#thislittlebadwolf

4. name three authors that were influential to your work and tell why

@brimbrimbrimbrim is, like, my biggest inspiration. She writes so much and is so unashamed and out there in her writing, I want to be like her. @coldsaturn was also a huuuuge influence way back in the start. Ets gave me encouragement right from the beginning, and still does to this day! And @everythingremainsconnected. The sweet take on relationships is something I really want to work on replicating in my works, because I’ve relied on drama and shock factor for a long time to make my works appealing, I don’t know how to write them just... being happy.

12. favorite place to write

Coffee shops! Totally cliched, but honestly, the wifi there is usually so slow I can focus on writing better, and the environment is just very nice. I can’t go to my favourite one anymore because they hired a new barista who talks to me constantly and creeps me out, but thankfully there’s a tonne of them around that I can go to.

24. favorite scene you’ve ever written

oh geeze... if we’re going with fan fic, I have to go with one of my recent zaven ones ‘somewhere to begin’, specifically this bit.

“Do you like me?” She asks, not quiet and shy, gaze diverted to their joined hands, her fingers never pausing in tracing lines on the back of his hand.

“I thought I was pretty obvious about it.” Shaw laughs, a little self-conscious, but continues with total sincerity, “Yes, I like you.”

Raven’s hands still, and Shaw wonders for a moment if he’d done something wrong. He had thought their flirting was mutual, but then again, he's more than a little but out of practice with the whole deal. Plus, Raven's from an entirely different time and culture than him, it's entirely possible he'd been misreading everything.

“Then why haven't you made a move on me?” Ravena asks, and Shaw’s heart starts beating again as relief floods through him. Raven looks up at him, something close to accusation but much more vulnerable in her gaze. “You haven't even tried to kiss me.”

“Somehow it just didn’t seem right. You know, you were our prisoner, and then I was all beat up and- Well, the moment hasn’t been right. Running for our lives and being at war isn’t the most romantic, you know?”

“Romantic, huh?” Raven scoffs lightly and shakes her head, “Shaw, I was raised in space on strict rations under a totalitarian government, and then I came to Earth and the world has been ending in one way or another ever since. I can’t say romance has ever been high on my list of priorities, if that’s what’s holding you back.”

Shaw shrugs a little and leans forward slightly, as if conspiring about some secret with Raven. “Well, I happen to come from a different time, and believe me when I say that if there’s anyone in the world who’s ever been deserving of romance, it’s you, Raven Reyes.” Shaw savours the taste of her name on his tongue and his heart skips a beat at the slight flush that darkens her cheeks. If only they could have met before, how he would love to just take her away on his Harley and shoot the shit with her for hours. Maybe someday, they can do something like that. Shaw clears his throat and continues with a smile, “And I’d like to be the one to give you that, if you let me.”

Shaw has never seen Raven at a loss for words, but in this moment she seems to stumble for them, and Shaw’s heart swells at it. It’s incredible, to be able to have such an effect on such an incredible woman, and also sad to think that the reason she’s blushing is possibly that no one has ever paid her such a sincere compliment before. Of all the injustices in the world, this is one Shaw can’t abide.

“Yeah,” Raven replies after a moment, and Shaw’s grin grows. “I think I’d like that.”

29. favorite story/poem of another author

I recently remembered this fic, and it’s incomplete but what there is of it is so, so worth it. ‘looking for it (finding heaven)’ by @ittlebitz. it’s porny, but also super sweet and establishes a super interesting universe dynamic. One of the first fics I ever read, and on rereading it, it’s still amazing.

40. which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series

For my fanfic it would have to be ‘Hypothermia’. I’ve put so much time and love into that series, seeing it acted out would be incredible.

50. if you had to live in one of your stories which one would it be and why?

the universe I had in mind for ‘if you want to view paradise; simply look around and view it’ is actually really fun! very punk and grunge which is the dream tbh. if we can throw original works into the mix, my cyberpunk universe for ‘Bad Code’ would be incredible because voluntary body modifications are as common as tattoos in that ‘verse.

I like zurphy. sounds slurpy.

