didn’t erode my affections, what could?”

“Oh I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could have scales, or a tail—”

“I have a tail,” he reminds you. “And I’m quite positive that you’re human, so I’m not worried about scales. Or strange birth-marks or stretch-marks or scars, either, by the way.”

You take a deep breath and stand up, turning your back to him. “It would help if you could undo all these buttons for me,” you say, sweeping your hair in front of your shoulder. “There are so many of them.”

He jumps to his feet and scrambles to help. A few buttons plink to the floor, torn free in his haste. “I’ll have it fixed,” he says hastily. “And I’ll buy you new gowns. As many as you can stand.”

You glance over your shoulder, nervous laughter stilling on your tongue when you see the look in his eyes. You turn forward again, sliding your arms through the sleeves and shimmying the gown to he floor. He gives you a hand to steady yourself as you step free. “I— I don’t want— I won’t stay.”

He hums in response, gathering up the gown and laying it over the back of a chair.

“I won’t,” you repeat yourself, as if the words will sound convincing the second time. They don’t.

“I already told you, darling, I won’t make you stay. It’s up to you.”

He draws you back to your seats in front of the fire, and you offer him your arms. You’re riddled with fine scars, most of them faint, little nicks from his blade. His hands slide up to your shoulder and gently tug the capped sleeve of your chemise to the side, baring the imprint of his jaws. His thumb runs across the marks, his other hand landing on your knee.

“I wondered if I’d bitten you that night.” He moves closer, his tongue moving over his sharp canines as he sighs. His fingers trail down your arm as his touch drops away. “You never turned, so I wasn’t sure.”

“It doesn’t always take,” you say, using his shoulder to help you back up to your feet. “I think it depends on the moon. New moon, that night. If you were any other wolf you never would have shifted.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He settles back on his heels, looking up at you. “I can’t say I’ve thought about why some bites take and some don’t. I’m not as observant as you, my love.”

Laughable, when his senses are many times greater than your own. It’s not his observations that are the problem, it’s the connecting cause and effect, thinking about consequence for more than a moment. He’s faced so few consequences in his life that it doesn’t come naturally to him. You, on the other hand, are a mess of consequence, action and reaction measured and weighed, failures poured over until you can see every mistake you’ve made, follow the tracks to how things could have been, if you’d done it all just a little differently.

You pull your skirt up so you can untie the ribbon that holds up your stocking, and he slides it down to your ankle. “This one’s only indirectly your fault,” you say, angling your leg so he can see the trail of pocked scars that wrap around your knee and up your thigh. “When I jumped down that ravine. Scraped myself up on the rocks.”

He tuts, hands reaching for these scars too. It’s just an excuse to touch you, certainly, but you make no move to stop him. You just hold your skirt up, giving him unfettered access to your skin. His amber eyes flick up to your face, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee.

There’s no halting the soft “Oh” that falls from your lips, but he would have heard even the softest catch of breath. There’s no hiding from him, and it terrifies you, leaves you so unsteady.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his exhale warm against your skin. “You shouldn’t show me any more,” he tells you. “I find myself wanting to kiss every inch of skin you show me, and I worry that you won’t stop me if I try.”

You sink back to his level and pull your stocking back up, tying the ribbon around your thigh again. “Would that be so bad?”

He groans and lays back on the furs, hands neatly folded on his stomach. “I am trying to be a good man for you, darling. You deserve more than I can give in one night. I need at least a few weeks to make you fall hopelessly in love with me before I can do anything that would tempt me to take you to bed.”

You run your palm over his stomach, feeling the soft pelt of hair over his warm skin, letting your curiosity guide your fingertips. You feel the expansion and contraction of muscle as he breathes in and out, tucking one hand under his head so he can watch you more easily, his eyes barely open.

You have to admit, he is handsome, especially relaxed like this. Only a few short hours ago you would have found the idea of him kissing any part of you abhorrent, but now you find yourself similarly compelled. You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

“Come here, you little minx,” he growls, trying to pull you down on top of him. You pull back, and he lets go, still worried about pushing you when you’ve made so many overtures in such a short time.

You had expected him to hold on tightly, however, and overbalance, tipping over the other way with an inelegant little squeak. He laughs as he sits up, and you do too as he helps you back upright. He lays back again, and there’s no resistance when he takes you with him this time. He tucks you into his side, and you look down at him, chin propped on your hand.

“I rescind my earlier statement,” he says.

“Which one?”

“You don’t have to ask nicely for a kiss, darling. I worry that you’re too prideful to admit that you might like one, but if you can steal one whenever the mood strikes you, I might be lucky enough to receive a few impulsive ones that your good sense isn’t fast enough to stop.”

You huff. “Is this your way of asking for another?”

“It’s my way of asking for as many as you might want to give me,” he says. “There is, of course, a standing offer of anything you might like that is within my power to supply. I think it prudent to remind you.”

He’s a ridiculous kind of man. You’d always thought his tendency toward verbosity was just him grandstanding, but now you see it for what it really is. He wants to be understood by you so desperately that each sentence becomes overwrought, less clear for his efforts to imbue each word with meaning. Your own tendency toward blunt, inelegant language is an almost laughable counter. You say little, and hide everything you can, and he reads you plainly. He speaks like a poet, puts everything out in the open, and you misunderstand him on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see this for what it is a long time ago. If you were not so determined to make an enemy of him, perhaps you would have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at you as though you’re the sunrise and set, like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky.

You kiss him, before he can open his mouth to speak again. There’s nothing lacklustre about the way your lips slide over his, the way your breath mingles, the way he makes little noises of satisfaction, unable to be quiet even with his tongue flicking over your top lip, encouraging you to open up for him. Angling your head to keep your noses from smushing together, you oblige, letting him lick into your mouth, his arms circling you, holding you tight against his body.

You can't put a name to the feeling that sparks between you, but it's the thing that's been missing from every kiss you've had before.

The heat, the need of it all burns away all that remains of your carefully maintained resolve. He loves you, fool that he is, and you're not sure you could survive without him now. Is that what love is? To mourn even the thought of their absence from you, to cling tightly and never let go? To sink into each other until you're one, two halves of the same whole?

He kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen from the tug of his sharp teeth, jaw curiously sore from moving in a new way. You pull back first, braced on one arm as you look down on him. He's beautiful, more than human, wild-eyed and fey, but solid and warm beneath you in a way only a man could be. His imperfections make him dearer to you, not just the marks you've drawn on his skin, but the gap between his two front teeth, the way one brow arches a little more than the other, giving him that permanently skeptical look that had always made you feel he was making fun of you. The crooked smile, the notch in one ear.

You know his face more intimately than your own, but you still want to look at him, especially through this new lens.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” you admit. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I don’t see what difference it makes, really.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I’ve taken enough from you, I don’t want you to regret it.” He gazes up at you, tracing along your jaw with careful touch.

Your heart races rabbit-quick in your chest, and although you're the one looking down at him, you feel pinned in place by the wolf's eyes alone. "Then make sure I don't," you say softly. "I can even promise not to make another attempt on your life until the morning."

"Darling…"

"Please. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but tonight I think I want your hands on me."

"You think?" His fingers catch around the back of your neck, as though he's waiting for some cue before he pulls you back into his arms.

“I know.”

He pulls you down for another kiss, rolling the two of you so his big body stretches over yours, your underskirts bunching up as he slots his thick thigh between yours, pressing against your core. He holds most of his weight off of you, but you’re still trapped beneath him. For the first time in a long while, there is no panic, no desire to fight furiously for freedom. You feel quite content where you are, especially when his thigh flexes, rubbing against you firmly, sending a shower of sparks through your belly. You gasp against his mouth, your hands skimming down his sides gingerly. When he does it again, you dig your fingers into the muscle of his back reflexively, murmuring apologies as his lips leave yours and slide down your bared throat.

“Don’t,” he growls against your pulse, dragging his tongue roughly over your skin. “Don’t apologize. You won’t hurt me.”

His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder, finding the older scar from his lupine jaws. You let out a shuddering gasp when he bites down lightly, not even hard enough to leave a mark. There’s a part of you that wants him to leave a mark, a bruise if not something more permanent, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him out of gentleness tonight.

He kisses down your chest, grinning up at you when he reaches the top edge of your corset. “You are still wearing far too much clothing, my love. Come here.” He stands in a smooth movement, and you’re untethered without the weight of his body against yours, but only for a moment. He helps you to your feet and leads you to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and pulling you between his knees, turning you so he can loosen the laces of your corset.

You shed the garment as soon as you’re able, as well as the extra petticoats. Your chemise is thin, loose material, obscuring little, but you leave it on while you sit beside the wolf, toeing your heeled slippers off and nudging them under the bed and out of the way. Hands folded, you wait, heart beating like a drum. You feel so strange, almost outside your own body, watching him unlace his boots and tug them off impatiently.

He stands to strip off his trousers, and you quickly avert your gaze, looking down at your hands rather than see him in his fully undressed state. You have a rough idea of what you’d find, you’ve been in the public baths more than a few times, and even doing your best to be respectful, it’s hard not to see something. But seeing something in a setting where everyone is minding their own business is a lot different than seeing something up close, especially when you might be expected to do more than just look.

“We don’t have to do this, love,” he says, kneeling in front of you, clasping his hands around yours. Your eyes fly back up, landing on his face. His chuckle makes your cheeks burn. “If you’re nervous—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I’m just— I hate not knowing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that darling. It’s your first time, I should think the responsibility rests on my shoulders. All you have to do is tell me when you like something and when you don’t.” He leans forward, forcing your thighs apart to accommodate the bulk of him, and kisses you, all sweetness. “And if you want to stop, we stop. Anything more than that can wait at least until the second or third time.”

It sounds so simple, put like that.

“Besides,” he adds, giving you a wicked grin as his hands move to your hips, the movement rucking your chemise up further on your thighs. “You’ve always been a quick study.”

Well, he’s right about that. His lips find your throat again, pressing languid kisses down your chest until he reaches the edge of your chemise. His eyes flick upwards, seeking permission before he goes further. You untie the simple knot with one hand, the other petting through his soft curls.

He noses aside the thin fabric to find your nipple, latching on with a contented hum. The act sends tremors down into your core, intensifying as his tongue flicks across. You pull in a shuddering breath, and your exhale becomes a whimper when his teeth nip at you, his other hand coming up to grope at your other breast, his touch warm and appreciative before his grip slides down to your hips and he tugs you to the edge of the mattress.

He pulls away from your breast and kisses you properly again. “Do you want more?” he asks. “Can I taste your pretty cunt, darling?”

The desire in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, and he sits back on his heels and kisses all the way up your thigh, although he pauses and pulls back to your other knee, kissing his way up again, this time sinking his teeth into your inner thigh, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make you jolt, your pearl begging for any kind of friction. When he passes over your cunt to mouth at your other thigh, you whine, shifting even closer to the edge of the bed. You can feel your cunt dripping, the air strangely cool on your wet skin.

A pair of mischievous eyes glance up at you. He’s doing this on purpose. He started all of this, and now he has the gall to tease you. Glaring in response, you grip him by the hair and pull him in, determined to put his clever mouth to better use than smirking and biting you when you need him elsewhere.

To his credit, he makes no complaint and does what he’s directed, slipping his tongue between your folds, lapping up the slick arousal. His big hands push your thighs up so he can get a better angle, and he kisses your cunt with as much passion as he did your lips, if not more.

The feeling is electric. His mouth scorches, sets you alight in ways you’d never imagined, the occasional scrape of his too sharp teeth against you thrilling. It’s too good, has you fighting his grip even as your fingers are still tightly wound into his hair, holding him close. It’s too much, but if he stopped it would be so much worse.

If he minds your writhing, he doesn’t show it. You can’t help the sounds he pulls from you, but he’s louder, as though this is more for himself than for you. He groans when your hips buck against his mouth, pants when he lifts himself away enough to breathe, his amber eyes gleaming, fixed on your face, except the few times they flutter closed, just for a moment, savouring your taste.

His nose nudges your pearl as his tongue presses inside you. You grip him so tightly to your core, your hips shaking so hard that you’re surprised you don’t break his nose. The hot, molten cataclysm that’s been pooling somewhere behind your belly button overtakes you, sweeping you away, limbs seized, unable to out-swim the current. You can’t see past the stars in your eyes even after your legs relax and you force your hand to unclasp his hair, finger by finger, so you can lay back on the mattress, breathing hard.

