#Not sure how else to tag this really...beyond “cringe is dead” I suppose

[goldenteaset]

Trick or Treat!

Thanks! I'm still counting it as Halloween here. XD

These days, I've been having fun going back to my '00s Fanfiction dot net roots and imagining my faves all hanging out in a weird, inter-dimensional "lobby" between fics. It makes thinking of yumejoshi scenarios easier for my long-out-of-practice-brain, for one, and for another it's fun and not hurting anyone. Usually it goes something like this:

Me But 2D, sitting at a desk surrounded by either papers or wispy story ideas: Huh, Belial hasn't been by in awhile. I wonder what he's up to.

*Outside, Belial and Legato are seeing who can outrun the other with their carts piled ceiling-high with WIP ideas, scattering them everywhere*

[planetsam]

This fic is dark so please proceed with caution. i’m posting here after a few requests for it, but there isn’t enough room in the tags for the trigger warnings. But it deals with very mature themes.  Things come in threes.

The mother, the father, the sword.

The friend, the foe, the father.

The water, the arrows, the blood.

She counts three heartbeats before her eyes close in the red. She counts to three before she opens them to the stones on the beach. Three coughs for the water in her lungs, three breaths for air to be sweet again. There’s three people inside her. The girl, the summoner—and whatever she is now. She doesn’t know but she knows she isn’t the same.

It takes three days to escape and three weeks to find them. She expects no celebrations, her joy at her people has always been her own. The unease has turned to horror. Hands move towards weapons, eyes look anywhere but don’t meet her own. It’s only Pym who pushes past her fear, who hesitates only a moment before throwing her arms around her.

“Thank the Gods your back,” she whispers.

Nimue doesn’t know what Gods would do this, but they aren’t the kind you thank with things like words or belief.

“You’re dripping,” Squirrel says when he sees her, direct as always.

“I drowned,” Nimue says. Her voice hurts from disuse.

“Are you a monster now?” He asks. She shrugs, she doesn’t know. She thinks she might be.

“Squirrel,” Pym scolds.

“It’s alright,” Nimue rasps, “is it wrong if I am?”

“No,” he says, “you’re not wrong.”

It takes her three seconds to realize she’s forgotten how to smile.

Arthur holds her for three wonderful heartbeats. He smells of earth and Folk and Nimue is so glad to be in his arms. Any remnants of her heart are with her people and he has kept them safe, as he promised he would. His front is dark when she pulls back. She wonders in how many ways has she stained him? He doesn’t let her go. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. He calls her his. The fear in his eyes he pushes past, the fear makes her love him more.

“Thank you,” she says, “beloved.”

“My Lady.”

Three steps.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye.

Three steps, three breaths, three seconds. He’s fast but the dark is easy for her now. She’s not expecting him to throw it back at her. Her surprise is not enough to catch her off guard. Her magic is stronger, she throws him about and pins him down. She replaces each vine he cuts twice over. If she is a monster let her be the Hydra. Let her overwhelm him until there is nothing but his foul memory. Their eyes lock as she relieves him of his weapons and pins his arms. People are yelling but she holds them back and advances on him.  She wants to see the fear he’s inflicted. She wants to see him hurt.

“You were right to hunt me,” she whispers, crawling vines across his skin and up his throat,, “you should have been better at it,” she looks at the patches of green that follow her vines, “you aren’t the first Fey to be scared of me.”

“No,” he rasps.

“No?” She mocks, “I can feel your pulse racing,” she leans closer, “I smell it,” she inhales, “it smells like—“

Everything goes green.

Then black.

It takes her three breaths to open her eyes. For the first time since she drowned, she feels warm. It almost hurts. When she opens her eyes her father is looking at her. Only he doesn’t look like her father, like the powerless man who let her go. He looks ancient. She knows that look, it’s the one she’s always seen in her mother’s eyes. She realizes she hasn’t seen her mother. She died and her mother wasn’t there. She must truly be damned.

“Father—“ he cringes from the name.

“Child,” he puts his hand on her brow, “I am so sorry.”

She has no absolution for him.

Perhaps this is how her mother felt, whenever she thought of him.

Perhaps this is how everyone in her family is destined to feel about each other.

She finds Squirrel crouched over the fire. She finds her monster next to him. Squirrel looks but doesn’t get up, the monster does. What kind of evil does it take to be a monster’s monster? The kind that is disarmingly sitting by the fire breaking bread with her old friend. She’s wet and cold again. She feels like a monster as she approaches. Too close and the flames begin to sputter. She takes a step back.

“It’s alright,” Squirrel says and elbows his monster. He pretends not to notice, “do it.”

“No.”

“You said you would,” Squirrel says, “you said I could ask three times, remember?”

This monster who knows nothing of honor takes a deep breath of frustration, pushes up his sleeve and slips his hand into the flames. She watches as they change. Everything turns green and warm.  Her feet propel her forward and she stands by the fire, savoring the warmth. Wet and cold is how she is, but just for a moment she can pretend that she is a living girl again.

“Fey Fire was supposed to be gone,” she says. She looks at him, “you didn’t give this to your Brothers.”

“It’s not to be shared,” he says.

“So a slow death is better?” She demands. He glares up at her, “or do you just enjoy causing suffering?”

“He only enjoys causing himself suffering,” Squirrel mutters.

Nimue snatches back her vines.

She cannot snuff out the only innocence left in the world. She looks at the monster. On any other face the look would be embarrassment, but he hasn’t earned that from her. She has no sympathy for him.

“Does he have a name?” They look at each other. She sees the monsters lips part, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Squirrel hesitates and the fury steals her breath. He’s protecting a monster. She should have expected the Paladins to pull something like this. Children, good people, none of it has ever stopped them. The monster is upside down, dangling above his green flames. Is he fireproof? Does she care? Squirrel is shouting for the others but Nimue doesn’t care. Let them come. Let them see. They will keep Squirrel safe.

“Lancelot,” the monster breaks through her rage with a word, “my name is Lancelot.”

She releases him mid air and is only mildly disappointed when he manages to land on his feet. He pulls the green from the fire and it winks out. The last thing it shows is him pushing Squirrel behind himself. His eyes don’t leave her. She hears the others come running. She cannot bear to have them see her like this.

The calls of her name chase her into the dark.

She wishes she didn’t miss the warmth.

“What am I?” She asks her father.

“Something beyond this world,” he says, “and my daughter.”

“I wish my mother were here,” she says, “she would fear me, wouldn’t she?”

“She didn’t fear me,” Merlin points out, “I can’t imagine her ever being afraid of you, even now.”

It only makes her feel slightly better to hear that. It’s Arthur and Pym and Squirrel who are afraid but like her anyways who really matter. But it’s Morgana who appears in a black dress in an instant, who throws off her veil and runs to her without any hesitation. She’s ephemeral, like a shadow and Nimue feels very much a drowned fish in front of her, but they collide like two lost stars. Nimue knows she’s weeping and thinks you can hardly tell with how she is now. There are no tears on Morgana though her shoulders shake with sobs. Perhaps this is who they both are now.

