#+ just spots in general since she’s called Berry she’s gotta be called that for a reason

[vic-does-battlecats]

Another rough cat.. Berryheart

[bijoulilou]

If Jude's parents still lived pt 3

Days had passed since that night. When I awoke, I was in my own bed, Taryn sprawled on the floor. I had deduced that we had come through my bedroom window on the second floor. Vivi answered my question by throwing it open herself and crawling through gracefully. She had given me a triumphant expression that I couldn't help but complement with a tired but relieved smile.

I didn't bother running that morning or any other after that. Dad noticed right away and asked if something was wrong. I merely replied that I was exhausted. But it wasn't true. None of it was. As I sat at my desk taking notes for history, my mind starts to wonder if I should join a gym or run around the track something falls out of my book. My eyes widen and I slowly reach to pick it up off the floor.

A black feather, the plumage so dark its iridescence shines between a purple and blue twirls between my fingers. I look up to see if anyone notices but they don't. I quickly place it beneath my notebook and turn the page to continue with lecture. There are scribbles there, too elegant to be my own, written anecdotes that don't make any sense. At least not to others like me. At end of the page there's a familiar one, Tayrn and I used to wonder aloud what it meant growing up and Vivi would tease us with a possible answer.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

I remember Cardan tangling his arms through my own as we danced. The honeyed wine I was warned against drinking, the hungry eyes that gathered around and reveled in my humaness. How tired I became and the way we sat and talked for what seemed forever.

I glance at the page until class is over, I try to push the thought of it out of my head for the rest of day. After school, practice is a welcome distraction from the constant buzz of senior nonsense. During this time I don't have to worry about college admission, scholarships or be invested in Taryn's clique drama. She eats up the attention and admiration from everyone, particularly when she gets casted for a lead in a play. When we went back to public school, there was this expectation that it was going to be weird. After watching hours of television, with plotlines revolving around outsiders being rebuked by the general pop--it was natural to be wary. But no, not many people cared if we were homeschooled for a bit. They found us interesting and entertaining. I remember Taryn glowing with pride when our classmates would invite us over to their table for lunch or to hang out after pickup. I was bored and preferred Dad showing me his creations or mom her medicines. It amazes me how right the weapons always felt in my hand, especially the weight of the sword. Dad beamed and said I looked like a knight, I think that's why I took to sports so easily, I played other sports in the off season to stay in shape and ready. Mom would lecture us when we'd play with wooden swords about strategy and cunning. Vivi would leave the room, she didn't want to hear stories of battles that didn't happen or the undercut ways to win wars. But the way mom would describe would sound so real, she'd stop talking about when dad came in the room. Mom would wipe us with poultice and make us strands of hawthorn and rowan berries when we'd play in the woods. After we started hanging out with other children she'd stop doing it as much.

A teammate of mine had tackled the lights out of me, I felt the wind get wicked out of my lungs. This wasn't like me, to be here but not totally here. To be absentminded.

In the locker room, after a very long cold shower and scaring some of my teammates with my scowl, I slowly get dressed.

"Pick your poison." Katie, dark haired with deep bronze skin holds up a kinesthetic tape and baby aspirin. I pick the aspirin, taking two with a swig from my water bottle. Katie hands me the tape anyway and I reluctantly start to wrap up my ribs, hissing during the process. The phrase sticks in my head, like a rhyme.

Pick your poison.Pick your Poison.Pick your--

"Do you want to go to Laken's party tonight?" Mara asks us. She's the one that tackled me out on the field, she gives me an apologetic expression. I throw a pair of dirty socks at her and call it even. Mara accepts this with a wrinkled nose and sits next to me, waiting for our answer. Katie nods, we were going to go hang out at a coffee shop and do homework. But after today, I can blow some steam.

"Let me just drop off my bag at home at first." They both give me an unimpressed eye roll. They suspect that I'll bail, I'm not a huge fan of Laken's parties. They tend to get out of hand, not in a fun way either. "I gotta run it by parents first, you guys know how my mom hates texts."

They nod. It's only half true that , mom hates when we text her, she'd prefer seeing our faces with face time or in person. She's been wary about us being on our own as we get older. Dad usually covers for us, like he did for that night in woods. He thinks mom worries too much.

"Hey Jude, there's someone here for you." One of the junior girls notifies me. My brow furrows in frustration. Taryn can be a real priss sometimes, she detests coming into the locker room. Taryn complains of the smell, but I swear the boys locker room's stench wafts all the way to the tennis courts.

Katie gives annoyed snort, " That sister of yours is a piece of work."

Before I can defend Taryn, Mara interrupts and says she'll walk me out and makes us confirm that we'll meet up later. Katie and I give a half hearted okay. When I try to hand Katie back her wrap she tells me to keep it. I give her a thanks, which is rare. We call it a truce.

As we're walking out Mara starts to ask me what's the deal between Katie and Taryn. I explain that those two have always been at odds since middle school. Taryn accuses her of being a nag and a bore, Katie says that she's pushy and manipulative. Mara sighs, but before she can say anything, a slight girl with thick cloud of white hair greets me. Except she's not a girl.

Mara waves goodbye, telling me she'll hopefully see me later at Laken's party. My visitor greets me but I can see through disguise. A boy in passing gives her a hooded look, she responds by winking. As she retrieves a beanie from her back pocket, he looks back repeatedly hoping to catch her eye. She's oblivious, or probably doesn't care, as she asks me to follow her. Without hesitation, she grabs my hand to lead me anyway.

Not sure why, but I follow her. I could easily take her, magical being or not. We walk the past tennis courts cutting through the now empty fields to some abandoned benches. There's a slumped figure sipping what seems like a slurpee, the closer I get i can see that he isn't human either. His crooked nose hangs at a strange angle while his skin has unhealthy green gleam beneath it. I ask if he's alright and she grins like it's a joke. She whistles and he looks up but I see another figure shoots up like a bullet.

I stop, unable to help my jaw from dropping. Its Cardan dressed in casual clothes like his companions.

"Are you all actually dressed in regular clothes or is that glamour?" The three of them stiffen. "Is everyone really that surprised that I figured that out? I mean my sister is one of you. Half of you?" I wave off that math problem and face the one at hand.

"Ah. Yes and no." Cardan admits, the other two don't know how to process his open honesty. He makes introductions, "These are my acquaintances, I trust them with most things and I hope you do the same. This is the Bomb and the Roach." The male does a little curtsey while the female does a flourish with her hat as she bows.

"Fancy," I admonish," I am Jude as you all know." I bend my knees a little and awkwardly wave. Cardan beams and I start to notice all the little details. He's wearing an outfit that seems oddly familiar with a few tags sticking out. The Bomb and the Roach's attire look worn and inconspicuous.

"Funny, I would have thought you referred to as the Queen." The Roach points one of my many embellished sweaters I have on. An oversized maroon pullover with my nickname scrawled in gold on the sleeves and crown on my chest. Dad gave it to me for Christmas. There's a knitted cal that's meant to look like a crown at the back of my closet. I wear that after a game to show good sportsmanship.

"Yeah. Hey, I've seen that before. Did you get that off a mannequin at Target?" I squint and start to pull off the tags. Yep, definitely from Target. I notice the venti spiked black matte Starbucks cup in Cardan's hand. "DUDE! I've been saving up to get that. Where did you get this?"

"I just happened to come upon this today." Cardan casually shrugs but the way he phrases it sounds strange.

" You took this from someone didn't you." I can imagine him on his way out of the store with bags in hand, spotting this cup and taking someone's order.

"It was there in the open, nobody had claimed it. I assure you." Cardan rises and beckons me forward. "Did you get any of my messages?"

Before I could answer, the Bomb steps in. "Your highness, perhaps it be a better idea to have this conversation in closed quarters."

Cardan assess her but agrees with a tilt of his chin. "Jude, would you join me?" He extends his hand towards me as the other two turn to leave into the woods.

"Where? Wait where are they going?"

Cardan sighs and extends his hand again, "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation I hand him my bag and say, "No. But I've got questions. Perhaps you can fill me in." I take his hand instead and start leading him away from the forest and start dialing my mom's number. I press a finger to my lips, gesturing for him to stay quiet. Mom picks up on the third ring, opting for face time.

"Hey mom. My friends and I are going out to eat and I might spend the night at Katie's. Laken's having a party." I roll my eyes at the last bit.

Mom tucks her hair behind her ears, revealing the seashell drop earrings Taryn gave her for mother's day. With a grimace, she calls Laken an awful child which prompts her to ask questions. Where's Taryn? Have I heard from Vivi? Why am I going to said awful child's thing if I detest it so much? What's the point of having so many children if they dont keep an eye for each other?

While I answer her questions with mostly shrugs and half hatched answers, Cardan observes the contents of my backpack. I throw my shoe at him, quickly hanging up before my mom can hear his disapproval.

"You should be so lucky." Cardan sighs and pulls on a beanie with my name emblazoned on it. Taryn made that so people don't confuse us, I'm not that narcissistic. "Ah, there it is. So you did get my messages." He flips through my notebooks and pulls out what looks like the feather I found in class today.

Cardan zips up my backpack while I decide what's the best course of action.

"Is it safer if we go to a human place to eat or your potential hide hole?" He cocks an eyebrow in my direction. "I only assume it's not where you actually live. I doubt I'm welcomed there."

Cardan fixes upon me, measuring my pause and I'm afraid he can hear how fast my heart is beating. I put my hand on my hips, relieved that I left my sports bag in my locker. All that weight might slow us down again.

"Let's go somewhere safe for the both of us." Cardan gestures and I take his hand to lead us to the diner.

We walk at a leisurely pace as Cardan takes in the sights and observing my kind in their natural habitats. We make it to the Moonlight diner to find it mostly empty. I lead Cardan to a booth and wait for the waitress to greet us.

Watching Cardan bounce on the seats and dump the sugar out of the canister prompts me to apologize and order water and napkins. The waitress is not amused by my companion's peculiar behavior. I mouth that he's an exchange student before she walks away. Cardan flips through the menu, catching the reflection off the laminated surface, he starts to flip it back and forth.

Repeatedly.

When the waitress returns I ask for more time. With an annoyed look she leaves us and I slam my hand to stop Cardan from playing with the menu.

"What do you recommend?" Cardan sits forward with his hands under his chin, upset that I ruined his fun.

"The cat tendencies with you." I point out and then quickly add,"If you have a sweet tooth then I suggest the pie a la mode or a milkshake." He holds a hand up and asks for both.

When she comes back I ask for two order of the pie, a vanilla milkshake, and coffee. I'm going to need the caffeine.

"So...where to begin?" I muse bringing the cup of black coffee to lips. My eyes flicker to his as he's sipping his water. Cardan makes a face but keeps sipping it anyway.

"Let's start with my unanswered messages." Right then the waitress, Cindee, as it says on her name tag brings Cardan his milkshake. An expression flies across her face as she catches the last bit of our conversation. She walks away thinned lipped, intrigued by our table.

With a clearing of my throat I explain that I haven't a clue about what he's referring to. I raise my legs to put my feet on his seat. Cardan's eyes fall on them and he asks about my knee. I tell him that it's better, I hardly notice it at all. What I don't tell him is that I saved the scrap of cloak that he wrapped it in. It's locked away in my jewelry box.

"Those riddles and rambling in my notebook...the feather, were those what you're referring to?"

Once again, Cindee chimes in with our food. When I thank her, she slowly retreats away to tend to somebody else.

"That and other things. What about the others? I had them delivered on your walk home and at your window." When he sees my confusion he reaches for my backpack and retrieves an acorn. Before I can ask how that got in there, he pops the top off and reveals a thin scroll of parchment with familiar scrawling.