He crawls up onto the bed and pulls you toward the centre, a self-satisfied grin on his face. His cock presses into your thigh, insistent for attention, the tip peeking out and leaking against your thigh. He ruts against you when he kisses you again, his close-cropped beard soaked with your arousal. You can taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and bitter-sweet.

You lay twined together, forehead pressed against his as you both catch your breath. One hand gently brushes up and down your spine, the other pulling your leg up over his hip. “How was that?” he asked.

There may not be words for what you feel. Maybe there are, but they’re beyond you right now, washed away with all the resistance in your body. You settle on nice, which makes him laugh.

“Only nice, hm? I suppose I’ll have to work harder.”

“Better than nice,” you assure him. “I— I liked it a lot.” It’s still insufficient, so you kiss him again, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

He does, after a long moment. “Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?” you ask. “Or— for you? Do you want me to—”

“No, there’s no need for you to do a thing, love. The next part is for both of us.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him effortlessly. He reaches past you with one hand while he kisses you sweetly, tongue pushing into your mouth at the same moment you feel his cock slot against your entrance. He pushes in gently, halting when he meets resistance, fucking shallowly into you until you relax enough to let him bury himself deeper into your body.

You tuck your face down against his chest, focusing on the feeling of his cock stretching your cunt, so deep inside you that his presses against your womb. He tries to keep himself still, but his hips buck slightly, tearing a groan from your chest. There’s no stopping the way your cunt squeezes down on him in response, nor the way your hips grind against him. He makes a choked sound, breathing out shakily when you push yourself up to look at him.

The angle change nearly has you collapsing back down, but he takes pity on you and flips you both so he can take the lead. “Hello, pretty thing,” he says, giving you another kiss and a firm grind into you before he starts moving his hips, slowly working himself in and out of your cunt, lips settling against your ear so he could tell you how well you’re taking him, how good you feel around his cock.

Any ability to respond is quickly fucked out of you, your breath punched out with every deep thrust, your world shrinking down to a handful of sensations: his lips on your ear, the weight of his body and the delicious drag of his cock against your inner walls.

He works his hand between you to rub at your pearl, the heel of his hand pressing down on your lower belly. The thought that he can feel himself inside you with your hand is one of the last fully formed ones that cross your mind, because he growls and picks up the pace, unrelenting until you’re shaking and babbling and clinging so tightly to him that you’re certain you’ll leave permanent marks.

He drags you up another precipice and throws you over, his forehead pressed to yours, watching your face as you shake and cry out. He ruts into you, and you can feel him fill your cunt, his cock twitching, rooted firmly inside you. He doesn’t pull away, just throws himself onto his back, holding you tight to his chest.

His heart beats like a drum under your ear, slowing gradually as he catches his breath. His cock slips free, and you stiffen slightly as his spend leaks from your swollen cunt, spilling onto his belly. He pops his head up as soon as you tense, and huffs out a laugh, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Sex can be a bit messy. Come on, love. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Your legs wobble when you try to stand, but he happily slides a supportive arm around your waist, leading you into the adjoining tap room. Once you’re both cleaned up, he coaxes you out of your sweat-soaked chemise and wraps you in one of his shirts and you both sit back down in front of the fire.

You pick up your abandoned wine glass, holding it with both hands as you eye the wolf. He looks content, satiated, like he’s had his fill of you. There’s a little tremor of unease that settles in your belly. Now that the chase is over, will he still want you? Do you still want him to want you? At the beginning of the evening you had been determined to kill him, and now…

He looks back at you through half-closed eyes, and unfurls his arm. “You’re too far away,” he tells you, voice a warm purr. “And you’re thinking too much.”

It’s still unfair, how easily he reads you. An open book, pages left open for him to flip through at his leisure. Despite your trepidation, you walk forward on your knees and sit against him, knees tucked under his arm. His fingertips trail up your thigh, over your knee, down your calf, and back, over and over, as he waits for you to speak.

“What happens now?” you ask at last. “Do we go our separate ways?”

Hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it behind a neutral mask. “If that’s what you want.” His fingers continue retreading their path while silence builds between the two of you. At last, he pulls in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you want?”

There’s raw desire in his eyes, not tempered in the least by your coupling. He offers you everything so easily that it feels like it must be a trick, but he wouldn’t work so hard to hide his feelings if he didn’t care for you, if this were a trap. If you stay, it has to be your choice, not made because of his own want for you to remain by his side.

The anger that kept you warm in all your years out in the cold is gone. Killing him won’t bring your family back from the grave, it would just place another soul in one. The desire for revenge truly burned out a long while ago, and you couldn’t admit that only embers remained. It was why you were so desperate to end it tonight, to close the chapter and look forward to something new.

It’s so like your wolf to ruin your plans. This time, you’re not sure you mind.

“I’d like to stay,” you say at last.

He’s on you so fast that you drop your wine glass, spilling red over the furs. It’s hard to stop laughing enough to kiss him back, trying to point out the mess to him. He growls something about not giving a damn as he gives up trying to kiss you through your smile, and presses his lips to your pulse instead.

In the end, with all the history between the two of you, what’s one more mess?

It's been almost five years since I started writing this short story, and I had fully expected not to finish it. I was caught up in the story in the peripherals, the potential history between Cat and Valter. This scene no longer fits in the overall narrative, even if there are still threads of it that remain unchanged, so I feel like it's safe to share. I'm working on the third draft of The Night of the Wolf, sorting out the mess of my second draft (so many changes it might as well be a second first draft) and I think there's a very real possibility that I can actually finish it, and that's in no small way thanks to all of you. I have been writing for a long time, but it's only been in the past year that I've shared my work with anyone, and it's been a really lovely experience. Thank you for reading my silly fanfictions, thank you for reading this, and I hope to share more bits of original work going forward, if there's any interest. (But don't worry, I'm still gonna finish the fanfictions. I show no signs of stopping yet)

C. T. Cutter

(Also, special thanks to my best human person @dragonnarrative-writes for making me finish this and being so so kind to me about my work and encouraging me always. I am bad at accepting compliments but I appreciate them all the same)

Image Credits: 1 - 2 ~ Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[a-most-beloved-fool]

If Spock and Jim merged into one being (no euphemism here lol) like Tuvix, what do you think the personality of the new being would be like? What impact do you think that would have had on the lives of both of them after they separated again? I love your headcanons, thanks for the answers!

thanks for the question!! <3

Hmmm... I think they would work pretty well as one being, actually. I'm thinking about all of those quotes from Roddenberry about how Kirk and Spock were supposed to represent two halves of a whole person, so I have to assume that they would be quite content. Though, disclaimer as I continue: I have not yet seen any of Voyager - there might be aspects of Tuvix's combination that I don't take into account because I don't know they exist. If so, uh, sorry. My bad.