I had that once in my right arm and it turned out to be an inflammation of a sinew, maybe it's something like that?

4. They never told me the target was also a trained killer. Did they tell you?

“They never told me the target was also a trained killer. Did they tell you?” Murphy asks the woman nonchalantly, as if she doesn’t currently have his arm twisted up in a lock that’s just a hair away from breaking it.

“You consider yourself trained?” The woman laughs derisively, and Murphy feels the familiar cold steel of handcuffs on his wrist. She manipulates his arms expertly into position to cuff him, and Murphy rolls with it. She’s clearly better than him - not that she needs to know he knows that - so he figures his best bet is to not piss her off an talk his way out of it.

Out of... possibly one of the biggest fuck ups of his whole career. No, scratch that, one of the biggest fuck ups of Bellamy’s career. It’s not Murphy’s fault that he was told his target was just a common thief who’d pissed off the wrong people. That’s on Bellamy; thief she may be, but the woman with the striking face tattoo who is currently forcing him onto his knees execution style is anything but common. Murphy also doubts, given how skilled she was in hand to hand combat, that she’s even a thief.

“What no dinner first?” Murphy quips with a grin as he bruises his knees on the cold cement below them. Admittedly, he should have known something was up when he tailed her into a conveniently abandoned warehouse. “Not even a drink? I mean, I’m a cheap date, but I usually require a little more sweet talking than this.”

“Do you ever shut up?” The woman groans, and Murphy shoots her his most charming smile as she walks around to face him. Given the frown on her face, maybe it’s not quite as charming as he’d been banking on. 

“Rarely and for very brief periods of time.” Murphy shrugs, and the woman turns away with a huffed sigh, stalking over to one of the windows and checking the alleyway quickly. “Come on, you’ve got me all tied up and on my knees, at least give a guy a name.”

“You don’t even know my name?” She crosses back to him and crouches in front of Murphy, pulling a knife from her boot and idly toying with it. It is not a well maintained or cleaned blade, and Murphy doesn’t particularly want to find out how many infections a stab from that will give him.

Murphy shrugs again. “People die just the same with or without a name, it’s not like I’m gonna visit your grave or anything after.”

The woman hums, a noise of agreement, and Murphy’s not at all surprised. Sure, she might not be a killer, but with the way she fights and the price on her head, he’d be damn surprised if she didn’t understand his life. 

“Emori.” The woman - Emori - says after a moment, tucking her knife back into her boot as if she’s just made up her mind about something.

“Murphy. The pleasure’s all mine, really,” Murphy says, and there’s something extremely appealing about the little smile she gives when she rolls her eyes at his sarcasm. A shame she’s going to die, really, a damn shame.

“Who do you work for, Murphy?” Emori asks, and Murphy chuckles softly.

“Come on, Emori, you know the rules. I can’t tell you that.” Anyone in their world knows you protect your buddies more than yourself. Allies are the only thing that keeps you out of jail, or out of an even earlier grave than awaits them all.

“Let me tell you then, Murphy. You work for me now.” Emori says it with such confidence that Murphy can’t help to be impressed. 

“Do I now?” He asks with an eyebrow raised in intrigue. She’s clearly got a plan other than that, right? Murphy’s not betraying Bellamy for her, no matter the fact that she’s prettier. Admittedly, it’s a little tempting to change the context of the whole handcuff situation, but no, Murphy has slightly more of a spine than that.

“If I kill you, they’ll just send another. I let you go, you just try again. Or someone else does. No matter what, people keep coming after me until I’m dead.” Emori points out, and Murphy nods. “So, I’m going to hire you. You’ll be my bodyguard, help me get through this alive.”

“And why, exactly, would I do that? Don’t get me wrong, not dying is definitely appealing, but why shouldn’t I just stab you in the back as soon as you uncuff me?” Murphy doesn’t want to talk himself out of a way to survive, but he also needs to know the catch. Nothing in this world is ever easy.

“Three million dollars.” Emori quotes a number at him and Murphy whistles, suitably impressed. “It’s waiting for me as soon as I can get to it, and I don’t see why you can’t have a share. Get me out of here alive, and you’ll be a rich man, Murphy.”