"Is that why I keep finding acorns everywhere?!" I take it and hold it up to the light. Sure enough it's a message from Cardan about how he missed me for my morning run. Asking if he could join me. I try to imagine Cardan running and instantly laugh. He does not find this amusing.

"I sent them in pinecones and on ribbons. Imagine my surprise when I heard you finally came upon the ones I wrote upon your notebook. That's why I sent the Bomb to meet you. The Roach helped me blend in, you pointed out that my usual attire can be distracting."

"Sorry, I still can't wrap my head around the pinecone thing." There's a few that I found on the other side of my windowsill, one just this morning. Cardan makes crude noise. He tells me not to apologize ever to a faerie, especially himself. I reach for the extra milkshake cylinder and take a spoonful. Make sure to keep that in mind.

"What did you want to tell me that you couldn't tell me in person?"

One of Cardan's ears peek out of the beanie as he sips on his milkshake. I glance at it quickly before looking out the window. When we were little, Vivi let us touch her ears. The childish urge to trace them surfaces and I silently repress it. Sitting on my hands, I wait for his answer.

"I wanted to make sure that I was keeping up with my promise. You asked me to refrain from stalking you and I didn't want to offend you."

I turn to face him with a softened gaze, "Me too. I mean, I was half expecting you to show up at my window. I'm pretty sure Locke has been visiting my sister. Taryn doesn't want to admit that he can't tell us apart. " I recall how he called taped on my window one night and I threaten to push him off the roof.

Cardan bursts out laughing, the beanie falling off his head. Without missing a beat, he reaches to put it back on. His cheeks are rosy and I can't help the corners of my mouth from tilting up.

"I must admit, I was...wary of Locke being around. He tends to fancy himself a charmer."

I think back to the party, as Cardan and I conversed in the dark, from the corner of my eye I saw Locke talking with the blue haired girl.

"He doesn't sound like a good friend to me. I couldn't help but noticing the way the blue haired girl glared at us. They seemed to be talking half the night." I take a spoon and being to dig into my melting pie a la mode. "Was she an ex of yours?" I ask point blank.

Cardan frowns, "An ex?"

Taking a bite of the pie and melted cream, I supply the phrases 'ex-lover' and ''ex-girlfriend'. He nods and I can deduce that Locke had everything to do with it.

"Makes sense. I thought only girls on the field wanted to melt me with their eyes. Now I got a mermaid out to murder me."

Another chuckle leaves his lips, "It truly surprises me how quick you are." He uses his spoon to taste from my plate and I slap it away with my own. The metal clanging hirts my teeth but this is my life's honor I'm defending. He reaches for it anyway and I smack that back of his hand with my spoon this time. "Young lady, may I remind you that this is a prince you are dealing with. Most would find you bold--"

"Most do find me bold, dear prince." And I rapidly take a spoonful of his cherry pie and smile triumphantly at slight of hand.

Cardan does not find that amusing, "I've punished others for less you know." His voice is laden thick with warning and I serve him an equally cool tone.

"As have I. Though you are a prince, as funny as you may find, many consider me queen. This is my domain sort to speak and you are my guest. I expect you abide by our customs as most would yours."

His eyes darken at my words and he rapts his long fingers on the table. "If our roles were reversed and you were amongst my people instead of yours, would you pay me the expected respect of my title?"

"If you behaved as a faerie of your title should, with just and fairness?" I ask and he gives a little nod," If you didn't provoke or threaten my livelihood I might abide by those natural laws of your world. But that is neither here nor there. Besides, I can't imagine a situation were I would even get that close to you, much less be accepted under your court."

" Jude, even you with your lightly heeded title are respected amongst your peers. Though my kind are by your definition unpredictable but we still abide by rules and Mark's of respect. There are exceptions at my court, under my father's rule nothing quite surprises me. A human to be accepted as part of the gentry, it's not unheard of."

I'm not convinced, "Okay. Give me an example. A real example not something that you heard some inkling of from centuries before." I play with the last bits of my food the conversation turning my stomach as our light attitudes are dampened by what goes unsaid.

What a ridiculous notion, to fall in love with a person from a different world.

Cardan chooses his words carefully and he begins to trace the lines of my open palm. I've realized that he does this as a distraction and come to find all these excuses he makes to touch me. As if I might disappear like a whiff if smoke. He observes a garnet ring that I have on my ring finger. It belongs to my mom, theres an insignia on it. Honestly it could be anything for that matter.

"Actually, there was a general. A Red Cap that married a mortal." Cardan picks apart my fingers, memorizing their shape and intricate grooves. "I've been told that my mother was great friends with this woman, which is rare for such a mortal to not only be accepted but recognized as his legitimate wife. Those two would be at the center of it all causing mirth and chaos. One day the general comes back from battle to find his residence burned to the ground. His wife and child burned to ash."

I pull my hand away from the story. Something about it sounding so familiar. My voice is quiet and I manage to keep the quake out of it when I ask him to continue.

"Nobody knows. There are rumors that his enemies took advantage of his absence to take their revenge. Others say perhaps she had a spurned lover who committed a crime of passion." Cardan's eyes become engrossed with the outside world for a moment," But I believe otherwise. I'm convinced that our world, like for most humans, threatened to consume her and she ran away to start anew. Our ways are not for everyone you see. We fae are naturally violent and bloodthirsty. Our hedonistic lifestyles have lead many of then to abandoned their offspring to other faeries or creatures a like to look after them. Even at times switching us with human babies so that their parents can supply us with love and affection."

We stay silent, even as Cindee brings us our check and I hand her the money to pay. She returns with my change and I leave her a tip beneath the now empty sugar canister.

Cardan doesn't turn away instead he waits patiently for me to react or say anything. I don't do either but just sit there. My phone rings and Cardan's face finally breaks to retrieve my buzzing device. Its Taryn.

I quickly text back a response. Mom had told her that I left with some friends to go eat out before a party. She's making sure I meet up with her and that I wear something appropriate. I send her a snarky response and an illusive idk. Taryn quickly texts me back to no be lame and the time she expects me to be there. She's at a friend house getting ready it seems.

"I gotta go. Everyone's expecting me attend a kickback or whatever." I reach for my stuff and get up to leave. It takes a minute for me to go outside and process what he said. I'm not sure if the story sounds familiar or if it's a warning of what's to come if I choose to continue down this path.

Path? What am I going on a soul quest? No! I'm 17 and a senior in high school, waiting to go to college and figure out my life here. Nothing's changed. Except I met this weird boy whose definitely been stalking me for several months now. Sending me messages via pinecones and holding mybhand carrying my bag. The first part is off but the rest of it isn't anything new. I mean I've had boyfriends before that would do that stuff. Like Collin, he did that all the time before we broke up over the summer before college. Why I am worried about boy or whatever he is? This is dumb, my feminist foremothers did not--

"Jude are you okay?" Mara asks and I practically jump out of my skin.

While I was silently tail spinning, Mara and Katie happen to be going by. I'm not sure what I looked like, standing outside the Moonlight diner, staring at the void as all this new stuff came crashing down on me. But nonetheless, I'm glad they showed up when they did.

Katie and Mara share a moment before asking me where I'm headed. Katie's eyes narrow down at my backpack and she questions me about it. Just then, the last person that I wanted to be there decided to catch up with me. My friends do not hide their ogling as he butts in.

"Whose this?" Mara asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Oh this? This is Car-rigan. He's my new next door neighbor." Katie's sniper eyes move from my backpack back to me and then Cardan. Mara repeats the name that she was just given and Cardan promptly nods.

"That's what I'm called. It's a family name." Katie doesn't seem to buy it and asks where does he live because its obvious my family lives in every secluded area. "Its a hard to find but I can assure you it's back there."

They offer to give us a lift, that way we can all wait and leave for the party at the same time. I'm about to refuse until Cardan accepts their offer. As we get into the car, I worry if the amount of iron will kill him. But he seems unbothered by it for the most part. He reaches for my hand. I reflexively pull it way, still shaken by our conversation.

When we get to my door, they're surprised to see him follow me out. They offer to take him home but I decline. I'm surprised when they pull away, they text me that they were heading to moonlight diner for some grub anyway and just to text them when we were ready. Mara sent me a wink in our group chat and I had a hard time understanding what she meant.

Surprise surprise, my dad was out back. It was already dark but there was an half empty pizza box on the table. Typical. Cardan looked around, mystified by it all. There were drawings and portraits scattered throughout the house with pictures of all of us even Vivi. Recently there was a one of her and her girlfriend Heather on the fridge. Dad had wondered aloud if she should be included in our family Christmas card. Mom pointed out that we never had a family Christmas card.

"Yeah, it's an eclectic mix of bohemian meets OCD. It's like mom likes the idea of chaos but lives for rigid order. Don't get mud on the carpet, she'll skin you alive and show all her friends her rare pearl prince throw rug in the spring. "

I tell Cardan to wait there as I go upstairs. But I hear my dad call my name from the back porch and I grab Cardan's hand and race with him up the stairs. I shove him in my room and lean over the banister with a 'yeah dad?'. Dad pokes his head through the door way but doesn't move to join me. He thought it was me when he saw me through the window and he offers me pizza. From here I can just make out the graying temples of his hair, most men in his family gray early. He pushes his glasses that he seems to use more of now in older age, his olive skin with a smattering of freckles that make him seem younger than he is. Dad smiles and asks about my day. I give him mostly sincere answers and he tell me a bit about his. I'm trying not dance in panic because theres a boy/magical prince in my room. Dad doesn't catch on and waves me off to get ready. He informs me that mom is out with her friends so she's more than likely to come home buzzed and forgetful about curfew. Dad shrugs playfully and I giggle at his cleverness. The old man has it figured out.

When I hear the door close, watching dad's retreating figure return to his converted barn through the back porch window, I race back to my room. Cardan is casually sifting through my things, bauble earrings are threaded in his lobes and my knitted crown sits right above his head.

"You know it's really unfair how attractive you still manage to be when quite clearly look silly." I finally drop my bag and jump to lay on the bed. Cardan removes the earrings but not the crown before sitting beside me. In a flash I rip it off and replace it the hat from before. This time without tucking his ears. I nod at my handy work and lay down. Cardan doesn't move. At first. Eventually he moves to lay beside me, put feet dangling off the side of the bed.

"Now what?" Cardan asks but stay fixated on the ceiling. If I were to turn, there's no question what i would do. I would behave illogical as most girls would have done. But I Jude Duarte have no time to act illogical.

"This whole afternoon just came out of left field. It was unexpected. A pleasant un-expectation. Though I can't let it happen again." My voice sounds different but it's the tone I need to convey right now.

"Jude, look at me." Cardan's voice is soft but there's an edge to it like my own.

"If I do," I keep myself focused on this one spot above me, " will you kiss me?"

"If you allow me to do so, yes."

For a moment we don't move, my chest barely rising up and down nor do I hear the breathing of his. It almost startles me when Cardan begins to talk again. He's waving a thin piece of black almost gossamer fabric above me and I recognize what it is.

"Why did you keep this? I had earnestly believed this meant nothing to you. Just a simple bandage." He is about to toss it when I take it from him, his fingers quick to tangle with mine. "Jude?" Cardan asks softly.

I close my eyes as I admit "After the night, when I woke up in my room. I kept it as a reminder that that night was real. In case I ever forgot to keep my word."

"A reminder of my favor." There's a dulcet tone to his voice as he says my name again but I stay fixed upon the ceiling. It isn't until he start to kiss my fingers, palms then wrists. The controlled yet hungry manner he rolls up till we see chest to chest and he buries his hands in my hair.

For a moment, I allow myself to be young foolish and illogical. But even I have a hard time swallowing that lie.

[touchmycoat]

kinktober: day 28

day 28: writing on the body

this wasn’t meant to be sickfic, much less incomplete sickfic, but here we are. I’ll finish, clean, and post to AO3 later.