“I thought you were dead!” Morgana cries.

“I’m as dead as you,” Nimue says and she throws her head back and laughs, “oh I’ve missed you.”

“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

There’s the old, the new and the yet to be. In Morgana’s embrace all three sing sweetly together. Nimue wishes that was true for everyone else. She longs for hugging them to feel as it did. But only Morgana is the same, even if she is now shadow and air. They have become monsters together and if Nimue had to choose someone to walk the path with, it would be Morgana. She looks Lancelot up and down.

“Betrayed anyone lately, pet?” She sniffs.

“Only my brothers,” he replies simply.

“Which ones?”

She rolls her eyes and loops her arm with Nimue’s. It’s almost easy to forget they know each other. That they are connected in a very odd way. She doesn’t seem surprised to learn that he’s a Fey and Nimue realizes it is rather ridiculous to assume the Church didn’t know. They didn’t speak of it, to be sure,  but everyone seems to have known. It earns him favor with no-one, she thinks Squirrel was probably right and he enjoys causing his own suffering. The people she knows from the church, who believe it’s doctrine, all seem to enjoy their own masochism. Not as much as inflicting it on others, but they enjoy it all the same.

“I’m glad you kept your wits about you,” she says to Morgana.

She shudders to think of how the convent, how any of this, would have been without her.

It’s three weeks before she finds herself alone with him.

She sleeps but not really, she dreams in memories and powers. Sometimes when she sleeps she walks. There are no village walls to stop her in the place they are in, just endless endless fields. She opens her eyes to find she’s lost. The dripping never leaves a trail, everything looks the same. She is about to call out when he parts the grass with a covered hand. More and more of his layers have found their way to other people, bodies more in need of warmth than pride. He takes care not to touch the grass.

“Are you going to try and kill me?” She asks.

“I would have taken my chance when you were asleep,” he says.

It’s a wonder that their voices sound alike. She’s forgotten how to have a conversation, he doesn’t seem to ever have learned. He’d be pitiful if not for their history. She supposes she would be the same. Somehow they have become two monsters standing there. One of water, one of fire. Her skin crawls at the realization and the part of her that is still a girl wants to turn and flee. From him, from this, from everything.

“I’m not your Queen,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “you’re not one of my people.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“Good,” she says, raising her chin, “so we’re clear.”

He looks at her silently. Patiently. She wants to tell him to leave her, but she’s not sure how to get back. She knows he knows the way. She remembers him, eyes half closed and nose turned up to the wind. Sniffing her out. Like a dog. Her stomach or what’s left of it recoils. Is a dog loyal to only one master? She cannot remember. She cannot think about it. She’s already dead so she isn’t sure it even matters.

“Take me back,” she says.

He inclines his head and steps forward, leading the way.

The safety of her people is the only thing that matters now. She needs to get them somewhere. Somewhere away from the Paladins and away from the mortals. She cannot do it alone. Morgana goes, quick and shadow, she dissipate and reappears like a dark, comforting thought. The first thing she always does is remove the veil. As if seeing Nimue and her brother lets her shed one piece of madness. When she does it this time, the usual determination is gone and replaced by a joy that Nimue hasn’t seen on her face in a very long time.

“I’ve found it,” she says

“Where?”

“It’s far, but I can lead us there. We’ll be safe,” her smile slips, “we will have to pass by Paladin territory.”

“You’ll lead us,” she says to her friend. She looks at him, “you’ll guide us there safely.”

Morgana squeezes her hand.

“I need a map,” Lancelot says.

He finds a way through for them, all of them. Though it takes him a few moments to figure it out. She gets the sense that taking care with groups of people is not his forte. But he tells them where they need to go and how to be prepared for what the Paladins might do. She would thank him but she decides to do that if they get to where they need to go.

“Be careful about trusting the Ash Folk,” her father says.

“Because he has something you need?” She asks.

“Because they have nothing to lose,” he says, “that’s a dangerous thing.”

“I don’t either,” she begins, but then stops. Her people, her people need her. Even if a voice tells her that Arthur will see them safe to where they are going, that they are in good hands, she knows she can do a better job. “If it comes down to it, I don’t either.”

Merlin scowls and she tries not to equate it with the look her mother sometimes gave her when she was particularly stubborn. When she acted like her father. She’s become a monster like him and far worse. She has nothing to lose because she will only be able to lead them so long. So far. Then her time will be done and she doesn’t know what comes next, but it scares her. Perhaps there is a hell. She’s fairly certain she’s been to it, the idea of returning to it terrifies her. She finds him easily enough, scouting out a route. Second guessing himself.

“Are we this for a reason?” She asks, “is there a purpose?” He looks at her quietly, “I’m asking you a question. What does your God say about it?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?”

“God doesn’t speak of Fey,” he says.

“What does that make you?” She asks.

“Damned,” he says simply.

She is as well but she loathes having anything in common with him. She’s afraid that if she starts to count the things, she will find too many. She doesn’t want anything in common with him, but at least she’s like this. At least she can tell herself that the girl she was wouldn’t. What she is now, well, she doesn’t know if there’s a point in drawing lines between monsters anymore.

“Hell hurts,” she tells him flatly.

She enjoys the flash of fear in his eyes too much.

It doesn’t stop him though.

He’s there, damn him. Her power doesn’t stop him. He lurks like a shadow. Like he’s stalking her and maybe he is. Maybe this is always how things were fated to go. Her longing for the girl who ran off on her mother’s hatred sours to bitterness as she thinks this might be how it was always meant to be. Her mother was to meet her father, she was to be born. She was to have hopes and dreams, to think she could escape her fate. But fate wins. Fate always wins. And the world is unbearably cruel, even to someone like her who only has one foot in it.

“Do they let you fuck?” She asks one night after nearly killing Merlin. Her father waves her off but she lingers outside his tent, “or is it just murder that’s allowed?”

“Does it matter?” He asks. His words have started to come more freely, but not freely enough for her liking.

“It does to me,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “I miss being warm.”

He stares at her and she wonders if either of them is sure that she’s joking. She can’t fully say. Being warm sounds wonderful and she’s not sure if she’s meant for wonderful things anymore. But if she boils it down, his fire is the thing that makes her feel warm. The only thing.

“So are you a virgin?” She asks.

“That’s not important.”

“Of course it is, I want to be warm for longer than a virgin can last.”

He huffs and that’s the only indication he’s uncomfortable. She relishes his discomfort. She wants him to be uncomfortable so he’ll stop being so stubborn and so incendiary and such a shadow. She wants him to feel pain, even just a fraction of the pain he’s caused her.

“Don’t you have Arthur for that?”

She hisses through her teeth. Arthur is good. Arthur will be great. Arthur is not warm. He’s not what she needs right now. And she is not what he needs either. They are bad for each other. She doesn’t care what Lancelot thinks of her. He’s as damned as she is, she just has a better reason to face hell.

“You took everything from me,” she says to him, suddenly in front of him. So close she can almost feel it. He looks down at her but he doesn’t look away, “the least you can do is give me the memory of being warm.”