For the sake of avoiding confusion, I'll call the merge Kirok (after the name Kirk chose when he lost his memories in The Paradise Syndrome). (Also, I fear that calling him "Kock" would have... deleterious effects on the readability of this post... for no reason at all...)

I do think that Kirok would, overall, have the best parts of Kirk and Spock. Combined, they are tactically fearsome. With Kirk's intuition and understanding of people and Spock's knowledge of statistics and science, Kirok is brilliant. However, I do think that Kirok would be a worse captain in practice than if Kirk and Spock simply had a mental bond. Part of the brilliance of Kirk and Spock as a command team is that, while they very much respect one another and take the other's opinion into account, they do also. regularly ignore each other's advice. And this is usually to their benefit! They each take risks that the other wouldn't, and, often, it saves them (in part because they always back each other up, even when doing things they don't agree with. Spock will be like "this is unwise" and Kirk will say "maybe, but I'm doing it anyways" and Spock will just... go with it.). But, if they were one person, I think that impulsiveness would be tempered. The Kirk part would have a brilliant idea, the Spock part would say "wait, there is too much risk, we can make a better plan," and then Kirok would lose his chance to act. When they're separate people Spock is ride-or-die for all of Kirk's decisions, but when they're one person, the Spock half won't always allow those decisions to be made at all (and also won't necessarily be able to tell when he does need to rein things in a bit). (Also Kirk and Spock both tend to be reckless, and then rely on the other to save them - as Kirok, who would back him up when he needed it? Bones would, but he's a medical officer. He simply can't do everything they would have. And, no matter how good of a first officer Kirok got (probably Sulu?), they couldn't be that good.)

I also think that Kirok wouldn't be quite as at ease with his position on the ship as Spock and Kirk individually were. The Spock part of him loves science far too much to just abandon it. He wants to spend time in the labs! He wants to make discoveries! Likewise the Kirk part of him can't truly be anything but a Captain. So, Kirok stays a captain, but he's less passionate about it (or, rather, more passionate about things that aren't it). This doesn't actually affect Kirok's satisfaction - it just affects his performance and relationships with others. He might spend off-duty time working on science experiments (which he can no longer do during shift, due to captaining) and neglect forming bonds with his crew, and he might place more focus than usual on scientific discovery missions.

As for the crew... Well, it's not as weird of a change as they expected. As expected, Kirok is less outwardly friendly than Kirk, and more outwardly friendly than Spock, but he's - cohesive. He still feels like their commanding officers. His humor tends to be a bit drier than Kirk's was, but he's a very compassionate and reasonable captain. (Tbh I tend to think that Kirk is actually more of a hardass than Spock (people just assume Spock is worse due to being Vulcan), so some crewmembers are surprised when Kirok is more lenient about certain things than Kirk would have been. Not lenient about cruelty or anything genuinely important to the safety of the ship, but about other things.) But, he's still not as good at making personal connections as Kirk was, and he's still inclined to spend too much time in the labs, so things aren't perfect.

Really, I think that the person having the worst time of things would be Bones, lmao. He'd have to deal with his Best Friend suddenly being the same person as The Guy He Affectionately Antagonizes (totally not a friend no how could you even think that). I think he'd be more lost than anyone else about how to address Kirok. Is this Kirk, his old friend, who he can be truly comfortable with, or is this Spock, who he snipes at and who snipes at him in turn? Who can he turn to, when the man he normally approaches for comfort is now the same being as one he doesn't want to seem too weak in front of? Does he turn to anyone else, in the meantime, or does he weather it alone?

Kirok himself, though, is actually pretty okay with the change. The different parts of himself simply - mesh well together. It's very satisfying for him, if not for his career and those around him. There's some minor bits of tension, especially regarding changes in biology and telepathic status, but, for the most part, he's doing well. The things you might expect to be major points of tension somehow... aren't. They compromise remarkably easily. (No meat, yes logic, no emotional suppression, yes casual touching, no casual relationships, yes meditation, etc.) And the Kirk and Spock parts of him both enjoy the closeness, the sense of knowing they now have for one another. They're one person, and know themself completely as they've always longed to know each other completely. (he does miss playing chess against someone who could beat him, though!)

Now, because I am Spirk-brained, I also think there's potential for Kirok to have Very Confused Feelings about discovering that the two parts of himself each had secret feelings for the other prior to the merge. There could be this odd sense of loss - like, yes, they are now technically one with one another, but they also completely missed out on their shot at a romantic relationship. They mourn what they could have had. The Spock part, especially, mourns the potentially for a telepathic bond (because with how smoothly they've integrated with one another, it surely would have been a strong one). So, as much as Kirok does enjoy existing as Kirok, I think he might be more willing to attempt separating back into two parts than I believe Tuvix was.

And, when they're two separate people again, they both feel like they're missing some part of themself, even once they've begun their new romantic relationship - but quickly discover that a mental link between them fills that hole. (And then, of course, because they are hopeless and in love, the "medicinal mental link" very quickly just becomes a marriage bond. They're like "well, we've already been one person and liked that well enough... a marriage bond is hardly anything different!" To Spock's endless pleasure, they are highly compatible and have a remarkably strong bond.) The mental link also allows them to have the same quick reaction times and combined brilliance of Kirok without the negative side effects of their own individual strengths being tempered. (they're also like. annoyingly codependent for a bit after Kirok's separation. oh boy are they always touching. "it gives them emotional security." bones looks at them in disgust (he loves it).)

Or, if we wanted to be McSpirk-brained... I'm enjoying the imagery of Kirok (who both had crushes on Bones as well as on one another) just directing all of that missed romantic potential onto Bones, who is... like, he's not not into it (Kirk was hot, Spock was hot, ergo Kirok is hot), but he also misses and loved his Original friends, and so he is very torn between accepting Kirok's advances and trying to find a way to split them apart again. (Flustered Bones, flustered Bones!! I do love flustered Bones!! He is blushing and stammering and having multiple ethical crises all at once. They never covered this in Starfleet Medical...) He also doesn't quite know whether Kirok's feelings truly belonged to both Kirk and Spock or not, and doesn't think that Kirk or Spock would truly act on it if they were in their normal state, so a small selfish part of him wonders if that's the only chance he has to be with them (even if it's not quite the same 'them' he fell in love with). And then, of course, there's the fear that trying to get back the original Kirk and Spock will actually just kill them! Yeah, poor Bones has a rough time of things. But, when everything is fixed, he does still wind up getting two boyfriends out of it. It all works out in the end?