The rendezvous was on a summer island once more, the air so superheated this time that even Ace wanted to run around fully nude. He couldn’t feel excessively hot or anything, what with literally being fire and all—it was just the atmosphere the whole island brought about. It made him want to sweat and run for a dunk in a freshwater lake or wrestle someone for an icy shower.

Others didn’t have it so easy. Thatch’s hair had gone fully limp since day zeroth, whatever he used to keep up the ‘do melting and dripping off his forehead in nasty milky trails. Marco was okay, though little licks of blue fire keep getting spotted on his exposed skin, healing the sunburns he swore he didn’t get.

Sabo, when he got to the island, promptly took off all his clothes.

“Don’t,” he ordered, dunking his hands into the tub of water that had gone tepid in a matter of minutes after Ace prepared it, “touch me, ‘cause I won’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.”

“Aw, babe, I’ve missed you too,” Ace replied, tone as dry as Sabo’s hair was wet, now that he’s gone and sank his entire head into the water. “Aren’t Revolutionaries supposed to be hardier? You’re gonna let a little heat wave get you down?”

“I may also be running a little fever,” was Sabo’s admission. Ace scanned him in alarm, and now noticed an unnatural pink flush under his skin. “Everything is unpleasant and I’m dying.”

“I’m assuming that’s hyperbole.”

“Well I don’t keep sucking a doctor’s dick for no reason—where the fuck is Marco?”

Exploring, was the answer to that, and Sabo looked as impressed with it as Ace expected him to—which is to say, not at all.

“The one time I need him,” Sabo cursed in blatant mistruth. “That’ll teach me to ever trust again. There’s no way around it then—Ace, we have to go old school.”

“Unless you’ve brought your own eel’s blood, I can’t help you there,” Ace answered warily.

“I meant—”

“Nor do I have ginger root and all the necessary needles.”

With a sigh of frustration, Ace approached and hovered his hand about Sabo’s forehead, taking heed of Sabo’s warning against physical contact and hoping, sometime in the past five minutes, his fruit has given him some miraculous sensitivity to temperature in air convection. It hasn’t, but Sabo heaved a sigh of his own, and sullenly leaned his head into Ace’s hand.

“...Yikes.” It took a moment for Ace to translate the sensation on his hand to a normal human context. “You’re really burning.”

“If you truly love me,” Sabo muttered, peeling his head away with a grunt, “you’d go hunt an eel.”

“If I truly love you,” Ace corrected, pulling a den den mushi out of his bag, “I’d call Marco.”

One of Marco’s division members picked up.

“Hey Commander!” was Aoi’s cheery greeting. “Gimme a sec, our Commander’s left us a bit behind.”

“Just put me on the loudest volume,” Ace advised. As soon as she did, Ace yelled into the sparse canopy of trees in the broadcast, “hey Marco! Sabo’s dying!”

A beat. A burst of blue flames. A familiar face emerging with a frown.

“I’m assuming that’s hyperbole, yoi.”

“How would you know?” Sabo complained, not even looking at the den den mushi, so bleary-eyed he was and swaying on the spot. “You’re not here to anally probe me with a thermometer or anything.”

Giggling, and a cough. “Thanks, Aoi, I’ll take it from here.” Marco took his den den mushi and walked off down a more secluded path, waving his exploration team ahead. He wove between thick purple tree trunks until finally settling against one, staring into his side of the projection with overt concern. “Are you feverish? What symptoms are there yoi, and when did they start?”

This time, when Sabo opened his mouth to speak, a pallor suddenly washed across his face. He ended up tossing his head back in determined swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as the tendons in his throat stood out in stark relief.

“Well,” Ace took over in dismay, “I think it’s safe to say he’s experiencing nausea. No coughing or sniffling so far. He just came in with a fever and didn’t want me to touch him.”

“Oh?” Marco took in the sight of Sabo standing completely nude, presumably assessing the cause. “Sabo, is it just general sensitivity, or does contact with your skin actually hurt?”

“Hurt is relative,” Sabo said, because even halfway to incoherent he needed to be difficult, “but I’m guessing you’re not telling me to compare it to being burned alive by actual fire.”

“Good guess yoi, I’m not telling you to do that,” was Marco’s flat reply. “Just compare being touched right now to, oh, your regular old knife wound.”

“Then sure, it hurts.”

“Okay any wounds, potential infections? Insect bites?”

“Not that I can see,” Ace reported, after an inspecting circle around Sabo. “Do you think he was poisoned then?”

“I mean, maybe?” Neither Sabo nor Ace had a response to Marco’s bewilderment. “But if he’s not saying anything about being poisoned yoi, we should just assume it’s a regular cold.”

Ace frowned. “How do you mean?”

“How do you mean, how do I mean?” Marco asked slowly.

“Well someone must’ve done this to him,” Ace argued logically. “How else could he contract an illness?”

“He could be immunocompromised for any number of reasons, and just—germs, viruses yoi. I don’t—” At Ace’s unyielding moue of incomprehension, Marco scratched frustratedly at the back of his head. “Honestly, if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, then that actually makes the possibility of Sabo being poisoned higher. How about it, Sabo? Any possibilities?”

“Yes.” Sabo blinked, and almost actually collapsed, knees buckling for just a tiny moment. Ace darted out to catch him, but refrained at the last moment from actual contact when Sabo managed to stay upright. “Okay I confess, I wasn’t listening to anything you guys were saying.”

“Lie down, for goodness sake,” Marco hissed, more out of worried sympathy than anger.

“It’ll hurt.”

“It’ll hurt a lot worse when you fall on your face, and I gotta carry you over to the bed,” Ace pointed out. He waved his arms about to herd Sabo in the direction of the mattress. “Just—lie flat on your back, and don’t move.”

“Breathing hurts too,” was Sabo’s whimpering complaint. But he did shy away from Ace’s hands and start moving toward the bed. His movements were stiff and obviously pained, and when one knee sunk into the mattress, Sabo made a sound of such utter distress that Marco flinched, all the way on the other end of the line.

“Okay yoi, I’m on my way back. But in the meantime Ace, grab the first aid kit I brought.” The tree trunks started to blur behind Marco as he jogged, then sprinted down the mountainside. “There should be a jar in the top right corner full of thick dark red paste.”

The first aid kit was a sizable buckle-up box that Marco brought onto every island landing. Every doctor and nurse practitioner in his division carried one.

“Looks like chili? Yup, got it.” The jar was larger than Ace’s fist and densely packed. He popped the top and sniffed it, expecting a punch of spice. What he got instead was an herbal sweetness, not overwhelming at all.

“Water down the paste a little bit, but leave it thick enough to paint with. There should be a pretty big brush in the kit as well yoi.”

When Ace found the brush and wielded it up in the air, Sabo’s eyes widened.

“You better not be planning on touching me with that thing.”

“At this point,” Ace commented with a side-eye look at Sabo’s awkward positioning, three limbs braced on the bed with the fourth still pending pain, “would it be worse?”

“Hopefully it’ll relieve the discomfort.” Marco made an unhappy noise, aimed at himself. “I gotta hang up—I’ll get there faster if I fly. But yes Ace, paint the liquid on any surface of the skin that’s in pain. It should be absorbed pretty quickly, and it’s fine if you paint over the same spots yoi. If it hurts worse, stop, and we’ll figure it out when I get back.”

“Got it.” Ace offered Marco a little smile meant to reassure. “We’ll see you soon then.”

Marco hung up with a rush of blue flames, and Sabo let out the most agonized groan yet, settling fully back onto the mattress. He’d tossed the pillow on the floor, and now held himself so rigidly against the soft sheets. Ace busied himself with the preparation of the water and paste in the basin he had given first to Sabo, but could barely take his eyes off of Sabo’s expression, eyes screwed shut and lips pressed into two pale, bloodless lines.

“Sabo,” Ace said lowly, in comfort, “the medicine’s ready. We’ll start with a small spot, okay? Where does it hurt worse?”

Sabo’s hands couldn’t even clench into fists—they were flexed tightly, like even touching himself was out of the question.

“Chest,” he bit out through teeth gritted so hard, Ace was genuinely keeping an eye out for blood spots along the gums. “Over my heart.”

The paste that Ace has mixed up looked like Thatch’s signature berry reduction, dripped with the consistency of that same dessert topping. With just one corner of the flat brush (the kind used for painting planks of wood and walls), Ace soothed a spot of it on Sabo’s left pectoral, watching in fascination as the color immediately soaked into the skin, drying until it sat like a tattoo.

“Can’t feel a thing,” came Sabo’s grudging admission. “You might need more.”

“Alright,” Ace agreed, soaking the entire width of the brush bristles. They were soft-ended and flexible, as if Marco prepared it for this very purpose in mind—minimizing pain in hypersensitive skin. “Here we go.”

Sabo’s breath came ragged and harsh when Ace stroked the brush more fully down his chest. The moment the paste started soaking into the skin however, a keening cry of relief left Sabo’s throat.

“That,” he demanded. “That. Just—everywhere.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Of Farms Fairs And Fame (Part 6)

Sokka watched Kya pluck a cluster of blueberries and raspberries from their designated bushes. The woman was baking up pie after pie. Practice, she stated. One after the other, but she never seemed satisfied. One was too sweet, one didn’t have ripe enough berries. One simply didn’t look pretty enough. He didn’t know what to do with all of those pies, they were too good to simply throw out and waste. Maybe he oughta drop one or two off for Azula and TyLee, the both of them had been working so hard these days. But TyLee was allergic to blueberries and Azula...he could picture her at her writing desk focusing much too hard to give the pie any more notice than maybe an absent bite or two.

When deep in the creative process, the girl had a tendency to neglect things like eating until the urges became too intense to ignore.

So it was that Sokka had given himself a stomach ache or two, trying to keep those pies from going to waste.

“Why ain’t you just sell ‘em?” Katara asked at last.

He caught her watering her pumpkin. The last time they’d given it a good weigh it had a decent twenty-two pounds on it. It was getting to be on the large side. A good sign being as it was just a baby.

“We could use the extra money.”

By all means, she was right--he spared a glance at their newly broken tractor. It was just one more repair that they couldn’t afford to make. Again he found himself thanking the lord that he had grown so close to Azula. Perhaps her fa wouldn’t allow her to buy him a tractor part or a whole new one altogether. But she had a talent for sneaking her farm’s tractor out and loaning it to him for a day. Yet that day wasn’t a day that required one.

It was a day that only required a pickup truck and some patience down at the farmer’s market. Katara’s idea  was a good one. “Have ma get ‘em tagether ‘n I’ll go on down ta town.”

With any luck he’d be able to pull Azula away from her writing desk.

He didn’t quite fancy sitting at a stall alone for hours. He figured that she could probably write songs sitting next to him.

.oOo.

Azula groaned out loud. This whole song thing wasn’t going as well as she had hoped. Not at all. Why was it that whenever she needed good material it never came. She laughed bitterly to herself--in that case, it would seem that she always needed good material.

Frowning to herself, she crossed out another line. She ran her fingers through her hairline. She could write about her mother. About the unspoken things about the unfinished matters. It would be the easy route. But the lord knew she didn’t want anyone to know about those struggles. She could write lyrics to a ‘dear mum’ kind of song but she’d never put it on an album. She drummed her fingers on the desk, growing more and more frustrated with each moment that passed without notable progress. With a drawn out sigh, she pushed her chair in.

She’d have a quick bath and then get back to her writing...or lack thereof.

No sooner had she vacated her chair did the doorbell ring. She had every intention of ignoring it. But her father called up. “It’s fer you, Azula. That boy, what’s his name? Sohka?”

“Sokka.” Azula corrected. “Send him up.”