His throat bobs but he doesn’t look away.

That doesn’t make him brave.

“Nimue—“

She kisses him so he shuts up.

She kisses him because it makes him uncomfortable, because she wants to hurt him. Mostly she kisses him because the idea of her name on his lips is utterly unbearable. He’s never kissed anyone before, that much is very clear. But he’s fought people. He translates it into the language that he knows. She digs her teeth into his bottom lip to help him along and suddenly finds herself pressed to the wall, the warmth from his skin seeping through her wet gown. Things come in threes.

It’s warm.

It’s painful.

It’s copper.

They pull apart and their mouths are wet with her water, their saliva and his blood. It’s an ugly thing, kissing him. It’s a betrayal and greed. Perhaps his church was right and she is sin. Well she knows that she’s sin now, but perhaps she was always sin and this was just the inevitable conclusion of it. She looks down to see that his shirt is wet and sheer. She slides her fingers to the mark on his shoulder and she watches him watch her. Something dark is in his eyes.

“Burn with me,” she offers.

“No.”

“You will. One day.”

He takes the warmth with him when he pulls away.

She mourns for it again.

He doesn’t leave.

She damns him all the same.

The island is beautiful when she sees it across the impossible body of water. Something in her unravels at the sight of it. It will be safe. She will make it safe. Morgana looks at her tearfully and grasps her hand without any fear.

“You did this,” she says to her friend.

“We did this,” Morgana says, “we’re so close.”

“Tomorrow,” Nimue tells her, “it will be done tomorrow.”

Lancelot finds her along the shore, feeling the rocks under her feet. She hears him coming but she keeps her eyes focused on the still waters and and the island. Storm clouds are coming in and soon it starts to rain. She doesn’t mind it. When she turns Lancelot is still there looking out at the water.

“You cannot go where they are going,” she says, “you’re not ready.”

“And you?”

She smiles painfully.

“I guess the flames haven’t melted your brain.”

He searches her questioningly but she kisses him instead. She doesn’t want questions or his pity. Maybe it’s fitting that he’s here when she gives up the last of everything. When she goes to pull away, his arms tighten around her waist. His request doesn’t have to be spoken to be heard. But he doesn’t have the right to request anything of her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for what I did.”

“I know you are,” she tells him, “that’s not enough.”

“I know.”

He flattens his hand on her sternum and she breathes in the warmth that coils down in her bones. She’s not mortal anymore, not flesh or blood, there’s nothing there for the fire to fuel itself. So it simply burns where her heart used to be. When she steps back, his arms drop and she picks up the sword.

“Kneel,” she says., “A knight of the Fey is one with the land, as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arwan’s Bow,” she says, “we are born into the dawn to pass into the twilight,” she raises her chin, “you are my knight now, Lancelot of the Lake. You serve me. And I command you to follow Arthur, until you return.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Things come in threes.

The waters close over her and fill her lungs again, but the fire still burns in her chest. She is water and fire and girl. She is living and dead and the sword in her hands. She settles ad floats and the lake becomes hers. Hers to control, hers to guard, hers to be. None will touch her people now as she wraps around them, carried by the current in the water. She watches them cross and she watches those who stay. Lancelot and Percival and Arthur. In time there will be others. One day she will even share the sword. One day she will let them all pass to Avalon. It’s both one day and happening and long in the past.

She doesn’t exist in time in the same sense but as Morgana whisks around in the sky, she is glad for the company.

[whumping-newbie]

A nice Lot 1 whump inspired by this post. Tagging @straight-to-the-pain and @givemethatwhump because we’ve had discussions about this one.

Warnings: Drowning, thoughts of death and lowkey wanting to die, collar, tied to a board, creepy captor.

I can’t see anything.

Not this time.

My master says I don’t need to see for this game. I’m not in any position to refuse them as they cover my eyes with thick black eyepieces, tying them in place securely behind my head.

Just keep calm, they said. Stay calm and you���ll be sure to win this one. Can’t have you come dead last again, can we?

I shiver at the thought. The time when I was punished for my insubordination not by being harmed myself, but to watch others be harmed. Those I tried to spare the punishment for. Those others, the ones who all ran away when prompted whilst I just stopped. Surrendered. Submitted.

I’ve learned my lesson, and won’t try something so reckless again.

Not when it’s so counterproductive.

This social event that my Master has brought me to isn’t one of their own hosting, it’s a dear friend of theirs. And this one has a new game for us. Master thought I would be perfect to go first for this one.

I… am not thrilled at the idea.

I’m led away from the others – the others who had to be silenced before their turn, whilst I was trusted enough not to be. I can hear them whimper and cry and try to fight the chains pinning them to the wall we were tied to. I can hear angry bouts of frustration too, along with frantic rattling of chains. A rebellious one. Soon to be punished, I’m sure.

It doesn’t take long for Master to have me where they want me. Laid flat on my back on a board with my ankles tied to something in the distance, my head just off the top, my hands bound tightly behind my back to the board. I can hear muffled screaming around me as others are brought in my direction, but go beyond m, go elsewhere. I can hear the masters try and keep them calm, shush them and tell them that it’s all ok, just a game. Just a little game. I wonder if they can see, if they’re blessed with such a gift, or if the reason they are screaming is because they can see. There’s an odd feeling of vertigo I’m experiencing as I adjust my position slightly, and then I feel my neck start to strain, trying to keep it straight is hard. It’s aching, and I hope that whatever they’re going to do, they’ll do it quickly.

How wrong I am.

Suddenly my stomach does backflips as the board drops my upper body down, and I end up submerged in water. Water that instantly tenses me up beyond anything because it’s so cold. The shock causes me to inhale some of the bitter liquid through my nose. I fight for the air, trying to keep my nose and mouth above the surface of the water. It’s not that deep, and it still throbs my neck a little, but floating here is quite… nice. Quite relaxing. I find myself no longer squirming in my restraints as I try to breathe, because with my head rested just so against the tiny ripples on the water, I can’t help but relax.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

My ears are below the surface, so I can only hear the distant echoes of voices nearby and yet so far away. I can’t understand them, but I do hear the surface of the water break heavily just to my left. It’s an odd sound to hear, but it’s the only thing I’ve heard so far that has made me cringe as I dread what is to come.

Whatever it is was a hand, because it tugs hard on my collar, jerking me under a little, but I’m fine. I can still breathe. Their touch is heavy, though, but I am ok.

Or so I thought.

The hand moves, but the force that pulled me under still hasn’t subsided. It’s still there, an ever present feeling like something is trying to pull me under through coercion rather than brute force. It’s not trying to pull me under with incomparable strength, it’s trying to gently keep me down, wear me out, and tire me out totally. They’ve attached something to my collar, something heavy, something weighted.

And I can feel its lingering effect.

Keeping my mouth and nose above the water is the most imperative thing right now. Failing that, just one of the two. I try to stay calm, to keep my breathing regular like I learned to when being punished by Master for something. Just breathe – in, and out, in, and out – and I can get through anything they give me. It’s the only thing that helps me cope, my breathing is the one thing I can control.