[gomzdrawfr]

here's what I got from day 1 hehe

I got the Ghost charm and prints from beloved rinny!! so happy to meet up with fellow Malaysian artists :D The stickers are printed from an artist I recognized which is bue_june (warning, very nsfw account) - cat!Ghost, sense of sight, I'm not sure who did the Konigs tho :3

[puppetmaster13u]

Thinkin' of WOF Au for DC, but like, it's a Gothamite and Fawcett thing. (And Amity Park if crossover)

Like those are the most magical areas in the world, even if Gotham is cursed as fuck. An unspoken secret of sorts that while they present themselves as human to outsiders, they are all Very Much Not.

Which means hilariously in the league, when everyone expects Batman to be suspicious and short with the new guy- even made bets on it- they are then shooketh when both visibly relax and start talking. And half the shared complaints don't make sense!

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Now Gotham technically has no Queen, nor does Fawcett, but Batman and Captain Marvel are the closest things. Not in the traditional sense of back when they were in separate tribes (& maybe from a different dimension but shh that was millennia ago) but in the sense of, they're the ones patrolling and protecting the cities along with calling the shots in disasters.

Which does sort of change the dynamic they both have in their city. If one of them calls to arms, the city would follow them. They could declare war, and their cities (begrudgingly in Gotham's underbelly's case of strongest is in charge) would follow. And while Billy is oblivious, both Marvel-the-not-hivemind and Batman are. They know they have to be very careful.

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I'm sure we all want Nightwing Bruce but no. Bruce, like both his mother and father and father's father and so on before him, is actually an Icewing. The Waynes however, have a case of melanism running in their bloodline. Thomas Wayne? Only his quills and part of his back were darker, but Bruce? Practically pitch black scales that shadow his eyes.

Now Alfred on the other hand, is a Nightwing. No special powers there, though you would hear many a child protest with how he seems to know everything.

Commissioner Gordon is a Mudwing, big stocky and very tired, which translates to his human disguise as a large trenchcoat. He finds this very amusing. Barbara similarly, is half Mudwing. Her mother was a Hivewing, making her a hybrid between both. Which does ironically mean that Batgirl does in fact have insectoid wings. Though that does ponder the question on if they'd all go by their original vigilante names.

Dick is a Silkwing. Wingless as he watches his parents fall and unable to do anything despite this place supposedly being safe for beings like them. He grows into his own, and his wings, when they come in, are dark Gotham colors through and through, with the deep blue of the sky he's come to crave.

Jason is a hybrid between a Mudwing and a Skywing. He's also an animus- not that he knew that. He doesn't find out until he's dying, telling himself to not die, to get back to Gotham, to his dad, his family- And then he wakes up in his Coffin, alive.

Now Cass, raised to be the perfect killer, is also a hybrid, just one between a Nightwing and a Rainwing, egg set out under the moon. Which succeeds, partially. She can't straight up read minds, but combined with her talent in reading body language on both human and inhuman bodies, it's a near thing.

Tim is a Seawing, borderline abandoned by his parents who seek treasures and more wealth as he's trapped back in a city where the water is dark and poisoned. But he's Gothamite, through and through, and he adapts. Scales darker than the original blues he was born with, and glow shifting to that sickly white of the Gotham's Bats.

Now Steph, is a full-blooded Rainwing, and can in fact change her scales, but can mostly be found in purples and golds. Though for a short time she was in another set of colors, thought dead before she slithered out of the shadows older and wiser than before.

Damian is his father's son, but he's also an Al-Ghul. The not-quite dragonet is half Icewing, and half Sandwing. And struggled to adjust at first, to a place so different from his first home where the only other dragons were blood related. But like any Wayne before him, he adjusts, and he adapts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy wasn't a Beetlewing originally, and perhaps he would have hesitated if he'd known it would change him, would change his body and the last thing he had of his parents. But his friends, his Team and new family help. And he can pass as a Silkwing like their sort-of foster mother. All six of them can do so now, even if the others look more like hybrids themselves thanks to not being the Champion. They might not be, but they're his family. And that's enough.

[bloodyloverstars]

Since you three are now in the same blog, are you guys getting along?

Yay! Our first question!

Yeah! Now let's see... Oh. Well... Kind of?

To be honest... I kinda don't like how M keeps staring at me... He's creepy.

Oh come on, I'm not that bad.

You took over a whole world and murdered a loving couple.

Says the one who made her friends die by their own hands.

Yeeeaaah, it's not the best. Though I think Monika's okay with me, thank goodness. M is... Okay to be around. I mean, he's not rearing up to hurt us nor our Emeralds, so that's good.

Of course I wouldn't. I just wanted a touch of revenge, not to become a serial murderer.

Riiiight... Annyyway, I'll add that you are fine to be with, Mr. Puzzles. Honestly, the fact you're so dramatic and upbeat sometimes reminds me of Emerald. It's fun, honestly.

Yeah, she always said we had a lot in common, so thanks for that!

What about you?

Well... I guess I can tolerate you both. You annoy the hell out of me, but at least we have Emerald in common.

[softquietsteadylove]

Hello love how are you?

I miss the actors au, so i have a promt for you if thats okay.

Thena and Gil are casted in an action/romance movie where their characters have a lot of tension and have to flirt a lot, so their tension in real life gets real high and they kinda start flitring with the other but they are just "friends".

As always thank you for your works 🩷🤍

"You ready?" he asked her, his weapon in hand.

She gave him a look over her shoulder, raising a finely plucked eyebrow. "Are you going to ask me that every time?"

He gave her look right back to her, though, both of them grinning at the exchange. "Well, I believe in words of assurance. Doesn't that help set the mood or something?"

She tested the doorknob, preparing to charge in with him. "Are you asking me as your partner or as a woman?"

He pressed his back to the wall with her. He wasn't nearly as entertained by it as she was. "I'm asking if you're sure about this."