It would see that her bath would have to wait. She had to admit, it was rather irritating to have Sokka interrupt her...oh who was she kidding, she didn’t have a creative flow going.  “Don’t you have yer ma to be helpin’?”  

“That’s actually why I came on over here. Ma done went ‘n made so many pie that I can’t even eat ‘em all.” He explained. “So I was gonna get on down to the farmer’s market ‘n try to sell ‘em. Maybe if folks sample ‘em first, they’ll have a better chance to win.”

Azula allowed herself a laugh. “Sokka, I think that’s gotta be the only smart thing ya said since we met.”  She supposed that it couldn’t hurt to keep the man company, she wasn’t getting anywhere with her own work anyhow. “A’right I’ll go with you.”

“Yer the best.”

He slung an arm around her, flashing a boyish smile, and her heart fluttered. She couldn’t understand why, not anymore than she could understand why she was so willing to drop what she was doing to help the boy.  She stole a peek at his expression. She had to get this...whatever it was...out of her head. He probably thought of her like a little sister. His face seemed to say as much.

“Well c’mon then.” He laughed, tugging her in the direction of his truck.

His truck smelled of pine and cut hay. It was comfortingly familiar, she couldn’t even count the number of times she’d been in this truck. “Y’all wanna pick the station this time?”

Azula answered by turning the dial, finding her favorite station. The one with the artists who had inspired her to start writing music in the first place. In particular, she was fond of Yengchen’s vocals. But every now and again she could enjoy an older song or two by Lo and Li. Lo and Li, who her father claimed had been her caretakers when she was too young to remember having known them at all.

“Yengchen again?” Sokka asked.

“Yeah, it’s better then Chong and the Nomads.” Azula rolled her eyes.

“Hey! Don’t ya’ll go bad mouthin’ Chong ‘n the Nomads!”

He pulled into a parking spot and opened the door for her. She helped him carry an armful of pies to an open stall.

“Ya wanna try a ‘lil piece?”

Azula thought for a moment. “I suppose I do.” He cut her a small slice. “Yer ma does wonders in the kitchen. It’s almos’ as good as her jam.”

“Almos’?”

“I ain’t much of a pie person.” Azula confessed as Sokka greeted his first possible customer.

An hour or so passed and Sokka’s stall had received little attention. It would seem that Long Feng and his crew were getting most of the attention again. According to Sokka, that’s how it usually went. Long Feng with is more industrial way of doing things. From the sound of it, his methods were highly unethical between injecting hefty amounts of hormones into his cattle to the general way he went about raising and slaughtering them. The man was no good for anyone in this town, yet everyone seemed to treat him like an agricultural god.

They praised him for the size of his potatoes and carrots but they were practically artificial if Sokka’s word wasn’t biased.

Evidently, it was Long Feng’s apples that were getting all of the attention that day. None for the perfectly tasty apple pie Kya had made. She helped herself to another slice, apparently she had finally taken enough for Sokka to make note of it.

“I thought ya’ll ain’t a pie person.”

“It’s diff’rent  when yer ma makes ‘em.” She replied.

“If only everyone else thought that…”

“It ain’t you or Kya that’s the problem.” She eyed Long Feng and the rest of the Dai Li farm crew.

“Ain’t no good for anyone.” Spoke the man in the stall next to theirs. “Been sayin’ so since they got here.” Usually Azula didn’t take anything this man said seriously. Not many did. But this one...this one was the one thing she and Sokka agreed with him on. “He been takin’ my business.”

“I git this feelin’ that ya wouldn’t git business even if they went ‘n disappeared back ta the city they came from.” She muttered more to Sokka than to the older man. His cabbages weren’t exactly a delicacy at the farmer’s market and they didn’t fare any better at the fair. Frankly, Azula didn’t know many folks who liked cabbage.

“I ain’t got no luck taday.” Sokka sighed.

Azula returned the sigh and stood up. “Howdy, Chan.” She greeted with a rather exaggerated enthusiasm. “You look like ya need a pie.” She tugged him over to Sokka’s stall. “C’mon, jus’ buy one. Fer me?” She could bat her eyelashes for good measure, but she thought that words would suffice.

Chan slid a few bucks Sokka’s way and took a pie.

“If y’all like it, spread the word.” Sokka waved him off. And to Azula he spoke. “Ken ya do that again?”

“I suppose I can.” She replied, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. By the time most people began packing it in for the day, she had snagged Sokka a few more buyers. The boy had only three pies left. One of which she said that she’d take to her fa and Zuko. The other she said that she’d take to TyLee when she dropped by.

“I’m so glad I brought y’all along.” Sokka beamed at the wad of cash in his hands. “I reckon we could repair the tractor or one a the other things that we done broke.”

“Glad I could help.” Azula replied. If only someone could help her with her song writing.

Azula listened to the pop and snap of rocks as they cruised down the dirt road. She listened to Sokka singing along to Chong and the Nomads. She didn’t know who was more annoying, Sokka with is ridiculous twang or Chong himself. Azula could have sworn that Sokka hated Chong.

The wind whipped at her hair. It would seem that, for once, she’d be home before dark.

He pulled into her driveway and she let herself out of the car. Sokka put it in park and stepped out for himself.  “Thanks again fer helpin’ me out taday. I know yer busy.”

“It ain’t nothin’ big.” She replied.

“It kinda is.” He gave her another wide smile. A cheerful one. She was almost certain that he was going to give a wave and get back into his truck. Instead he pulled her close and gave her a quick hug. She wasn’t left with much time to savor it, but it was enough to take in the scent of him. The scent and the warmth. It wasn’t long at all. But it was long enough for her cheeks to go pink.

Feeling awkward and not knowing what else to say she mumbled again, “it ain’t nothing big.”

He gave her back a light and quick pat. “It were to me.”

[seenashwrite]

Failing Grace

Status: Complete Word Count: No idea, it doesn’t matter in these situations Category: Continuation, Humor, Satire, Reader Insert Spoof, Pseudo-script format, Snark Rating: (Older) Teen & up Character(s): Dean, Faux!Nash, a Y/N, the usual Pairings: Sweet babby jeebus, no Warning(s): Mild-to-moderate coarse language; Mild sexual references; Spit-take potential; Hurt fee-fees potential Author’s Note(s): You need to take a few minutes to catch up on The Nope Saga, or you’re going to have no clue what’s going on; this is what “There But For The Grace” began as; cleaning out drafts so here we are; satire is not to be taken as an attack on Y/N or any other writer personally; any similarity to any *specific* fic is purely coincidental; more post-story Overall Summary: We are mid-summer, things are heating up, sounds like there’s a need for some Freeze. Mother-frakkin’. Frame. Overall Summary Disclaimer: That is a complete lie.

In a nondescript town in a nondescript state in a coffee shop crafted lovingly by fanfic authors, in a small booth in the farthest corner from the door sits A WOMAN, legs crossed, head down, scrolling through phone, occasionally sipping on a mocha-something-something which the BARISTA, who bears a striking resemblance to some character from something-or-other, has prepared. Er, crafted. Lovingly.

We begin our story as the bell above the door jingles...

[A MAN in Peaky Blinders cosplay enters a coffee shop, glances around, makes a beeline for a booth, sits, utters a somewhat timid greeting to its occupant, a woman, NASH, who does not acknowledge him, though he gives a thanks for agreeing to meet him; there's some fidgeting, definite dread, now the hat is making his scalp sweat, and his tie is too tight, and is it warm in here, why is the heat on in July, are they insane, they serve hot coffee, this isn't difficult]

[Nash scrolls on. The foot of the leg which is crossed bobs in anger. Cheeks flush. Jaw clamps.]

[WAITRESS approaches. She is visibly taken to loins-town on account of MAN]

Waitress: Um. [giggles softly] Can I ----

Nash: [doesn't look up] No.

Waitress: But he ----

Nash: [still scrolling] Isn't thirsty.

Waitress: Like, um, so, are you two ----

Nash: [not a glance] Go find some whipped cream to squirt, W'Hye-Enne.

W'Hye-Enne: [blinks in surprise, glances down at nametag pinned to hefty bosom, then back to Nash] How did you know the way my name ----

Nash: [aggressively scrolling now] You are legion. Leave my presence immediately, my skills in character development bottom out when any of you stand this close.

W'Hye-Enne: [pouts because she is twelve, looks to MAN for assist; he is fussing with his hair, following the strategic placing of his hat upon the table away from anything that might slosh upon it; she stomps away]

Nash: [continues to be very focused on scrolling] Well. Dean. You've been a busy bee. Bat. Sugar glider. Pigeon.

Dean: [exhales loudly] Whew. Oh, good. Okay. I didn't know if you'd recognize me when you saw me. 'Cause, you know... trying out this new look and all.

Nash: [slowly raises a flat gaze to meet his eyes, which are absolutely not glowing] No worries there, I recognized your voice, even through the whatever-that-is you're doing with it when you called ----

Dean: [mild groan] Seriously? I'll work on it.

Nash: ---- and you still look like you, even with the new duds, Discount Tom Hardy.

Dean: No, don't call me Tom - when we're out in public, call me Michael. [pause] Hey, wait a sec. Why'd you call me by my name in the first place? Aren't you staying on top of the documentaries? [glances around, whispers] The last few parts have been kind've a big deal.

Nash: [sets phone to side, slams tightly clasped hands onto table top, leans over on forearms so her hissed response may be clearly heard by the target of her considerable ire] Why'd you call me here? Risk pulling me into another active fic after that last fiasco with Sam? 

Dean: This isn’t a fic, one dumb waitress ----

Nash: She responded to the name! Dammit, Dean! We had a deal.

Dean: [chuckles] That's funny, I just said that the other night to -----

Nash: Uh-huh. I know. Boy howdy, do I know. Motherfucking.... I can't even.... I don't know where to.... I just....

Dean: Hey, you're not the only one that's caught up. 'Cause speaking of calling me what you should be calling me, since you know I'm undercover ----

Nash: [scathingly sarcastic] Oh, bang-up job, Boardwalk Empire, you totes blend in.

Dean: ---- I read all that stuff you wrote, and I knew you were mean, but damn, Nash! I'll be honest, my feelings almost got hurt, with all the insults!

Nash: [clutches at non-existent pearls] Well my stars, Dean, not your fee-fees! Which one did it? Redneck Neo?

Dean: [gives Nash a look]

Nash: Mickey Dean: Ba da ba ba bah, he's suckin' it! - that one?

Dean: [sits back, crosses arms, glares, not even a hint of blue orbing]

Nash: Demon!Dean, Part Two: Oh, THIS Shtick Again?

Dean: Are you trying to be a bitch?

Nash: Does this seem like an attempt, Wank Beneath My Wings?

Dean: [rolls eyes, sighs] Look, I need some advice, and I thought you'd wanna get in on that action, 'cause you like seeing me get myself in trouble, then telling me how I'm wrong, don't you?

Nash: [considers; sits back and crosses arms as well] I'm listening.

Dean: So this is.... this is weird. It's not like the usual stuff. The bang fests. I mean, I'm sure that'll come up, I'm working this look, you gotta admit. [wiggles eyebrows, winks]

Nash: .....

Dean: .....

Nash: .....

Dean: [clears throat] And, uh, I can deal with that, you taught us how to get out of those stories, and thanks by the way, I haven't thanked you enough, really, for how awesome you are, in general, not for that or how you totally came through for me - for Sam - this last time, that was.... was.... um....

Nash: [stares]

Dean: Yeah, so, see, Michael, he's not exactly what everybody.... he comes across as a real hard-ass. You know, everything's black and white, humanity's wrecked the gifts we were given, the earth needs purifying. He's a jumbo-size salt-and-burner, if you wanna get right down to it.

Nash: Except we're alive.