But now, it’s a desperate struggle to even do that. The thing that helps me focus, that helps me through any punishment or torture or anything is so damn hard! The weight is a dull, constant pull on my throat, trying to choke me even without drowning me. It’s getting hard, it’s difficult now. I can feel it, my breathing is getting more ragged.

How long has it been? It’s been ages, or so it feels like. I just don’t understand the excitement here at all, what does this do? Master won’t want to… to kill me, would they…? No, no they can’t. They said I’m their best, they said I can take punishments like they’ve never seen. I’m interesting, they said, so what are they…?

There’s something touching me again, this time on my legs somewhere. The inside of my leg, but not… intimate. It’s worrying though, but the touch goes as quick as it came. Now that I think about it, there’s something else touching me. Not a hand, it’s not warm and rough. It’s cold and soft… what is it?

The minutes tick away and I’m sure that they’re getting bored, just as I am really struggling now. My mouth is under because I can’t do it anymore. But I have to keep my nose out, keep myself alive, but I can feel it getting tougher and tougher, it’s awful. I’ve thought to myself – even said to my previous Masters – that I want to die, and that it would be better if they just let me, but they never did. Denying me the chance to end my suffering before it becomes unbearable, but I know that I can’t die here. Failure isn’t an option, and as Master has already shown me, it’s not me they have to hurt to punish me.

The water ripples get worse and worse as I shake my head, trying to stay above the surface, but it’s inevitable. Why don’t I just…

I slip under the surface, my eyes closed and my mouth shut. Don’t breathe, keep it in, keep it in, they won’t let me die. They won’t. But I can’t help but wonder how nice it would be to die like this, just drift away with no struggle, no fight, just let the water envelop me and bring me the peace I have earned. I open my mouth slowly, feeling the last of my remaining air escape in the form of loud, bursting bubbles, and I can feel the water slip through my lips -

I’m pulled up so quickly I barely register it, and I don’t even hesitate to finally breathe, coughing and choking up my lungs as the water is ejected from me. It’s a relief, but it’s not, because as the voices around me come in to focus – now that the water is trickling out of my ears – I can hear frustration, cheers, anger.

I shiver violently as they pull the board away, off the water tank (I suppose) and feel someone ruffle my sodden hair.

“There you go, that’s more like it!” they quip, the voice is so familiar, but so far away I can’t remember them.

“You did well, pet, second place at 12 minutes, 31 seconds!” this one is my master, I recognise them as they pat me on the shoulder.

I’m still tied to this board, but I still manage to stammer through my chattering teeth, “th-thank, thank y-you muh-mast-er…”

It’s only now that it clicks just what they had said. Second place. 12 minutes above water. The others – they’re… they’ve just been through what I have… at the same time as I have…

“There was room for improvement, but I’m sure you’ll do better in round 2, won’t you? You’ll win for me, won’t you?”

I take another deep breath, clenching my fists behind my back, before nodding once.

“Y-yes, mast, master…”

[the-pen-and-the-angel-blade]

Tag to 12x09

A/N: Finally, another fanfic! Y’all thought I was dead, didn’t you? If, that is, there’s anyone left to read this. Hello? Hellooooo? *hears echoes*

Ahem. Anyway. Because it makes total sense to post a tag fic to an early Season 12 episode when we’re just about to start Season 14...oh well. Life happened, or I would have posted this earlier. It’s not a reader insert fic, just something that happened. And I read another tag to this episode/fix-it for the next that pointed out that Heaven isn’t Cas’ home anymore, and that was where I got that part...but I don’t remember what the fic was called or anything. Anyway. With all that out of the way...

Cas is silent on the way home.

Not completely silent. He speaks if he’s spoken to. But there’s something in his demeanor that’s just…wrong, and screams silence even when he’s talking.

But then, they’re all kind of quiet. After what’s just passed, Dean doesn’t think they can be blamed. Still, he eventually puts on music, in a desperate attempt to keep things normal.

It only serves to contrast with the nearly-tangible stillness in the backseat, and he just as quickly shuts it off.

When they finally reach the bunker, a very long seven hours later, everyone sort of scatters. The silence persists, and Dean’s about to go to his own room when he catches his mother’s eye. Something in her gaze halts him, and he waits as Sam heads off.

Mary sighs, her eyes lingering on the door Cas firmly closed as soon as he entered the room. “He needs you.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” There’s a trace of “mom voice” in her tone, and he frowns slightly in surprise. Seeing his expression, she sighs again and looks away, losing the inflection. “I hurt him. I snapped at him, and I hurt him. And that’s on me.” She glances back at him again. “But anyone can see you two are close. He’d do anything for…well, I guess for any of us.” A flash of guilt crosses her face. “But Dean, I don’t think anyone else can help him like you can now. I just…” She holds his eyes. “It has to be you.”

He hesitates, looking from her to the door that blocks him from Cas as effectively as a brick wall. But somehow, he knows she’s right. Their angel has gone far too long without…well, without much of anything in the way of comfort from them, he realizes, guilt of his own pooling in his stomach. In fact…he can’t remember the last time he really listened to Cas, took care of him, even just made sure he was okay—okay for real, not the standard “I'm fine” that they’re all so used to spouting. He has a sneaking suspicion that it might have been that time the angel told him he might kill himself (and that thought makes a pit of dread open in him). Of course it’s not on purpose, of course he never means to hurt his friend, or to let him hurt alone. But somehow it always happens anyway. Somehow, there are always things that are more urgent, and he never gets around to checking on him.

Obviously things have gone on way too long like this, and now his friend is much more broken than he’d ever suspected.

And Dean can’t help wondering if he’ll be able to even come close to putting him back together.

Still, he has to try. He looks at his mom, wondering briefly if maybe it would be better if she went instead, despite his earlier thoughts. After all, Mary’s not so involved in all this. She may have snapped at Cas, but that’s minor-league stuff compared to everything he’s done to the guy who’s supposed to be his best friend. He cringes internally at the thought, and the memories that quickly follow. Maybe he shouldn’t be the one to talk to Cas. Because, as much as he hates the idea, out of all of them, he’s the one who’s hurt the angel the most.

But through all that, Cas still seems to lean on him, to…well…to need him. He doesn’t understand why his friend doesn’t just leave, after everything. But for whatever strange reason, he’s still there. So surely Dean owes him something for that. And if that “something” takes the form of going to talk him through his breakdown...he guesses that’s only fair. Cas has stayed with him through his troubles. Now it’s his turn.

So, giving Mary a nod, Dean crosses to the door of the angel’s room and takes a breath, swallows, before knocking gently.

“Cas?”

There’s no clear answer, but he thinks he hears a noise from inside, so he tries again. “Hey, Cas, buddy, can I come in?”

This time there’s a definite sound, and the hunter takes it as a yes. He pulls open the door and enters the room, closing it softly behind him. He doesn’t want any witnesses to the chick-flick moment that’s sure to ensue if he can help it.

Cas is sitting on the bed, his back to Dean. It almost looks normal, but something in his posture is still very wrong.