She was surprised by his sudden hesitance. "You think we aren't there yet?"

"I mean dinner is one thing, but taking down this whole compound just us?"

"I knew you had commitment issues."

"You think everyone has commitment issues."

She rolled her eyes at him. "If you can't do this, then fine, I'll take care of it myself-"

He stopped her from going in alone, his hand holding hers back. He moved closer, even, his arm around her and his face nose to nose with hers. "You'll never have to take care of anything alone so long as I'm here. Whether you think we're there or not."

The clip faded out and the audience applauded obligingly. Some was politely directed by the teleprompters and some was genuine enthusiasm. The movie did seem fun and light, with well paced action, based on the snippet presented.

Gil and Thena laughed at the scene chosen, as if they hadn't already seen it countless times during their press tour.

"That was a clip from your latest--I'm already excited," the host of the show exclaimed, leaning back in her chair. "I feel like we haven't seen you guys take on anything this light in a while."

Gil and Thena shared a look. It was always funny for them to do press and receive notes on how their careers were going. Whether they were working on something together or apart, they were spending almost all their time together anyway.

"Well, Thena had her more serious biopic, which swept awards season," Gilgamesh began, openly inviting the audience to shower her with adulation. He clapped as well, chuckling as she ducked her head and played with her hair in a moment of shyness.

"You see why I can't do press with him all the time? I can't take it," she laughed in good nature, spreading her time between the host and the audience. "He's too much."

"It's so sweet how close you are, though," the host beamed, dancing the line between innocent commentary and probing at something more. "I feel like it's not always the case."

"We are lucky," Thena agreed, looking at Gil again with a full smile. Her makeup done for the show made her seem to glow under the lights, from the blush in her cheeks to the colour on her lips. "I can't imagine how insufferable it would be if I didn't like him."

"Well, it'd be pretty hard, if that clip was anything to go by!"

She was somewhat luring them into something--saying something, admitting something.

"Is it hard to get into a character like the ones in this film, or do you find it easier because you already get along so well?"

Thena met the eyes of their host. She was good at her job; the audience was ooh-ing and ah-ing at all the right times. She kept her smile even, though, resting her cheek in her hand. "Well, movies like this one often focus more on the action and the humour than the characters. But we're lucky our writers actually have quite a fun story buried within the scenes."

"It was nice to be able to really play around with the characters and how they interacted and that would, in turn, influence how we played a scene or how we would allude to something that would come into play further down the line," Gilgamesh answered. It was a very practised, media coach approved answer. It really didn't say all that much, but it sounded like he was saying a lot.

"Now, just tell me," the hostess got a devious smirk on her face. "Are you flirting like that the whole movie?"

Thena resisted the urge to roll her eyes, much like her character for the summer blockbuster. "Would you call that flirting?"

Gil laughed beside her, their eyes drawn together and away from the third party on stage with them. "I think that's just how they talk to each other."

"It's natural for them," Thena joined in his laughter. "They get up, go to work, see each other in the elevator-"

"She says 'fuck you', he says 'how hard'?" Gilgamesh joked, which had both he and Thena laughing, as well as the audience in stitches. He made a sheepish face to the camera, "sorry, sorry, forgot you'll have to bleep that."

Thena shrugged one shoulder, "it's not rated R, we can have one truly good profanity."

"Yeah, and you got it," he pointed out, recalling the exact scene in which her character gets the privilege of saying the coveted once-per-movie-F-bomb. "It's a big one, too."

She gave him a look before purring, "not as big as you, baby."

The audience laughed again. Gil and Thena both leaned in their seats, losing themselves in the mirth of it all. The hostess was banging on the table.

She wiped a tear from her eye, picking up her coffee mug only to tip it upside down. "It's okay, there's no coffee in here."

The audience continued to laugh.

"How did you even get any work done like this?"

"Is it really work if you do what you love?" Gilgamesh chuckled, trying to calm his laughter and appear at least somewhat professional. He tugged at the lapel of his suit jacket, although he didn't button it closed. He looked at Thena again. "Wouldn't you agree?"

She made a face; Sprite got her mischievous side from Thena, but neither would ever admit it. "I think they do each other all the time, yes."

The audience roared with laughter again. Thena attempted to hide her completely open laughter with a hand in front of her mouth. Under the cover of it, she whispered to him, "sorry, but that one was too good to pass up."

"Takes one to know one," he whispered back to her.

"Okay, okay, okay," the hostess held her hand up, signalling the audience to cool it and drawing her guests' attentions back to her. "Cool it, kids--leave some room for jesus, 'kay?"

Thena and Gil both chuckled, but they had indeed gravitated closer and closer through the course of their banter. Their thighs were touching.

"Thena," the two women traded grins and raised eyebrows. "First, I have to know where you get your eyebrows done, because you're putting me to shame."

She was funny, Thena conceded. She liked her delivery and her genuine charisma. "It's all my stylist team, I assure you."

"Second," she held up a finger. "Did you write your own dialogue for this movie or what?--you're killin' me, here. You know how hard it is to get your own network show? I'm supposed to be the funny one."

The audience applauded again, the energy in the room still high.

Gil joined in. "She's always been funny--I keep telling people."

"No one believes you," she shook her head at him. They were ignoring their host again and getting lost in the fun of trading little jokes. She toyed with some of her hair, winding it around her finger.

He shook his head, capturing the lock of hair for himself. "That's what happens when you're pretty and talented, people think the rest of your resume is fake."

"Is there anything you can't do?" the host asked, partly for the info and partly so as not to let her own show get away from her again.

"Plenty," Thena looked back at her again, although it had to be said that Gilgamesh was still toying with her hair. "Cooking is top of the list."

"That's okay," the host jumped on the opportunity to bring up more inside info. "I hear he's a master chef all his own."

"It's true."

"It is not."

"It most certainly is," Thena cut him off, tipping her head in his direction again. He tossed her hair over her shoulder but she didn't let it distract her. "He's an amazing home cook."

The host pouted, leaning her chin into her palm with her elbow on top of her desk. "I'm jealous."

Thena nodded at her. "We had a break during filming, while we were changing location and our crew was doing the real heavy lifting work. And the day we were back on set, Gilgamesh brought everyone a little bundle of cookies he had made."

"For everyone?!"