Murphy’s not at all ashamed of the fact that loyalty went right out the window when a pretty woman offered him a share in literal millions. He grins at Emori, and she smiles back at him, a vicious smile that says she knows she’s won. 

A/N: I’m just a little drunk, so this might be a mess, but let’s see how I do.

6.      ‘I’m intrigued; the last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.’

“I’m intrigued.’” The words fall from the woman’s lips as she places a gun on the arm of her chair. It seems precariously balanced, careless and clumsy, but Roan realizes now that’s all just a show. Clarke Griffin’s operation seems like a mess, but is actually incredibly well organized. “The last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.”

Of course they were. My mother only turned to me as her last resort. Roan thinks. He doesn’t say that, though. It wouldn’t do to damage his mother’s reputation.

“And they were also unsuccessful.” Roan scoffs, trying to appear as cocky as one can be when on their knees with their hands tied behind their back. Admittedly, not a bad position to be in in front of the most gorgeous gangster he’s ever seen, but this context is not the one he would have chosen.

“As is yours.” Clarke states with a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Unless you’re about to make my day very interesting indeed.”

Clarke holds his gaze, and for all that she’s completely relaxed in what Roan can only call her throne, she reminds him of the tigers his mother had once bought. The tigers, however she had easily killed for their skins. Clarke has proved more difficult to obtain the pelt of. 

“So?” Clarke asks, breaking the silence of the room. She had sent the guards away as soon as they had dumped him in the middle of it, apparently comfortable with the safety provided to her by one small pistol. “Do you have some brilliant plan?”

Did he? Did he honestly have any plan, coming in here? He’d tried to sneak his way in among grunt workers, but his mother’s fondness for branding her people on their faces had ruined that early on. They knew he worked for Nia, but maybe they didn’t know exactly who he was.

“Sure,” Roan says with a shrug, as if the lack of circulation to both his feet and hands aren’t the slightest worry to him at all. “My plan is to help you.”

“Now that is surprising.” Clarke says, leaning forward.

Surprising to me too, damn.

Roan simply shrugs, and Clarke narrows her eyes. “But why? Do you even know what we do here?”

“Do I need to?” The core of Nia’s empire was her grunts knowing nothing. If they didn’t even know the substances they were peddling, they wouldn't be tempted to sample them or rat her out. She sold drugs and poisons alike, and she punished people who asked questions as harshly as thieves.

“You do. I don’t employ the blind.” Clarke studies him for a moment before standing and crossing the room. She cuts his bonds, and Roan rubs feeling back into his hands, eyeing the gun she left behind on the throne. “You see, we aren’t common criminals. My people, we help people. We give medicine to those who can’t get approved, protection to those who are scared, vengeance to the wronged.”

Roan rolls his eyes as Clarke walks in a slow circle around him. “I’m not a cop, you don’t have to lie.”

“Oh, I know you’re not a cop, Roan.” Clarke casually drops his name, and Roan’s blood runs cold. He hadn’t told anyone, how did she- “I pay attention to everyone’s territory, my own included. You don’t think I’d be so ignorant as to not know Nia’s son on sight, do you? No, Roan, I’m not a fool and you’re not a cop. I am, however, a different kind of criminal. And I think you may be too.”

Clarke finishes her speech with Roan between her and the gun. He could easily grab it, turn, and shoot her without her able to do anything. He might die, but he would fulfill his mother’s wishes. But did he want to? His mother saw him only as an option if all else had failed.

“You said your plan was to help me. Were you lying, Roan?” Clarke asks, still so far away from her gun. Maybe she has another, maybe there’s no bullets in that one, maybe-

Maybe Roan doesn’t really want to kill her anyway. Even if she’s lying. If she’s telling the truth, she’s a veritable saint, but honestly, Roan grew up in the criminal world. It doesn’t take much to be a better person that his “aunts” and “uncles”.

Roan stares at the gun for a long moment before turning to Clarke. “No.”

how do you finance that???? Oo