“Uh…how you doin’?” Dean asks lamely, biting his lip and wishing he could come up with something better. This is just one reason he hates conversations like this.

A shrug of hunched shoulders is the only reply he gets, and his stomach curls in on itself with nausea. This is so unlike Cas, and even though he knew before he came in that things were badly amiss, it’s one thing to have known it and another to see it again. He feels like he escaped drowning when the angel’s earlier speech ended, only to have been plunged back into horribly cold water as soon as he came into this room.

“Right. Uh. Thought you might like some company,” he tries again, and gets no response at all this time. “We could, uh, watch Netflix or something,” he adds. Cas still doesn’t answer.

If someone doesn’t do something soon, they’re both going to drown in this awful chill.

“Look, man,” he tries, taking a step forward. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just…”

The angel twitches, and Dean hears his breath catch. But he still says nothing, and the hunter can’t take it any longer.

“Talk to me,” he demands fiercely, crossing the rest of the room in two strides and kneeling on the bed behind Cas, grabbing his friend’s shoulders and trying to turn him around. The angel resists for a moment, and then, suddenly, twists on his own, throwing Dean’s hands and his balance off so he almost pitches sideways. Recovering himself, he stares at Cas, bewildered, concerned, and a little hurt by the look his friend’s giving him—one he hasn’t seen in years, brimming with anger and sizzling with angelic power. Maybe it’s his imagination, or maybe not, but Dean can almost feel the air between them crackling with Grace.

“You’re sorry?” Cas nearly growls, staring at him, something in his eyes making the hunter’s throat close with worry. “Are you sure about that, Dean? Because it seems to me that you throw that idea around a lot. And I’m fairly sure that if people are really sorry, they’re supposed to show it. Not go around doing exactly what they did again and again and again!”

“Cas—” he starts, but the angel continues.

“You know, if you’re really sorry, maybe you should think about me once in a while! Maybe you should stop putting me in positions where I take the fallout for whatever’s gone wrong this time. Maybe you should—should notice me, sometime when one of us is not at death’s door.” He scoffs, shaking his head, and is silent for a moment. Dean is, too, gaping at him, at a total loss for what to say. Then, abruptly, Cas’ anger disappears, to be replaced with a flash of sadness that Dean can tell goes bone-deep and beyond. This only lasts a second, and then it, in its turn, is replaced by a flat nothing. “But you care most about the people you love. About your family.” He stares at the hunter, his eyes dull, and somehow that hurts more than if he’d looked away, more than the fierce anger that was there just a moment ago. “I understand that. I’d just prefer it if you’d stop lying to me.”

That’s too much; it breaks through even Dean’s confusion. “I didn’t lie to you, Cas!” He chews his lip and amends, “Well, I guess I did about Gadreel.” Sighing, he goes on, “And I’m sorry about that, man. I really—”

But Cas is waving a hand in the air, in a gesture so unlike himself that the words dry up on the hunter’s tongue. “I’m not talking about that. I understand why you did that.”

“Then what?” He’s completely baffled now, and tries to think of other times he’s lied.

“I mean right before you went to face Amara,” Cas says. “I mean when I was reprogrammed and tried to kill you. I mean when I was trying to become God. I mean all the times you’ve told me I was family, or that I was…was like your brother.” A flicker of emotion passes over his face, and then it stills again. “Many of those were my mistakes, and you had every right to try to stop me in whatever way you needed to. But it gets…wearing. Being told something that’s not true over and over.” He shrugs. “Still, I understand why you do it.”

Dean sits speechless, mouth open, not even sure where to begin to begin. At last he croaks feebly, “Cas, how could you think I don’t mean that? You are my—”

“Don’t say family.” His tone is hard, brittle. He softens it, apparently with an effort, as he continues. “You don’t have to say it right now. There’s nothing you need to stop me from doing. I’m not about to destroy the world again. I’ll take care of whatever consequences come from killing Billie. And I’m not going to leave, either, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds. “I’ll still come when you call.” One shoulder rises in a slight shrug. “So you don’t need to say it.”

“What—Cas—” He shakes his head to clear it, wondering if maybe this is all some kind of nightmare. His brain is certainly foggy enough. “Man, you seriously think that?”

The angel just looks at him.

“But why?” Dean bursts out, his thoughts racing ahead of one another and tumbling out his mouth. “Cas, you’ve stood by us through thick and thin. You’ve…you’ve helped us with all of it. You’ve given up everything for us—”

Cas nods. “Which is why you don’t need to worry that I’m suddenly going to...to bail on you now.”

“I’m not—just—” he stutters, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m worried about!”

“Then what is it?” The angel’s tone is level, almost polite.

So many words crowd into Dean’s head that he has to try too hard to get the right ones out. “Cas, you stupid—!” He stops, tries again. “You. Cas, I’m freaking—I’m worried about you.”

Cas sighs, sounding irritated. “Dean, we just went over this. You don’t have to pretend.”

“Oh, for—” He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m not pretending, okay?! What do I have to do to convince you?!”

And suddenly he’s being pinned by that glare again. “I don’t know, Dean.” The sarcasm in Cas’ voice is nearly painful to listen to, it’s so thick. “Maybe listen when I tell you I want to kill myself. Maybe check on me the next time you kick me out of the only place I have to call home, before the part where you need my help. Maybe stop taking everything that goes wrong in your life out on me.” His voice cracks ever so slightly. “Maybe stop choosing everyone else over me, every time. Except when I’m about to die, of course. Then you do something about it.” He stops talking. Swallowing, he takes a breath and his expression goes blank again, before he shakes his head and continues. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to try to make me believe you. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. It’s easier that way.”

Yet again, the hunter is rendered silent by his friend’s words. His stomach is twisted in so many knots he’s not sure where it ends and the rest of him begins. Because the thing is, Cas is right. He knew it was bad. And, to be honest, he’d thought he knew exactly how awful a friend he was.

Apparently he’d been wrong.

Before he can voice these thoughts, though, Cas speaks again. “You should go get some rest,” he says coolly, as if nothing more has passed between them than a casual conversation. “I’m sure we’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

“Would you just stop that?” Dean half-shouts. “Just listen to me, okay?” He takes a breath, trying to get a grip on himself. “Look,” he says in a lowered tone, “I am…I’m a terrible friend, okay? I can’t—I can’t even explain how much I’ve screwed up here. Just…try to believe me when I say I need you around, Cas. You’re not just some—some thing I’m only worried about losing. I mean, I am worried about losing you—” he cringes a little “—but that’s because of you, not some…power or whatever.” Swallowing hard and biting his lip, he goes on. “And…yeah. You know what, you’re totally right. I—I don’t pay attention to you. And that is complete and utter crap of me. I always have all these excuses, but…” He shakes his head. “…that’s not good enough. So yeah, Cas. I…I screwed up bigtime. And I’m sorry.” After hesitating a second, he adds, “So…I can try and make it up to you, I guess. Not gonna lie, I’m not sure how. I mean, how do you even start with something like that? But…I’ll try. If you’ll let me.”