Dean: Heh. Yeah. Not a "big picture" guy. And he did lie, nobody's surprised - the whole thing about giving me my body back, 'course he wouldn't. [sly grin] 'Cause, hey, why would he, amirite?

Nash: [stare, part deux]

Dean: Not even one compliment. Not a-one.

Nash: Nope.

Dean: I'm not at all attractive to you? I've seen what other stuff you've written about me ----

Nash: [groans at Dean, and not in the good way] Enough with the blog stalking, all right?

Dean: ---- AAAAND if what you say is true, which it ain't, about this being Demon!Me again, then you're lying to yourself. You liked me when I was doing... doing demon... being demony.

Nash: Oh, Demon!Dean can Get It.

Dean: [all the looks, all the incredulous, makes big sweeping gestures at himself]

W'Hye-Enne: [scurries over] Were you waving at me to come and ----

Dean and Nash: No.

W'Hye-Enne: [huffs, turns, spots BARISTA, who is apparently off work and is presently sitting at a table, gazing out the window, mightily brooding; she hesitates; looks to Dean; looks back; looks to Dean again; completely ignores Nash] Still, if you want me to ---- 

Nash: [with a look that bores deep through W'Hye-Enne’s soul] I have a gun.

Dean: [frowns at Nash] You do?

Nash: [tilts head at purse sitting on table, not breaking eye contact with W'Hye-Enne even a little]

[W'Hye-Enne’s eyes widen; she reverse-scurries to the other table without another word]

Dean: [slides purse closer] You've upgraded. It's bigger than the last one.

Nash: Bigger gun.

Dean: [unzips, looks inside; grins approvingly at flask; inspects gun; brings head up to gaze upon Nash, forlorn] 'S my gun.

Nash: Not anymore. It was all alone in the bunker, stuck in a random drawer, next to your mom's long-abandoned, yet fully-charged cell phone. It needed a good home.

Dean: You put it in a pink holster? Where does somebody even get a pink holster?

Nash: I'm not giving the gun back.

Dean: [zips purse, pushes away, mutters] But.... I kinda.... I might need a gun.

Nash: What does an archangel sword need with a gun? [a pause] Shit, that's not half-bad, I need to write that down.

Dean: Sounds too much like "What does God need with a starship". Unless it's an homage.

Nash: Nah, pass. It's too close. You're right.

Dean: [shit eating grin©℗™] Now we're gettin' somewhere.

Nash: We're getting nowhere. Speaking of nowhere - Where. Is. Michael?

Dean: He's... I guess you could say, caught in a fantasy. For him it's a fantasy, with all the raining hellfire down.

Nash: How'd you manage that? Nice little witchy trick? Making deals with djinn?

Dean: Trick, yeah, witch, bleeerrrgh. And no deals. Like I say, Michael’s not exactly what people think, he’s not playing with a full deck.

Nash: He’s dumb?

Dean: More gullible. Anyway, Gabriel was happy to help - I mean, Loki, Gabriel, either way you slice it, he loves doing that crap. Oh yeah, he's not really dead ---

[Dean and Nash in unison]: --- because of course he's not ---

Dean: --- and he's the only one we've got that can distract Michael, stick him on a hamster wheel, let him run til he gets worn out. Last I heard, dude thinks he's taken out Florida with some meteor-sinkhole action.

Nash: ....

Dean: ....

Nash: I meeeaaaan.....

Dean: [nods] Agreed. But Daytona's treated me right in the past, can't lie.

Nash: [eyes Dean carefully, thoughts brewing like coffee, which is a stupid analogy, adding to the signs of danger that may surround them]

Dean: [sighs] What'd I say?

Nash: You needed a vacation, didn't you?

Dean: [slight batting of lashes, widens non-glowing eyes innocently] What? Why would you think that?

Nash: Holy shitsnacks, I'm right.

Dean: Now, wait - don't get all judgy, Michael did have me by the berries for a minute there.

Nash: I still can't believe you just cut out! Not that your whole beach scenario didn't sound great, y'all deserve a break, but jeez, Dean!

Dean: Think about it: I knew Sam wasn't gonna die -----

[Dean and Nash in unison] ---- because of course he wasn't -----

Dean: ----- even though Lucifer's not really dead ----

[Dean and Nash in unison] ---- because of course he isn't ----

Nash: [in brief, but mandatory follow-up interruption] Hashtag-Fuck-Dabb, unoriginal basic boy-bitch.

Dean: I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but if he's got anything to do with our lives being kinda weird yet somehow predictable this last year or so, I agree with you, and Fuck Dabb.

[Dean and Nash look to THE READER in kinship, breaking fourth wall, though they do not freeze frame]

Dean: Anyway, even though Luci'll turn up, I'm betting it won't be right away, you know? And Sam's probably so torqued up, well, I'll kinda feel sorry for our resident Satan.

Nash: [nods] If this is Demon!Dean v2.0, then I've got my fingers crossed Sam will be in BAMF mode, 'cause goddamn, there was this brief window of time where the both of you were just [chef's kiss] It was a sight to behold.

Dean: [wicked smile]

Nash: I'm not apologizing or making excuses for being swoony during that part. THAT PART. But what about Jack? He looooooves you guys, he's jonesing to have a go at Mikey, so...?

Dean: The kid's wearing me out, every day we're starting from scratch, it's like he's got fucking Memento disease.

Nash: You ripped that from Mulaney.

Dean: [barks out his stellar riposte loudly] I'M HOMAGING

[PATRONS stop their conversations, shocked, turning heads toward Dean and Nash]

Nash: [smiles sweetly at them] But no worries! Doctor says it's almost run its course. [PATRONS go back to their chatter; Nash goes back to Dean] That's not homage, that's a dead-to-rights lift from a great writer, and add it to the list of reasons I think we're in a fic!

Dean: [slight pause] So, we might be in a fic.

Nash: [puts hand on purse, begins to slide out of booth] I am gone-baby-gone.

Dean: [grabs her wrist] Wait, how? How are you gonna ----

Nash: You think I don’t have a contingency plan after that last ass-disaster of an adventure you drug me on?

Dean: [leans in close, whispers] It wasn’t all bad. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about that kiss! You know you do. Say it.

Nash: [also leans in; real close; real-REAL close; nearly touches her lips to his; gives the entirety of his face the ol’ once-over; does not look up at him through lashes because this is physically impossible; waits a few beats]

Dean: [trembles slightly; holds breath] 

Nash: [through barely parted lips] Nooooope.

Dean: [possibly a slight pout; definitely with The Face as he leans back; he does remember to exhale the breath he did not forget he was holding]

Nash: Get to it. What's the issue?

Dean: It's this thing I've never done before, and I've done a lot.

Nash: [slight frown] I thought you said the bumping nasties hadn't kicked in yet.

Dean: [shakes head] No, this doesn't have anything to do with that. At least, it shouldn't.

Nash: [eye roll, possibly exasperated; scratch that - absolutely exasperated] Why you won't hear me on this is unreal: anything can happen in fic.

Dean: Well.... anybody ever have me freeze?

Nash: Define "freeze".

Dean: Freeze! I just stop. And I'm not doing it. It's random, the stopping - and I mean full stop, people running into me, cars swerving - and I smirk and look off to the side, and I can't move, can't even blink, and did I mention the glowy shit that still pops up sometimes?

Nash: [puzzled; touch of worry; this comes up later] Ah, no, you did not.

Dean: Dries my eyes out like you wouldn't believe, the black demon stuff was so moisturizing, I didn’t have under-eye bags, I swear my eyelashes got thicker ----

Nash: [snaps fingers] The freezing!

Dean: Right, right. Happened at a urinal the other day, so that was real fun, zipper down, junk out for fifteen minutes. And last week? In Ikea? 

Nash: In. Ikea.

Dean: Hours, Nash. Hours. And on the street,  women keep stopping and taking selfies with me, some of 'em complained about the woo eyes blowing out their phones. Ingrates. And some... some of them.... [trails off, legit blushes]

Nash: Yes?

Dean: They copped a feel.

Nash: [grins]

Dean: Really?

Nash: Sorry, I just... you think fic writers are making you do that, with the stopping and staring?

Dean: Um, it's me doing something not-me, so that was my guess.

Nash: N-no. That's... even the writers who turn you into... that's... uh-uh.  You're no good to them standing still. At least your pelvis has to move.

Dean: [with a look] No way you've read everything out there, somebody coulda made me a mannequin or something, so ----

Nash: You ain't tracking with me, here. I saw you walking that first time, in the, ah, documentaries. Didn't exactly start hearing the Bee Gees in the background, but there's swagger happening. [frowns briefly, pondering, mutters to self] Why am I complimenting him? [shakes self out of it]  I'm trying to tell you: by and large, that whole thing with the camera stare, it was not of the sexy, the full-body Botox routine, and ----

Dean: [holds up hand] Hang on. What camera?

Nash: [legit perplexed, though not speechless] Listen, there's some real shit-the-bed stories out there with you and Sam acting in ways that are just beyond recognition -----

Dean: Gee, you don't say!

Nash: ----- but I assure you, even the ones that can't manage to have you cruise down a sidewalk without describing every crack aren't making you do that! And 'what camera?' WHAT CAMERA?!  It's the show--- I MEAN! ---the, uh, documentary people! You didn't see them?

Dean: No. I never see them. They're sneaky.

[Nash's jaw drops, stays that way; Dean reaches out, pushes chin up to close mouth; does not stay that way long]

Nash: You. Looked. Right. At. The. Lens.

Dean: Wait a sec - you think the documentary people are somehow making me.... Ohhh! [eyes widen, zero neon present] Are they spirits or something? And that's why I never see them?  They're invisible? 'Cause if it's not the fic writers, then... you think it's the documentary crew dicking around, possessing me?

Nash: [frustrated, fists clenching, blurts out response] Grrrrr.... NO they aren't spirits! It's not THEM! it's the WRITERS!

Dean: [nods excitedly, eyes sparkling with said excitement, but Are. Not. Glowing. And if they did, it'd be something more interesting than plain ol' angel blue, since this is neither an ordinary angel, nor a typical situation] Duh, that's what I've been saying! The fanfic writers!

Nash: Not the fanfic --- nevermind. [sighs; regroups; tries to think of something as is not ready to go down the PS: You Don’t Exist road] It could be seizures.

Dean: It's not seizures.

Nash: Why am I here if you're not going to ---

Dean: Sorry, sorry, okay - what else can make me freeze up? And don't say ice cream, or catching Sam shaking hands with the milkman, or the prospect of banging you, or ----

Nash: [raises eyebrow, puts hand on purse, begins to scoot out of booth]

Dean: [clamps a strong, slightly calloused, warm, thick-fingered hand atop hers, squeezing gently] No! Don't go!

Nash: [stares down at hand; Dean is now holding it; rubs thumb over her knuckles; it does not seem off-putting in the slightest; this visibly concerns her]

Dean: Please?

Nash: [looks up, finds her tummy flutters at the desperate-yet-dashing expression on that mug]

Dean: [eyes inexplicably greener, possibly glassy] I need you.

Nash: [scoots back in, but glances up, over, around the coffee shop] Something's not right.

Dean: Maybe you're... maybe you’re not wrong, maybe we are in some sort of fic, but I'm not the lead, I'm positive, it's been two months of nothing.

Nash: You can never be sure of that, Gatsby.  The second you let your guard down ----

Dean: Who are you talking to, here? I KNOW I screwed up last time, but I'm sure - how do you explain the waitress, huh? No way we'd be able to keep her at bay if she's supposed to be whining to me or riding me or fluffing me... hey, do you think those writers are aware of what fluffing means, because -----

Nash: [eyeing the heavy flirting going down between the not-Velma and not-Hawkeye across the room] It's starting to look an awful lot like a cross-over, Dean, I'm not kidding. And if I'm some throw-away chick that's gonna be the fourth wheel to a threesome, that's not good. At all. Case fics are one thing, pairings are another. I could get really hurt.