Thena nodded again, confirming the other woman's shock. "He baked at least three hundred cookies so he could give them to everyone in the cast and crew. They were in cute little bundles, tied with ribbon and everything."

"Okay," Gil huffed, blushing modestly.

"Look," Thena pointed at the screen, where the showrunners were pulling up a picture taken and posted on social media. "Isn't it cute?"

The hostess dropped her jaw in the audiences direction. They were being well fed this segment. "Okay, I didn't think there was anything you couldn't do, but now it's him too?!"

Thena raised both her brows at him and crossed her arms with a smirk. "No, there is absolutely nothing he cannot do."

He rolled his eyes, still playing up his bashfulness. He raised his arm up onto the back of the couch, somewhat around Thena's shoulders. His fingers toyed with the fluttery sleeve of her dress. "Except get you to stop, apparently."

"Okay," the hostess tapped the desk, signalling the closing of their time. She turned to the frontmost camera while the other two turned to cover her other angles. "We are gonna take a quick break, and when we come back, the lovebirds here will have some insider info on release dates and we'll even have some questions from our viewers!"

The cameras pulled out and the band played until sound was done rolling. Gil and Thena waved to the audience, as well as the 'audience' at home through the cameras.

"That was amazing, you guys are nailing it," their hostess addressed them openly as her team came scurrying in to retouch her hair and makeup in their brief commercial spot. "Keep up the fun, flirty vibes when we come back, okay?"

Gil and Thena looked at each other. The hostess was further engulfed in assistants and scrip producers and coffee gophers swarming her for their brief five minute window to do their jobs.

"Flirting?" Thena voiced aloud, to which Gil also shrugged. "I wouldn't call it that."

"No," he scoffed in agreement with her. "We're just making friendly conversation. And you're totally killing the audience--just admit you're funny."

She scoffed at him this time, her arms still crossed, him still playing with the sleeve of her dress. "I admit nothing. If anything, you are bringing it out in me. And she's quite humorous."

Gil just chuckled, adjusting himself to fully sit sideways on the couch, since this was the position he would be in for the rest of the interview anyway. He abandoned the dress sleeve and found her stray curl of blonde to play with again. "You're funnier."

And they said they weren't flirting.

[sharkneto]

Obsessed with my friend I went to see Wicked (Part 1) with who had never seen the musical nor The Wizard of Oz

[valleymyristica]

I WISH I knew if Dev had a mother.

We, just as Peri, are glad to grant any wish that comes our way ᵔᵜᵔ

So, to give you the knowledge that you do seek, I'll tell it simple, he indeed had a mom. Though, I do think there is more that you do seek

For such, let us expand, and tell of the past. For that mother of his, she didn't really last. She might have been caring, she might have not. Regardless, she lays in Dev's mind, as though he's forgot.

Then again, she was never there, so what is it one could forget?

Hmm... Then again, what is there was someone before the O-Pairs? Someone simple, who had a job to do? A simple nanny, who did all that she could, to ensure that he's well.

He does have memories, of a past unsure, for he knows his mother was no more, when he took his first breath. So, who is the one who haunts him in his mind? And why does she seem so very kind?

He knows his mother has never been there, so the question remains, who was?

[zylphiacrowley]

How awkward is your character? Do they tend to say things and regret them, are they clumsy and unsure of foot, or do they simply think too much about themselves at any given time? Do their feelings of awkwardness change depending on the person; ie, they're a naturally confident person but end up stammering the moment they look at their crush? How do they feel when they realise they're being awkward?

Hello friend! I always enjoy answering your question drive asks so thank you for doing them~! :D

X'vahl is not very awkward at all... anymore. As a child he was very quiet and he and his mother were often ostracized by many of the other tribe members. As he's grown older he's become quite confident and self-assured, and when he's not, he's usually pretty good at pretending he is.

The only person who can bring out his inner awkwardness nowadays is Erenville, mostly because Erenville tends to be quite direct with him. He quickly picked up on the fact that X'vahl was flirting with him and called him out to his face about it (to be fair... X'vahl is not as subtle as he thinks he is when he's flirting. He never has been. It's a gift and a curse, and has almost gotten a spear through his throat in the past).

They're a lot less awkward together now, but I do have a small collection of some of the awkward faces he's made in response to Erenville. Most of these are from their first trip to the Island so it was very early on in their relationship when X'vahl was still very "I want to impress him and woo him, but I don't want to be weird about it or scare him, and I don't want to ruin what friendship we might already have because regardless of his feelings, I would still like for him to be a part of my life in some way, even if that way is just as friends if it turns out he doesn't actually harbor any romantic feelings for me." Lucky for him, Erenville was not put off by it, and was in fact, also interested in kissing him on the mouth.

[shivunin]

which of your stories are you most proud to have finished? are there any little details you put into your stories that you're particularly proud of? 💜

Hey, Mer! Thank you for asking c:

Hmmm taking this in two ways:

Proud to have finished as in, proud that I managed to finish it has to be Wander the Drifting Roads, which is one of my two long fics. I was editing while I was posting and caught up to the point I'd edited to, which caused me disproportionate stress haha. For a minute, I wasn't sure I was ever going to get that last chapter into a state I was okay with posting. I briefly considered walking away, but I am so glad I didn't!! It is still one of my favorite things I've written.

Proud that I wrote in general is probably Palimpsest, which 1) I still feel clever over the name and 2) that section of act 2 remains the crunchiest Dragon Age thing to me (it is just so!!!! *paragraph deleted*) and 3) I love writing from inside Fenris's head and I am very, very proud of how the fic came out in general.

*gets out the red string* okay so you know how there are a bunch of statues of people in random poses that don't really look like they're carved from anything? and how Solas froze a ton of people in Trespasser in stone? well, in my fic The Scourge of Sundermount, the Lavellan there comes across a left-behind remnant of Mythal's soul in a bit of the amulet Merrill used to bring her back and she becomes a sort of Medusa-esque figure, capable of (involuntarily) turning people to stone with a remnant of that power. I have a hard time reading that story because it is very sad, but I do feel clever about the details in the way I situated that AU.