Something stirs in the depths of the blue eyes that are still holding his. But even his heartfelt words don’t seem to be quite enough. Cas shrugs. “If you’d like,” he says indifferently.

Dean presses his lips together, hard, not wanting to say something he’ll regret. He’s done enough damage. Finally he says, “Look. I get that you don’t believe me. But…” And he stops, because what else is there to say? It’s not like he can blame the angel for not taking him at his word. So instead, after a pause, he says, “Thanks. For, y’know, saving us. By the way.”

And to Dean’s surprise, that seems to be what puts a crack in the angel’s composure. He takes in a breath that trembles slightly, his gaze suddenly gaining a depth that wasn’t there before. “…you’re welcome,” he murmurs after a second, a real acknowledgment of the words, not the sarcastic phrase he voiced right after killing the reaper. Another pause, and he swallows, finally looking away. “Dean, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It was…I…” He falters, taking a deep breath, hunching in on himself a little.

The hunter bites his lip. “Cas, you don’t have to apologize. I mean…it was all true.” He shrugs. “It’s only fair you tell me what I did wrong. Not like you have to keep quiet and just take it all the time.”

Cas says nothing in response to that, but the glimpse Dean gets of his expression tells him all he needs to know of his friend’s feelings about that statement. He frowns and tries to catch the angel’s gaze. “Cas. You don’t have to take it.” He sighs. “I know I can be a jerk. It’s just…it’s something I’ve gotta work on, okay? But you should not have to put up with me acting like that to you. It’s not fair.” It’s his turn to look away, pressing his lips together. “You have every right to call me out on it, man. Okay?”

He hears another shaky breath, and there’s another silence. “Okay,” Cas agrees finally, and something in his voice makes Dean look back at him, a little sharply. He has to swallow hard as he sees the tears pooling in his friend’s eyes, his gaze spilling hurt, just as it was earlier.

“Cas…” His voice is quiet. To be honest, he’s not sure what to say.

Cas closes his eyes, apparently taking this as a rebuke. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, bowing his head so Dean can’t see his face anymore.

The hunter frowns, reaching out to set a hand on his shoulder. “No—Cas, that wasn’t what I meant. Look, you—you don’t have to be sorry…” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Dude, you just…I just…” He shakes his head.

With another quivering inhale, the angel nods, a shudder rippling through him. He tenses, clearly trying to hold back the shakes, and Dean bites his lip, sighs, and gives up.  Leaning forward, he pulls his friend into a hug. “Just…it’s fine, Cas, okay?” he mutters, holding him tightly.

There’s a moment in which Cas stays perfectly still and stiff in Dean’s arms. Then a small gasp escapes him, and he melts into the embrace, burying his head in the hunter’s shoulder, muffling the sobs that are wrenching his chest.

Dean winces, hating the sound of his friend’s cries, this sound that holds such pain. Cas is beaten and broken and suffering, and he didn’t notice or care enough to do anything about it until it got as bad as this. He really is a failure as a friend, he thinks bitterly. Along with everything else, of course.

Another shudder runs through the angel, and Dean is pulled from his train of thought. His focus back on Cas, he tries to school the ideas into their proper place, telling himself it won’t help anyone for him to spiral into that kind of reflection. Instead, he focuses on trying to give comfort, rubbing Cas’ back as he used to do for a young Sammy.

The angel is clinging to him now, clutching tight as if Dean might disappear. Or abandon him, the hunter adds acerbically in his head. He probably thinks Dean will leave him, just as he’s done so many times before.

Well, he won’t. Not this time. It’s in that moment that he resolves to do whatever is necessary to get his friend—his brother, he reaffirms to himself—back. To help him heal. And he can start by treating Cas like he does Sam, his brother by blood.

This has barely crossed his mind when he realizes he’s already started. His grip on the angel is firm, keeping him secure in his arms. He’s rubbing his friend’s back with one hand, just as he’s done for Sam so many times. This is a good beginning, and he’s glad that his big brother instincts have kicked in at least so far.

Despite all this, though, he can’t help but notice the sound of Cas’ sobs. They’re coming hard and fast, as if they’ve been desperate to escape him for a long time now—which they probably have—and each one hits Dean like an accusation, pounding the knowledge of his guilt into him. Each one makes him think of something else he’s done to hurt his friend, and he does the only thing he knows how to combat the pain for both of them, holding the angel even closer against him in an attempt to reassure. He’s not going anywhere. He’s going to make up for this. He’s going to treat Cas like he deserves.

Long minutes pass, and at last the weeping slows and then subsides. He can tell Cas isn’t in too much of a hurry to let go of him, though, and he allows the continuing embrace. If this is what his friend needs, this is what he’ll get. His own discomfort can wait.

“D-Dean?” he hears at last, the normally-gravelly voice sounding soaked and limp and unsteady.

“Yeah?” His reply is soft, hopefully soothing.

“I-I’m sorry.”

Dean frowns, smoothing an absentminded hand over the angel’s back again. “What for?”

“Everything.” Cas is muffled, but continues. “I-I shouldn’t have said all that. And I—” He stops, shivering, and then goes on again. “D-Dean, I—I couldn’t let you die. And I couldn’t let her die. She’s kind, and a good hunter, and a good woman, and she’s trying her best in a world she’s not used to and—and she’s your mother, Dean. How—how could I live with myself if I’d let her die? She’s—sh-she’s what you’ve wanted, what you’ve needed since you lost her the first time.” He swallows. “Isn’t she?”

It’s Dean’s turn to shudder. The thought of losing her… That was never, never what he intended when he made that deal. “Yeah,” he admits lowly. “Yeah, she—she is. But Cas—”

“P-please don’t tell me I should have let you die.” The angel’s voice is wobbling again, and he’s started to shake once more. “I c-can’t. I can’t, Dean. I’ve lost you before, and—and s-someday I’ll lose you again, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you, b-because Heaven—Heaven’s not my home anymore. And after what I’ve done…” His head shakes against Dean’s shoulder. “I j-just…I don’t know. So many of my brothers and sisters hate that I care about you, that I side with humans over them. And of course I’d t-try to get to you, but I don’t know what they’ll do, Dean, I don’t know what they’ll do to keep me from you!” His voice has risen now. “S-so can’t you see why I try so hard…to keep you alive? You and Sam, y-you’re…you’re my family, even if…” He stops, trailing off, and Dean feels his stomach turn again. He’s fairly sure he knows how Cas was going to finish that sentence. But the angel’s gone on speaking. “I just—I need you, I need you both, and I c-can’t—if you keep trying—” He’s cut off by a sob.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean murmurs, his hand rubbing the distraught angel’s back again. “Okay. Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” He sighs. “’M sorry, okay?  I’m sorry I keep dying. I just…” He shakes his head and falls silent again.

Cas nods, and he seems to calm faster this time. Still, it’s another minute or two before he stops crying.

When he’s quiet again, Dean hesitates. “Hey…Cas?”

The angel makes a noise of acknowledgment.