Dean: Not a chance, not while I got your back. Your front. Whole thing, I got you.

Nash: And I’ve got the urge extend my leg and run your jewels.

Dean: [ignoring Nash, natch] If it is what’s happening, and that's a big if, it'd mean you and I are.... and we're not... we'd never.... we'd probably just.... No. No, we'd never.

Nash: [with a look] We. Are. Holding. HANDS.

[Dean and Nash jerk hands away, stare at one another]

Dean: .....

Nash: .....

Dean: We'd be good at it, no doubt.

Nash: Oh, of course! We're awesome on our own ---

Dean: Heh.

Nash: [with bonus look] I mean with other people. Besides us hating each other, it's for the safety of the world that we shouldn't, above all.

Dean: We'd rock the foundation of the very universe.

Nash: Talk about apocalypses.

Dean: Damn right.

Nash: So, speaking of that... you got bigger problems than going ice princess. Even if you're headed off to the Bahamas, or Mexico, or the Redneck Riviera, there's something you should know about. Because it won't matter how far you go, it'll find you, and it's... it's pretty concerning.

Dean: It freaks me out when you get sincere.

Nash: It's not anything you'd go looking for in the blogs, and it's not something you've faced before. At least, I don't think. [frowns briefly, thinking] I mean, we are talking fic, here. But this usually falls to Luci and Gabe and Gaddy and Cas. Oh my biscuits, poor ol' Cas.

Dean: [wary] You're actually scaring me. This is me, scared.

Nash: Angels leave residuals inside you, right?

Dean: Is that some sort of euphemism?

Nash: Grace, dipshit. I'm talking grace. Glowy-woozy stuff. You said your eyes have still gone woo every now and then, yeah?

Dean: Yeah....

Nash: So even though Mikey's off in inception land, he must've left some in you. And that's bad. Especially since the fic writers don't know about your whole switch-hit. Nobody knows much about Mikey, he's a  badass blank slate, he could be anything, and they're gonna use that. By way of you.

Dean: Use?

Nash: [deep breath, exhales, no forgets]  It's called the Grace Kink.

Dean: [chuckles] Jeez, you had me worried. Listen, the kinky ones can actually be fun, so don't ----

Nash: [shakes head slowly] You don't understand. If you think you've been exhausted by the sex before? This is raw-doggin' on a whooooole 'nother level.

[Nash proceeds to explain Grace Kink to the best of her ability; pulls up a few examples on her phone; Dean takes Nash’s flask from her purse without asking, excuses himself to go outside for some air; Nash gets another latte; Dean freeze-frames for approximately ten minutes; a squirrel climbs him and perches atop his head for three of them; Nash tries on his hat, admires herself as is totes cute; the squirrel leaps off as Dean unfreezes, batting it away; it does not fly; Nash appreciates this irony; Dean returns, draining flask as he walks; still flustered, he pours remaining liquor into the latte, gulps down most of it, also without asking; he snatches his hat from Nash’s head]

Dean: [putting on hat] So what did you mean earlier? About having a contingency plan?

Nash: Tiff.

Dean: [brightens] Oh, yeah, Tiff! She gives good... fic. How's she doing?

Nash: [picks up phone, opens messages] Ah, yes - well, she's curious as to why, when the Michael possession kicked in, you didn't crank off a line dance while Vincent Price cackled in the background.

Dean: [sneery] I know what you're doing. You're trying to make me fight so you'll disappear before you can help me.

Nash: [undeterred] Oh, right. Not that Michael. Our mistake. The Otter Pop weaksauce eyefuck action should've given it away.

Dean: [steamy as that latte once was] I. Don't. Give. Weak. Eyefuck.

At this, a surprisingly low-volume yet vitriolic verbal match of wits and sometimes not-so-much with the wits occurs, of such proportion and length, our story now arrives at the point of closing time - the coffee shop has cleared, tables are bussed, the floor is being swept, lights are being turned off, and our foes remain in flagrante--- er, in fight mode.

Nash: ....and Shakespeare said "eat me"? Eat me?! Shakespeare has so many zingers. And you whiffed.

Dean: I was under pressure, specifically in the throat area, and what, you've got all of Shakespeare memorized!?

Nash: No! No, I don't! But EAT ME?! What about, "As Shakespeare once said, sit and spin"? Got some alliteration, rolls off the tongue, might be a touch spitty, but you were sputtering anyway, and.... why are you looking at me like that?

Dean: You haven't disappeared. We've been going at it for an hour, and you're still here.

Nash: [stunned] Shit.

Dean: Just stay, for the rest of the summer, please? So you can write me out of whatever crap I get pulled into? I'm good at plenty, I guess I'm just not good at this. I'm asking for help, and I'm not good at that either, so... will you think about it?

Nash: [glances around; W'Hye-Enne and her victim are nowhere to be seen, likely in the back room banging; looks to Dean] This part's not fic.

Dean: No, it's not. Because otherwise I'd suddenly need your help for shit I'm perfect at, right? I'm being serious, here.

Nash: What if... what if the documentaries pick up again, before the fall, and Tiff can't figure how to... what if it somehow traps me for good?

Dean: I won't let it.

Nash: [flatly] Don't do that. Don't with the charming. It's wasted on me.

Dean: Sure it is.

Nash: We are not friends. This is strictly business. Really. I want money. I want as much money as possible. Or stuff, I'll take stuff.

Dean: Absolutely. Hey, I'll take you to Michael's... I mean, my... costumer - I MEAN - tailor. You like vintage ----

Nash: Dean, on god, if you don't get the hell away from my personal blog ----

Dean: ----and you'd look awesome in... hmmmm... I think a '50s get-up. Something Marilyn or Liz. You've got the rack for it. [stops speaking at this potentially ill-advised comment, banking on Nash's love for compliments overtaking her love of punching him; gives her a pointed look, touch of an eyebrow raise as prompt]

Nash: I suppose that's a do-able thing, and you are a tit connoisseur so I am taking that as a compliment.... [trails off, eyes narrowing, as cooperation with nemesis is never easy]

Dean: Aaaaand people usually do what in response to those? [raises eyebrows all the way this time, eyes sparkly and crinkly and distracting on many subtle and not-so-subtle levels]

Nash: ....

Dean: ....

Nash: [mutters] It's a great hat.

Dean: I LOOK SO GOOD IN HATS

~ Fin ~

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

1st Author’s Note Disclaimer (said with much lurve): There are myriad ways this is similar to many fics, possibly by Y/N; *if* these satirical pieces hit too close to home, consider this free writing therapy & an invitation to check your ego whilst finding a sense of humor. 😁 I’m pretty sure I’ve lost three-to-four followers over these things in the past, hence my semi-bitchy tone here. So, hey - go have a run at my stuff if it’ll make you feel better. I can handle it.

Author’s Note #2: Back to non-comedy fare shortly, like I say, just cleaning out ye olde drafts, hope you got a giggle.

Author’s Note #3: Many thanks to my guest star & would-be rescuer @butiaintgonnaloveem  

@impandagrl    @waywardjoy  @jalove-wecallhimdean  @jame-sbarnes  @just-another-busy-fangirl  @amanda-teaches  @fanforfanatic  @salt-n-burn-em-all  @thisgingerlikescoffee @cyrilconnelly  @rozadolphin  @theblackharrystyles   @carryonmycobaltangel @ilsawasanacrobat  @klaineaholic  @helvonasche   @zepppie  @amionthetumbler @tankcupcakes  @littlegreenplasticsoldier  @emlostinwonderland  @michellethetvaddict  @theoriginalvicki  @ellen-reincarnated1967  @copperseraphim  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @crowleylovesyou  @bumbleball13  @anticipate1003  @raspberrymama  @lastactiontricia  

[renatorizzuti]

Spotlight on Cleo Berry: Actor/Singer

Interview by Renato Rizzuti

Cleo Berry is known as “the funny guy.” During the course of this interview, Cleo is shown be much more than that! A well trained and passionate actor that has a great attitude towards acting and towards life! Cleo’s well thought out and thorough answers reveal a dynamic actor and a lover of life! 

Renato: You were born in Little Rock, Arkansas, USA, on February 10, 1984. This makes you an Aquarius from an astrological point of view. I was born on February 12 which also makes me an Aquarius. What qualities do people born under that sign possess that makes the person perfect for an acting profession? Is this personally true in your case? 

Cleo: First, Happy Belated birthday my Aquarian brother. As you know, Aquarians are known to be deep thinkers, very intellectual and generally just want to help the world be a better place. These are qualities that I bring into my everyday acting career. I have to think deeply about the character. What are their quirks? What makes them tick? What’s their motivation for life? What do they want most of all in the project? I fully believe that being an intelligent person is an asset as an actor. There’s tons of reading scripts and studying. It’s almost like full time college. We’re constantly preparing a group project that we have to perform in front of the class for a grade or in my case a job booking. But I absolutely love it. No complaining here. And I think we as actors are merely putting a mirror up to society and showing them parts of our humanity. Sometimes it’s a drama and sometimes it’s a comedy but we’re always trying to be as true to life and the character as possible. 

Renato: Was there a person or thing that inspired you to be an actor during the 18 years you spent in Little Rock? 

Cleo: I’ve always attended an Arts school. From first grade through college, I’ve been immersed in performing arts. So, I caught the acting bug in sixth grade when my elementary school took out our music class to a dinner theatre matinee show to see my music teacher perform Nancy in “Oliver!” It was there that I saw actors my age singing, dancing and acting. I instantly knew that I wanted to do that too. A few days later, while in music class, I asked my teacher how I could do it too. She helped my mom and I get me into a training camp over that summer. I’ve been on this path, since then. 

Renato: You moved to New York at age 18. What motivated you to make the move? How did you feel about the move? 

Cleo: Yes, I left LR for NYC at eighteen because I needed more training. The best trained there. So, I applied and auditioned and was accepted into the musical theatre training program at AMDA (NYC). I was excited about the move. The fact that 9/11 had just happened the previous year didn’t scare me at all. 

Renato: You graduated from The American Musical and Dramatic Academy (NYC). What is the most important thing you learned about acting there and was there a particular instructor who inspired you?                                   

Cleo: Most important things that I learned is how to break down a script and a song. I hated all the monotonous work of creating a character while in school but it definitely helped me with establishing my own short cut to getting to the heart of a character, scene. Darren R. Cohen is the acting instructor who I learned the most from. From my first semester there, Darren helped mold me. He absolutely let me be me and guided me through my schooling. He even created a cabaret show for me and three other students after we graduated. His belief in me is something that I still wear like a badge of honor.

Renato: You missed your graduation from the Academy to go to a feature film callback. What factors did you take into consideration when you made that decision?                                                                                                                   

Cleo: I was paying to attend a performing arts conservatory with the hopes of getting acting work once completed. I had the opportunity to land a lead in a film. It was something that I couldn’t pass up. I did not book the job but I proved to myself how bad I truly wanted my dream to happen.

 Renato: You made a name for yourself as “the funny guy” in numerous commercials and promos. What qualities do you possess that make you ideal as “the funny guy?” How do you personally feel about being “the funny guy?” What higher life purpose do “funny guys” serve or in other words what do “funny guys” do for the rest of humanity? 

Cleo: I’m a rotund guy with a big smile. I’m also quite funny, when prompted. Those are the qualities I possess to work in commercials. I love commercials. Great work, if you can get it. Being funny pays but I don’t think I’m serving any purpose other than selling a product. I certainly hope that if someone out there is having a bad day, and they see a hilarious commercial it brightens their day. Flips it around. But that’s pressure I don’t put on myself.