[inkykeiji]

hey clari! i hope you’re having a good day!!

i’ve been wondering, how would touya nii react to natsuo starting to really like a girl, possibly the way touya nii fell for reader? would there be any chance of him accepting her, would he want to have a hold on her as well, would reader be somehow okay with it all? i’m really curious on how that dynamic would work (if it did at all). but i don’t know if you’ve ever answered these questions, sorry if you did!

i love your tnii au so much ❤️❤️

ooooh so i touch on it a little bit in this answer right here, but as i said in that response, touya-nii would be quite jealous if natsuo entered into a steady and serious romantic/intimate relationship. natsuo is his little brother, and anyone or anything that threatens his position in natsuo’s life is automatically an enemy. he would never fully accept the partner, because as far as he’s concerned, no one will ever be good enough for his little brother (except for him, of course). touya would always be caustic towards them, constantly grilling them on matters related to natsuo and ‘evaluating’ their competence + care when it comes to his brother.

touya definitely wants power over natsuo’s partner as well, but it’s a different kind of power than that which he holds over his siblings—it’s harsh and cruel and cold, void of any sort of obsession or ‘compassion’ (for lack of a better word) at all. this is more to keep natsuo’s partner under touya’s heel at all times; to keep them in their proper place beneath him. that’s the only way it would work in some sense, but touya would never be happy about it and his consistent malice towards the partner could potentially be viewed as him actively trying to sabotage the relationship (though he would claim otherwise and say it’s all for natsuo’s best interests and benefit). moreover, natsuo’s partner would have to wholeheartedly accept touya’s role within natsuo’s life without criticism or complaint—which would be pretty damn difficult for any sane or mentally healthy person to do/handle!

reader would hate it. i’ve said this before, but reader and touya actually share a lot of the same traits—they just manifest differently and to different severities. but she’d be feeling considerably jealous, too!!! she’s so used to having natsuo’s attention on her and touya, and now this new person has just wedged themselves into the mix (unwanted and uninvited, as far as she’s concerned) and she Does Not like it. reader can be quite selfish and needy, too, just like her niichan.

aw thank u so much anon bb!! + thank you for your questions! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[amber-tortoiseshell]

is amber (or light amber) plus golden a thing? I've only seen it with silver thus far.

Pawpeds doesn't give me any '*ty' cats, but there are several '*ts 11' - amber silver shaded ones: these cats do carry both amber and golden (wide band). One of them, Bella Luchs Skien (NFO ats 11 - light amber silver shaded tabby) even had a picture uploaded:

She theoretically could have amber golden kittens.

My (amateur and personal) opinion: you won't find any, because even if a cat is genetically amber golden, it won't be pedigreed like that. Wide band is overall quite rare among norwegians, and there isn't much active breeding for goldens. Maybe i'm biased, because i specifically seek out the latter, but according to my impressions at the moment amber is far more common. (Silver on the other hand is very popular.) So amber goldens maybe exist, but they are very rare.

Amber and golden are phenotypically quite similar, and i wouldn't be surprised if it was increasingly difficult to differentiate between an amber and an amber golden. This could mean cats will be pedigreed as one or the orther, but not really both. (Historically, ambers and amber carriers were sometimes writted down as goldens, especially when the color was not yet recognised.)

A case study, which probably doesn't have any amber goldens, but at least illustrates the confusion of the situation:

Thuraya's Aurélie Bhakti is a black tabby as per pawpeds, golden on her breeder's website:

She carries amber, and looks like this:

These are her parents:

Her father (on the left) is very clearly not golden. Her mother is amber.

Aurélie had two litters, without any overly obviously golden kittens (but these lines have lots of ambers, dilution, white spotting and different kind of tabbies, so i can't say negative confidently).

So is Aurélie just a very warm amber-carrier, and without any (other) wide band present whatsoever, or is her mother amber golden? (Or this is a recessive wide band situation, which is honestly absolutely possible.) I'm leaning toward the former, but can't say I'm 100% sure. (Sidenote: carrying amber is another very tricky thing, some cats become almost as warm as a real amber, some show literally no sign being anything else but a regular black or blue tabby.)

[yujeong]

For the fic writers ask game!

1, 10, 30, 35, 73 (you don't have to do all of them! whichever you choose)

Heeyyy, thank you so much for sending me this! I know you said I don't have to do all of them, but I'll do all of them hahaha. I just love ask games, so why not? 1. Do you know how you want the story to end when you start, or are you just stumbling through the figurative wilderness hoping to find a road? I think for most, if not all, of my ideas, I have a basic layout of the story in mind, including the ending. Will it change shape through the writing stages? Sure, but unless I get sudden inspiration for something different, it'll stay the same from beginning to end. For example, for The Knight's Pawn I believe I did have that ending in mind as the last scene of the fic. Some parts of it changed in the months I was writing it, but the main events in the story were in my mind from the beginning. 10. At what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you? Hmm, I think I figure out the titles of my fics fairly early, because it's one of my favourite things about writing fics ❤️ In some cases, like (Not) A Person, I have the title in mind without a fic to give it to, until I do haha. It's either instantaneous or it takes me days or even weeks to come up with the perfect title for a fic. It depends on the fic I suppose. 30. Most inspirational quote you’ve ever read or heard that’s still important to you. ....if I say "No legacy is so rich as honesty", will people laugh at me? Well, fuck it, I'm saying it anyway. I love it for all the obvious reasons, but also for what it stands for on its own. Despite what you may think, I didn't get it tattooed on my skin only due to my boy Pete, although he was, like, 90% of the reason I did lol. 35. Tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot. Aaah, that's such a good question. It's difficult to decide, but from my current fandoms, I'd say Vegas from KPTS and Tee from DFF. I do have self-deprecation thoughts, but they're not Vegas-bad and I'd say daddy issues isn't something I've experienced. Similarly, guilt is something that's been a part of me for all my life, but certainly not at Tee's level. What I'm trying to say is, these dudes are very different from me, but they've consumed my thoughts an insane amount and I love them so, so, so much. (Bonus choices from my favourite books: the MC of "My Year of Rest and Relaxation" by Ottessa Moshfegh and Yujeong from "Our Happy Time" by Gong Jiyoung. These ladies are insane and nothing like me and I love them with all my heart.) 73. How do you visualize scenes? Do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow? I always say my imagination is shit, but I do think some images form in my head. However, most of it is blurred af, so I use real-life images and videos in order to get inspired to write scenes that require a lot of visualization, for example fight scenes. For smut, I don't watch porn to be able to visualize the positions though haha. I just base some stuff on my own experiences, despite lacking the genitalia for the smut I write lol.