“Look, man, I…I really do think of you as family. I don’t blame you for not believing me, because I’ve done a crappy job of showing it. But I do.” He chews his lip. “Just, uh…wanted to make sure you knew that.”

There’s a moment’s silence. Then Cas nods, though Dean can’t help but feel there’s not much enthusiasm behind it. He sighs and holds his friend closer, unable to help thinking again about just how badly he’s messed up.

“Dean?” The angel’s voice is soft and uncertain.

“Yeah?”

He takes a breath. “Thank you.”

Dean closes his eyes for a second, swallowing, suddenly hit by a wave of his own emotion. Then he nods. “Sure, Cas.”

--

Healing is a long process, Dean knows. But he hopes that eventually, with the help of the family he’s given everything to save, the family that’s now his own, Cas will find his way back to the person he used to be.

[unwrathful]

Title: Being Petty Author: booksindalibrary Rating: G Pairing: Haru & Xanxus Prompt: Cloud day - bodyguard & kidnapping mash-up for @khrrarepairweek Tags/Warnings: none

Summary:

Ten years later, Haru is a hacker and Xanxus is Xanxus. They meet. Stuff happens.

AO3 link.

“So you're the brat's girl, huh.”

Haru only glared at him, then turned away.

“Oi,” he said, irritated now. “Answer. It'll make this shit easier.”

“Haru doesn't want to talk to a kidnapper,” she complained, poking her tongue out.

“Look, trash,” Xanxus said impatiently. “Do you really want to fuck with a group of assassins? I'm armed, you're handcuffed, we're in a moving car, this shit ain't gonna go well for you.”

“Haru-”

“I.”

Haru paused, looking at him. “What?”

“It's not unheard of in Japanese, to refer to yourself in third person. But in Italian, it's even weirder. Stop it.”

“Hahi! Haru'll speak however Haru wants, desu.”

“Fucking-” Xanxus let out a series of expletives, before kicking the back of the driver's seat. On cue, the glass separating the passengers and the driver scrolled down.

Boss?” Levi asked, glancing at Haru nervously.

“Get the bag ready. I'm throwing this girl in the ocean.”

“Boss,” Levi said nervously, already cringing away from him. “W-We need the leverage over Ts- the brat.”.

Xanxus swore again. “You think I don't fuckin' know that? We just don't tell him she's dead.”

“Hahi! I'm not even Tsuna's girl, as you put it.”

Xanxus paused. “What?”

Levi stared at her, silently asking her not to continue. The driver kept facing forward rigidly, clearly hating that he's the one given this task.

“Tsuna-san likes Kyoko-chan, not me.”

“You called yourself his future wife,” Xanxus said blankly.

“That's just because I like him,” Haru said, pouting.

“Fuckin' hell,” Xanxus said, leaning back. “Why the fuck didn't you say that before?”

“You gagged me. Before that, I was knocked out.”

Xanxus grunted.

“Haru wants to be let go, now.”

“You should say please, y'know.”

“Why do you even want to get back at Tsuna?”

“For fun,” Xanxus smirked. “I just wanted to see the brat squirm.”

Haru paused at this. “Why?”

Xanxus frowned, not looking at her. “Scroll the glass back up,” he told Levi, who obeyed.

“Tsuna-san said you were supposed to be the next boss. But I don't understand why you'd want to get back at him three years after the fact.”

“I'm being petty.”

“Kidnapping isn't exactly petty.”

“For an assassin, it is. Anyway – who the fuck's Kyoko?”

“She showed up at one of the ring battles.”

“You're surprisingly well-informed,” Xanxus noted.

“I'm-!”

“Boss.” The glass scrolled back down, and Levi handed a phone over. Xanxus glared at it, then answered the call.

Haru couldn't hear what was being said, but it made Xanxus's expression darken.

“You fucking brat. Why-?”

Haru assumed it was Tsuna who was calling, given the way Xanxus seemed to look more and more angry as time went by. She squirmed in her seat as the call continued.

“You shitty Decimo,” Xanxus said softly. “Fine. Don't expect me to do this for you again.” He hung up and handed the phone back to Levi, then snapped his fingers.

“Head towards Varia Headquarters,” he ordered. “Change of plans. Apparently we're now required to guard this girl.”

“Guard?” Levi blurted out before Haru could say it.

“Haru doesn't need guarding!”

“Whatever you know, the enemy wants,” Xanxus said flatly. “So Varia's on guard duty.”

“What Haru knows?”

Xanxus rolled his eyes. “That USB you have.” He held out his hand.

“I don't have anything like that on me.”

“Girl...”

“I-!”

“There's footage of you going into the computer.”

Haru froze, then pouted. “I thought I turned off the cameras,” she complained. “You have to uncuff me if you want me to get it out.”

“Stop fucking around. You uncuffed yourself while the brat was calling.”

Haru pouted some more, and the sound of the metal handcuffs falling away signalled she was indeed free. “Haru thinks you're a bully,” she told Xanxus.

“Why the fuck you'd decide to steal so blatantly from an enemy is beyond me,” Xanxus snapped back.

“Haru was trying to help Vongola!”

“Starting a war between two mafia families isn't helping.”

Haru stared at Xanxus, appalled. “A war? Haru started a war?”

“Haru did start a war,” Xanxus agreed. “Well done, brat.”

“What Flames have you got?”

Haru looked innocent. “Flames?”

“I know you know what they are,” Xanxus said, propping his feet up on his desk. He took a swing from the bottle of whiskey, eyeing her. Xanxus had been looking after her wellbeing for two weeks now, and both were incredibly bored. Xanxus was itching to shoot someone, but none were coming for her. “Answer.”

“Cloud,” she said with a pout.

Xanxus frowned. “Huh. I didn't expect that.”

“What did you think Haru would have?”

“Lightning,” he guessed. “Or something like that. Not...”

“Do Clouds normally behave differently?”

Xanxus shrugged. “Flames don't usually come from personality, nor do they affect behaviour.”

“Are there cases...?”

“Mine,” Xanxus said. “Apparently I was so fuckin' angry, I ended up getting Wrath Flames.”

Haru blinked.

Xanxus shrugged again. “Not that it did me any favours.”

“Fucking—I passed Go, gimme my two hundred.”

“You have to pay Haru rent worth two hundred anyway! Why bother?”

“Fucking-”

Xanxus fired his guns.

“Haru doesn't want to get into a drinking contest with you.”

“What else is there to do?”

“It's been two months, surely it's all been figured out?”

“That loud one hasn't stopped by recently.”

“That shitty shark-”

“Haru-”

“No.”

Haru and Xanxus both jerked up when the phone went off. They'd dozed off in front of the fire, Xanxus slightly intoxicated and Haru drunk off hot cocoa. In front of them lay strewn chess pieces, the white king piece slightly melted.

“Hello, Xanxus.”

Xanxus waited impatiently for the Decimo to speak.

“All clear.”

“It took you six months to deal with the fucking mess? You couldn't even fuckin' deal with those shit-eating losers? You-”

“We forgot about you,” Tsuna blurted out in the middle of his tirade.

Haru watched Xanxus fall deadly still, covering her ears for the incoming shout. She wondered how many new Italian curses she'll learn from this.