Renato: You also excel in dramatic roles and have worked with award winning actors such as Hugh Laurie, Glynn Turman and Ving Rhames. From an acting point of view how are dramatic roles different from comedic roles? I what ways are they similar? Given a choice, would you choose comedy or drama? 

Cleo: For me, dramatic roles are easier. I love being in that raw, real space of a role. With comedy, no matter what you do, it’s gotta be funny. With both drama and comedy you’ve gotta be open and readily available for what the scene and story demands. Sometimes, comedy gets to be a bit stressing to me. Coincidentally, it’s also the easiest for me to perform. If given a choice, I would pick drama 7 out of 10 times.

Renato: Name one of your favourite comedic roles.

 Cleo: Captain Chandler on “Young & Hungry!” I thought that character was absolutely hilarious. And I got to do a bit of physical comedy. Which is something that I love.  To view, click on link: https://www.imdb.com/videoplayer/vi2092219161

Renato: Name one of your favourite dramatic roles and explain why.

 Cleo: Daryl Fisher on Monday Mornings! I got to act opposite Ving Rhames. He’s been a favorite actor of mine for a very long time. Also, the character I played went through hell and back. Love playing those kinds of characters.To view, click on link: https://www.imdb.com/videoplayer/vi2092219161

Renato: You were in two Super Bowl commercials. As far as commercial acting is concerned that is quite an achievement! How did you feel being in a Super Bowl commercial? How do you feel about doing commercials in general? 

Cleo: Yes, I was in a Super Bowl commercial for Tide. It turned out great and was the big spot everyone was talking about. This year, I did a Super Bowl spot for Pampers. Got to act and sing with John Legend and Adam Levine. Super cool.  The Super Bowl is the top of the commercial realm. Something I always wanted to achieve. Very thankful to finally be able to cross it off my vision board.

Tide, to view click on link: https://www.imdb.com/videoplayer/vi2225322265

Pampers, to view click on link: https://youtu.be/S9A9Uw9e2p8

Renato: Your bio refers to your “stunning tenor singing voice.” Can you tell us which musical performance has been a highlight of your career?

Cleo: Playing Horton on a National Tour of “Seussical The Musical” was awesome! I loved traveling around the country to all the cities and towns and putting up a show. No performance video as it was over 10 years ago but it was a great show and cast.

Singing video, to view click on link: https://youtu.be/4f5UGb_7Yls

 Renato: You studied Taekwondo and played football. Can you tell us how the discipline learned through sports can be carried over to acting?

Cleo: It’s all about practice and performing at your best. It’s goal driven as well. Block or tackle in football. Break the wood board in Taekwondo and Booking in the Acting world.

Renato: Acting involves mental and physical work. How do you keep prepared for both?            

Cleo: I work with a terrific acting coach when I need to tune up or need help with the development phase of a character. Physically, yes, I do have to get some exercise on my weekly calendar. It’s tough but I make it happen.

Renato: Are there any upcoming projects you would like to tell us about?

Cleo: Yes, I have a project that comes out February 13 on YouTube Premium called “Weird City.” I play an awesome character named Dirg. That’s about all I can say. It’s written and executive produced by Jordan Peele (Get Out) and Charlie Sanders (Key and Peele). Love the way that they write. Definitely give it a watch. I’m guest starring in the third episode of season one.

Trailer, to view click on link: https://youtu.be/raJJbbiKtlY

My episode, preview only, (the first two episodes of the series are free but  you have to pay to watch the 3rd and remaining episodes of the series), to view click on link: https://youtu.be/y-MnuR0n1R8

Renato: Any social media links or other links that you would like to include?

Cleo: Please follow me on my verified Twitter account: @CleoBerry I’m not on any other social media sites.

Renato: Your personal quotation is, “I’m like the Energizer Bunny…you tell me I can’t do something and I keep going and going… until I do it!” Was there a situation in your life that you put that into play?

Cleo: When I was venturing out on my own at eighteen and embarking on school and a professional career, I would always tell myself this. I knew I’d come up against a multitude of brick walls, No’s and who are you’d! So, I’d remind myself to keep going. 

Renato: In general, what is your philosophy of acting?

Cleo: To get to the heart and truth of the character without judgment. Sounds easy but we all have our prejudices and quirks. Sometimes it’s tough to put yourself on hold and put a character on. Buts it’s something that must be done to effectively live as that role.

Renato: In general, what is your philosophy of life?

Cleo: To live, love and explore.

Renato: You won a special recognition at The Boston International Film Festival. What was that for? 

Cleo: The film I was in won Special Recognition. The indie film was called “Mow Crew.” It was my first lead in a movie and we shot on location in Martha’s Vineyard for a month. At the time, it was the first film to shoot on the island since “Jaws.” The locals were amazing and I can’t wait to get back there.

Renato: Thank you very much for your time and all the best to you!

[sunriseoverastorea]

Home

♬ Jeremy Soule - Far Horizons

Day 5

I think it's been five days—but I could be off, one or two. Been out of it a lot. And now I'm finally out of the doctor's office. Hosta thinks I'm hilarious. Refusing to stay in bed, but with nowhere to be. I can't just sit around waiting to heal. I have to explore, even if I can't get very far. Today, I saw Hosta's bakery, and she gave me this tart wedge thing. Then I stopped at what constitutes a general store here, and bought myself better clothes with money from Telford. They're still not what I'd choose to wear, but at least I have pants now, and boots that fit me. And sturdy leather gloves—to hide my hands with. Telford is fascinated by my prosthetics, and swears he won't tell anyone about them. I don't have much choice but to trust him.

 She sits on her cot in Telford's practice, slowly, painfully bending her legs, and tucking them up against her chest. She maneuvers a crudely cut copper coin between her fingers, concentrating on keeping the coin in motion. Time and again, it falls to the wrinkled bed sheets, and she sighs softly, watching her fingers fold and clench around the coin, lethargic as if weighted beneath a mile of water. Seized by frustration, she hurls the coin across the room, where it dings harmlessly against the front door, and she pounds her fists against the bed, crying out in the sudden flash of pain that sears across her burns.

Day 10

Got my own place now. Funded by Telford, of course. Paid a month in advance for a room in the inn. He let me take a bunch of his books with me, and my reading is improving, if very slowly. Their language may strongly resemble ours, but their alphabet does not. Not in the slightest. Anyway, I get to see the crappy bard that Hosta's always talking about. He plays downstairs in the tavern, so I'm gonna try and listen every night, learn whatever I can from his tall tales. There's so much to learn—an entire world to understand. I feel like it hasn't sunk in yet. If it weren't for the complete lack of magic, I wouldn't even know I had left Tyria. I have to keep reminding myself that this is an alien land. I am stranded, many of my most valuable possessions lost. I don't know what's going to happen to me, but just as in Tyria, it seems I can't look back. Only ahead, at what bridges I haven't already burned.

She perches upon the stairs coming down from the second floor of the inn, and watches the bard attentively. An older man, with a plain face and plain clothes, but a rich, sonorous voice. Gnarled fingers strum effortlessly upon a fine lute, and stories of fallen kingdoms fill the hush of the tavern, seeming to bring life back to the worn wooden walls, reminding them they were once great trees. Marea strains to understand the even more melodic lilt of the Middle-Earth accent when sung, and every now and then, her concentration is shattered—blackness and silver stars fill her vision, assaulting her in rare moments of peace, and she jerks her face away, trying to hide, though the void always returns in time, a lingering tune that she can't get out of her head, that haunts her with its sweet, empty melody.

Day 30

I've memorized some of the bard's stories. A few of Telford's books, too. Not much else to do than read and listen. I've talked some with the townspeople, though I try not to be too friendly. They all know who I am, the strange foreigner from the south that showed up looking like she just rolled out of a bonfire. I don't want to accidentally do anything that will arouse suspicion. I should have the upper hand here, but without guns and magic, and with my skin too fucked up to move fast with a dagger, I can't risk a witch hunt. The people are nice, though. Curious, but harmless, so far. In a lot of ways, talking to them is just like talking to someone in Tyria. The farmers talk about their crops, shopkeepers gossip, and kids stare at me and whisper, until I lunge at them and go 'boo!' Then they scatter like roaches, good riddance. Still, even with all they have in common on the surface, these people feel different. I can't put my finger on what it is. Every time I think I understand them, some small thing puts me back to square one. One of those teenage habit-things tried to steal a cupcake from Hosta yesterday, and when she spotted him, he ran off laughing with his prize, and she only shook her spatula and yelled at him. Just let him go without a fight. I guess it's not that strange. I guess.

She goes downstairs in the wee hours of the morning. Dreams interrupted by starry space, she seeks respite in the waking world, though her eyes droop with the weariness of many sleepless nights. She sits at the empty bar, staring at the sparsely stocked shelves. She perches on the edge of a table, rolling a salt shaker between her hands. She crouches down before the fireplace, ashes still simmering faintly, and in those ashes she sees a thousand twinkling universes. So she quickly turns away, and spies a pile of bags by the double front doors. Atop them rests a small harp, fit to be carried around with ease while slung over one shoulder. It fits perfectly in her hands, the arms on either side formed of delicately carved ivory, silver strings glinting like pale silk spiderwebs.

She closes her eyes, imagining the practiced caress of the bard's knotted old fingers, and she strums a chord. The fleeting music fills the shadowy silence of the deserted tavern, and a smile finds it way onto her face. It feels as if it has been years since she smiled. Even while she looks to the future, the reality of a new reality weighs heavily on her shoulders, and as she clumsily plinks out pretty tunes on the harp, that weight is lifted, and suddenly she can breathe again. Breathe as she did on the deck of the Horizon, high in the skies of Tyria, far from that world and the next. As if she were in her own bubble of space and time, and nothing but the rain could touch her.

A hand grasps her shoulder, and she yelps in surprise, fingers slipping and striking a comically hideous chord on the harp. The bard comes up behind her, one eyebrow raised over a crooked smile, and throws open the front doors, where a horse-drawn wagon loaded with hay awaits him. Marea steps back, watching in confusion as he grabs the bags by the door and throws them up into the wagon, then climbs aboard himself, raising a hand to wave goodbye as he perches upon a golden bale.

“Wait!” The wagon pulls away, the clopping of horse hooves echoing upon the cobblestones of the silent town. “You forgot this!” Marea takes a few hurried steps after the bard, harp held aloft, but her nerves scream in protest, and the man is growing farther away by the moment. He gazes up at the dawning sky, perfectly at peace without his ivory harp. And Marea stands in front of the inn with her new prize, clutching it tightly to her chest.

Day 50

Came to the first town I've seen since leaving Archet. Been practicing a lot between there and here, so hopefully they'll comp me a room at the inn. Sleeping outside here is lovely, but I can't shake the feeling that I'll be unpleasantly surprised by some hitherto impossible threat, native to Middle-Earth. Not that I've found any reason to worry about that here. Almost everyone's been fucking harmless. But there's plenty of time for the universe to prove me wrong. I'm heading south, to a place called Rohan. I've heard the name before, but I don't know where—it almost sounds like a dream, to me. An unreal concept. But I know I've heard it, and if I need a direction to travel, I might as well go there. I have the bard and his tales of 'riders' to thank for that.

Marea plops her butt in a chair on the makeshift stage in the tiny village inn. Only the cook and four grizzled men occupy the room, so hardly a crowd, but even still her skin tingles with nervousness, and she knows her hands would be leaden if she could feel them. She clears her throat, and strums a starting chord, followed by a dramatic, fully unintentional pause, before finally she spits the words out. She sings one of the bard's simpler tales, a silly song about forest critters stealing food from each other, and when she finishes, she promptly gets hit in the eye with a copper coin. The offering seems to be in lieu of clapping, as one of the gruff men stares at her expectantly.

“Thank you, thank you,” she blurts out, shoving the penny down her bodice. “You're too kind.”