“You worthless--!”

“Did you hate spending time with Haru that much?”

Xanxus frowned, turning to look at her. “Huh?”

“You yelled a lot. Was Haru that annoying?” Haru cast her eyes down.

“I'm more annoyed I spent a good three months doing nothing when I could've been helping. And I don't buy this whole forgetting thing. Why they'd want us to be in the same building together for so long, though...”

Haru considered it. “Well, you don't have a Cloud, do you?”

“I don't,” Xanxus allowed.

“How about me, then?”

Xanxus glared. “No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“Don't you need someone who knows how to hack?”

Xanxus froze, then cursed violently. She got him.

[gingerly-writing]

Writeblr Connects

@writeblrconnections See, I promised you I’d do this eventually :P

Are you interested in finding critique groups/partners? Always Are you interested in being a beta-reader? Can do when I’m free, depending on who wants me, book length, depth of wanted critique etc. Also, only if it’s reasonably well-polished: I’m not helping someone sort out their rough rough first draft. That’s the author’s job, not the beta’s! (Sorry, just had some bad past experiences with this one, though I do genuinely love betaing amazing stuff like @jamieanovels ‘ stuff). Are you open to being tagged in writing questionnaires/asks/games? Heck yeah Are you open to being messaged to talk about writing? Absolutely! Are you open to being tagged to participate in writing discussions? As long as I’m not being dragged into The Discourse™, sure thing Would you like to participate in Writeblr by Region? I can, but I live in the Uncool™ north of England (Yorkshire), so I’m not sure how many people would be interested Would you like to participate in the Translation Corner? Not sure I’ll be much help here, ngl.      If so, which languages would you like to be listed under? English, I guess, not sure that will be of any use though. I can handle highschool French, and know all the Latin basics plus enough to quote Plato at ya.

Short Profile: Preferred Nickname: Jess/Ginger Country/Region: UK/England Languages: English, a little French, enough Latin for Plato Preferred Writing Type: own novels, novel-length fic. I should branch out into short stories, but my brain doesn’t seem to understand the concept of ‘short’ :P Preferred Genre(s) to Write: fantasy, sci-fi,  Preferred Genre(s) to Read: fantasy, sci-fi, all that YA dystopia/post-apocolyptic nonsense, honestly anything with a little world building, enough suspension of disbelief to keep my brain occupied, and good characters. If you give me beautiful chains of fast plot twists that slot into place like puzzle pieces towards the end of the story, I might kiss you (or the book, if you’re not about that).

Favo(u)rite Books and Authors: ahahahaha, how long to you have? Books, by title (to save me typing out the authors here too): The Host (fight me), Three Dark Crowns, Palace of Treason, Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom, The Lies of Locke Lamora, the Gospel of Loki, the whole Chaos Walking series, the Martian, Cinder, I Am Number Four (the first few in the series, but mainly the first one), the Clockwork Angel series, Fangirl...I could go on Authors: Leigh Bardugo (I’m dying to read her Grisha trilogy atm), Patrick Ness, Philip Pullman, Rick Riordan...my mind’s gone blank, ahhhhhh. Honorary mention to half the fic writers I’ve ever read, you guys very often surpass published novels and authors with your skills Favo(u)rite Music Genre(s)/Artists(s): FOB, Panic! At the Disco, Lorde, Lady Gaga, a bizarre scattering across genres from Queen to Green Day and MCR to LMFAO, Lindsey Stirling and Ellie Goulding Favo(u)rite Fandoms:    Movies: STAR WARS, the Man from U.N.C.L.E, X-Men and the Avengers, the DC crew when they chill with the Discourse™ (though God himself can pry Under the Red Hood from my cold, dead hands).    TV Shows: YOUNG JUSTICE, Teen Titans (when it’s good, it’s so good, but when it’s bad...), the Flash (mainly for the Rogues...okay, entirely for the Rogues), Gotham is a fab TV show but I haven’t actually looked at any fic (the tag is a good kind of crazy though)    Anime:   Anime: Attack on Titan, I guess? I’m no weeb ;P    Comics: Mainly related to animated show adaptations, so YJ, Batman, that kind of thing. I feel the need to reference Under the Red Hood again, because all the DC animated films are works of goddamn art, but that one is the greatest thing I will ever see with my own two damn eyes.     Video Games: Not really my thing.  Hobbies/interests other than writing: reading (haha, hilarious, real subversive), golf, badminton, passing my exams

Extended Profile: Personality Zodiac Sign: Taurus —Does it match your personality? Honestly I don’t even now what the characteristics are supposed to be. I prefer the ‘you’re a lemon tree’ kind of tumblr nonsense MBTI Type: N/A since I’m actually an alien —Does it match your personality well? Do I have a personality if I’ve not done this test? Some of y’all...would seem to think otherwise, #js Introvert or Extrovert? Extrovert except for when certain individuals are annoying as fuck

Writing Habits Number/Names of WIPs: One being written currently: The Iron Flower, first book in The Flowers of War series. Numerous fics hanging around including MISFITS, but I’m focusing on original stuff right now. Favo(u)rite book about writing: Oddly, I don’t particularly like books on how to write, I tend to better by picking up how other authors do things well. Palace of Treason is a lesson in how to write a sequel (I didn’t even realise it was a sequel!) and Three Dark Crowns is a masterpiece in writing the descent into cruelty and madness. Books like The Lies of Locke Lamora and Six of Crows also motivate me to improve my plot twists, and set up brilliant chains of events that all come crashing down together.  Planner, Pantser or Plantser? Compared to some people, I don’t think anyone else is a planner. I’m trying my own form of planning for The Iron Flower, and so far it’s going brilliantly. It involved writing out the entire plot in scene form, and then jumping in with no prior worldbuilding or character stuff, which is letting me develop those aspects naturally without getting stuck on where to take the plot next. I think this is a method I might stick with! Favo(u)rite Outlining Method: as above, whoopsie! Do you write on a schedule or sporadically? 500 words a day for the whole of my current project, and because that’s reasonably easy to hit, it gets me writing while also letting me beat my target almost every day, which is a lovely buzz! Any creativity rituals that you use: I sit on the same sofa with my crappy old laptop, I guess. Does that count?

Your Writing Community Tumblr: @writingwritersgroup is my official squad, but I’ve made so many other friends through the general writblr community. I’m a member of the ScriptFamily too. Current writing/creative communities you participate in: Just tumblr NaNoWriMo Community Name (if applicable): sass-master-lucifer (*cringe*, I hate how you cam’t change it!) Wattpad Community Name (if applicable): N/A fanfiction.net or AO3 Community Name (if applicable): a-really-angry-sorceress on FF. I think I’ll keep my AO3 private. DeviantArt Community Name (if applicable): N/A Patreon Community Name (if applicable): N/A

So that’s me finally done! Woah, that took some time. Looking forward to Camp Nano in a group cabin, and everything we do beyond that. Shameless plug for my prompts if anyone is looking for inspiration/wants a challenge among the community! Happy writing xx