The man grins, whether because of her stage presence or the fact that his money went to rest beside her boobs, she will never know. She isn't offered a free room that night, but after singing an hour of songs with her best attempt at a legible accent, she buys herself a bowl of hot meat stew, and cherishes every savory bite after weeks with only roots and berries. When she has licked up every drop, she finds herself a little shelter beneath the trees outside the village, inspects her injuries to ensure none have worsened, then lies down her head in the lush green grass, and dozes with the crickets under a bright full moon.

Day 100

Horses are fucking awesome. God damn, if I ever go back to Tyria, I absolutely have to hunt one down and take it for myself. There's gotta be someone in the world that still has horses, or else we wouldn't all remember them so well. Right? Anyway, this ones name was Lila, but I'm renaming her Indigo. Another play on Inigo, I know, real creative. But she's kinda colored that way—like me, she has a black mane, but it shines blue when it catches the light just right. She's so beautiful. Smaller than a lot of the horses I've seen, but full of energy, and crazy. The other day she went off after a bunny for miles, and I could barely get control of her. Could say it's just because I'm inexperienced, but I think she's extra spunky. And to think, I didn't even have to kill anyone to get her. Just walked off while no one was looking. These people are so damn trusting.

She sits on the edge of the well in the town square, carefully tuning her harp. She must be very careful about it, since she was never properly taught, but she learns quickly through trial and error, and if she doesn't do things in the most practical way, at least she adapts herself as needed. A few families have gathered before her, waiting for the show. A starting crowd of fifteen, the largest she's had.

“May I have your attention,” Marea interjects through the chattering crowd, who immediately go silent and stare at her in confusion. “The accent works wonders, huh?” she jokes, to which the people only stare some more. “Today I will be testing out a new song on you guys, not the classics you know and love, but something that really comes from the heart. So if it sucks, be honest with me afterwards, okay?”

A lone voice calls out from somewhere on the street: “'Sucks?' How would it 'suck?'”

“Not important!” Marea chimes cheerfully, rolling her eyes, and with a careful flick of her damaged fingers, the tale begins.

Day 150

These people love the Ode to Ascalon, holy shit. I'm getting free rooms and meals and kids are singing along with my own accent. I can almost see why people think kids are cute, for the first time in my life. People even recognize me in some places—I step through the gates and they go hey, that's the foreign bard with the one red eye! Damn straight I am, harping my way right into your hearts. I've never been involved with music before this, but it seems I've got a knack, especially when I put my own words into it. I still feel like I'm attracting too much attention, sometimes. If these people saw me the way the Ferny family did, when I first arrived, I'm sure they'd turn on me in a second. But as long as the gun and the prosthetics are tucked away, I'm just a woman from a distant fishing village with odd mismatched eyes and a knack for made-up myths. Although Ascalon is neither made-up nor myth. I wonder if they'd feel differently, knowing it was real.

She sits at the bar of yet another tavern, braiding her hair while she awaits her morning meal. Her once-charred locks reach her shoulders now, and although the braids are stubby and stick out a bit goofily, she's missed having them. Now her frizzy dark halo will stay closely plaited to her skull, out of her eyes, right where it belongs.

Alongside her hair, her body has been healing, too. The skin of her back and her legs is hideous—without the advanced medical knowledge of Tyria, there was nothing to be done except cut away the dead skin, and keep what remained from becoming infected. A patchwork of leathery browns and reds covers her concealed flesh, and she tries to think of it as resembling the bark of a sylvari. But when she looks at her reflection, and confronts the pale whiteness of her chest to the mangled mess of her back, she can't help but feel a certain repulsion. Far worse than the scars of whippings and fights that she once had. Where once she was a map of of brutal tales to tell, now she is the chewed-up and spit out remnants of one tale, one story, a story that still haunts her when she closes her eyes, so that sometimes, she forgets to blink. And when she does blink, those eerie stars rush at her, and she flinches away, much to the concern of those around her.

She can't tell anyone about the visions. As it is, she is only strange. Strange only raises eyebrows. But madness raises weapons.

Day 200

It came upon me so suddenly. I reached the pass between the mountains, just like I was told I would. There was a great tower, easily the most imposing thing I've seen since coming here, but I kept to the shadows and the trees, since it was mentioned at the last town that a powerful wizard resides there, and being a powerful wizard is a much bigger deal here than in Tyria. I'll make it a mystery for another day. All the better to reach my destination.

Though at first I was hesitant to believe I actually made it, it's been a few days now, and there's no questioning that I'm here. I'm on my way to the capital, I think. Most of the people here don't speak the same language as the humans I've been dealing with, so it's been difficult getting around, but they're still nice enough. I've sang a few songs for them. I like to look at them, in as non-creepy a way as possible, because they're familiar. Blue eyes and blonde hair, a fair number looking like they just got back from bench pressing a charrcopter. If I needed more assurance than the land itself, that would do it.

Indigo races across the plains, long grasses parting for her obsidian hooves. In the distance, Marea spots a gaggle of other horseback riders, and waves to them, spirited in the crisp evening air. At first she receives no reply, but after a moment, one man waves back to her, shouting something unintelligible, and Indigo gallops on, over rolling hills bordered all around by massive white mountains. Where the Shiverpeaks are imposing, these craggy, snowy peaks seem to beckon her onward, onto horizon after horizon, forever chasing the last gleam of sunlight as it passes beneath their crystalline pinnacles.

Before she reaches the city, she pauses by a rushing river so Indigo can drink, and she splashes her face with the chilly water. She licks it off her lips, and she tilts her head back to the pale rosy sky, the wind snapping her cape through the air.

“'A place of verdant plains and roaming horses, nestled between two great mountain ranges and a wide, flowing river.' Welcome to the homeland, Marea,” she whispers, a broad smile lighting up her face. She gets on her horse, and they turn towards Edoras, the city on a hill only a mile in the distance. They ride the fading light to a place to rest for the night, and many nights to come.

Day 300

I almost feel sorry for Raigar, that he had to leave this place, for whatever reason, and travel to Tyria. Sure, it isn't perfect. It's backwards and poor in comparison to what I know. But at the same time, there is so much—spirit. There's a wholeness to the people that Tyrians lack. Even when they fight and they suffer, there's none of the bitterness I know from home. If I could call it home. I don't know how I'd get back. And I don't want to go back. I'm learning the speech of the Rohirrim, very, very slowly, but it's not as important in Edoras, since more people speak the common tongue here. They still sound extra funky, as I must to them, but they enjoy my music and I enjoy their fleeting company, so it's not a problem. They take great care of Indigo in the stables, so I never have to worry about her. And there's so much open space—endless open space. It's like something out of a dream. I may not have a ship, but I have a horse and rolling fields. And I think that's more like flying than anything I've experienced before.

She starts the hike around noon, and finally reaches the lookout point in early evening, when the sun is just beginning to sink in the sky. Halfway up one of the smaller mountain peaks, the breeze blowing her long braids behind her, she feels like she beholds the entirety of the world before her. She can see from range to range, river to river, she can see Edoras and half a dozen other villages scattered like crumbs in the distance. Only a fraction of Middle-Earth, an impossibly small grain of sand in the stars of the void. But it is the only world she needs.

It hits her suddenly, and wet tears are streaming down her face. Warmth fills her veins from head to toe, and her heart swells with emotion. She clutches her hands to her chest, and she laughs and she sobs as happiness overwhelms her. She can't say why she is happy, only that her bliss is complete, she watches the sky darken and flush with color as the sun sinks ever lower, and she silently cries that it should never leave her. For when the sun leaves, she feels in the pit of her stomach that she will lose it. She will lose the sun, and though it will rise and set every day to come, it will never be the same, and she will long for the joy that she felt in that moment, for the rest of her life.

Gazing out over the mountains cast in burnished golden light, she feels as if she were lost in a beautiful dream. And if only she could remain lost forever, she would never want for freedom again.

As the sun dips below the mountain peaks, casting the valley in shadow, her ecstasy fades. Even the memory of it grows faint, though she will never forget that it happened. She wipes the last tears from her cheeks, and starts down the path, carefully picking her way through rocks and gravel. About halfway along, she pauses, hearing the crackle of footsteps in the woods nearby. It could be anyone, out for an evening walk, just like her. But for some reason, she finds herself immediately drawn off the trail, into the copse of trees, treading light as a fawn as she searches for her fellow wanderer.

He stands in a small clearing, and gazes at a lone little sapling sprung up through the grass, in contemplation. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long golden hair framing his angular face, in which striking blue eyes are set like sapphires. Though he wears the clothes of the noble Rohirrim, the face is unmistakable, and Marea nearly shouts out his name before she manages to tear herself away, fleeing back to the trail and all the way down the mountain, her mind racing with a thousand questions and confusions.

Later that night, she closely watches the entrance to the city. She sees him return on horseback, greeted warmly by name by villagers and vassals. As he passes her tavern, he catches her eye for a moment, and time seems to stop—she prays that he will recognize her, that he will say her name as Tyrians do, that he will leap off his mount and sweep her up in his arms because he has missed her so much, his dear friend, his sister.

But clear blue eyes merely glance over her, and he continues up the road, high into the city.

She doesn't sing that night, or the next night, or the night after that. She climbs the mountain trail, and she stares out over the plains and the hills, and she waits for that beautiful dream to return. But she can see nothing but Raigar's face in her mind's eye.

Day 310

I'm going back. I have to. I'm so confused. I had never felt so, so happy, so at peace, until I came here, and now it all feels so wrong, just like Tyria does. Raigar is here. He is still here. But he left! He left a long time ago, and barely even remembers this place. I don't understand. How can there be two of one person? Did something happen to him? But it doesn't matter how it happened, because here, he doesn't know me. And I can't live in a world like that. It's one thing to leave behind your best friend, another to find him again, but be a stranger to him. I feel like I should've seen this coming. Something was gonna fuck up my stay in Middle-Earth. And of course it's a Tyrian, if I could call this Raigar that, since I guess Tyrian Raigar isn't even Tyrian, technically. But yeah. Going back. I have a hunch and I desperately hope I'm right, 'cause if I'm not, I'm trapped here.

She rides for months, only pausing so she and Indigo can rest. She stops in no towns, she eats in no taverns, the picturesque countryside races by in a blur that she can't be bothered to look at. All she sees is the path ahead of her, and the void on either side of it, shooting stars filling her chest with cold dread. Yet she keeps her feet firm in the stirrups, and clenches her teeth to stave off the terror of what's to come.

Day 370

I left Indigo with Hosta. She wasn't home, but I wrote a note, and I know she'll take good care of her. I wish I could bring Indigo with me, but I can't imagine what the void would do to an animal, if this is what it does to me. Not worth the risk. I suffer because I understand what I've chosen to do. Wouldn't be fair to make a horse go through that.

At sundown, she hitches her belongings on her back. Like a pack mule, buried under a huge bulging bag, with a sheet of white metal, her prized Horiz remains, strapped over top of it. She strides through the clearing where she crashed a year ago, heading due north. The forest grows thicker, untouched for decades, if not centuries. A small patch of woodland mysteriously avoided by the locals, who likely never even realized it was there. And in the heart of this overgrown grove, she finds a standing stone, two stories tall, almost completely buried in vines. Although the air is still and lifeless as only it can be in a land without magic, the second her forehead touches the stone, the breath is knocked out of her.

In the moment before she goes, she hears Raigar's voice in her head, and suddenly she remembers a series of waking dreams from long before, when she was still over the Unending Ocean, in search of the otherworldly storm that would take her out of Tyria.

You'll get there. And then you'll know what home is.

“You,” she says quietly, even as a wail of panic builds in her throat, voice trembling. “Home is wherever you are.”

And this time, instead of falling into the abyss, she dives.