#crashed on Friday broke something then withdrew

[certifiedbi]

We've already had our first withdrawal of the season, get well soon David no. 3

[bjy-on-ao3]

Fic Friday: Taking Your Time

(As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

Time to add another DILF to my writing repertoire! There apparently isn’t a category for Persona 5 Strikers/Scramble, so I hope this categorization was right? I’d like to thank Petaldances for fueling my thirst for Zenkichi on Twitter and giving me the initial idea to write to this.

Also, there's a kind of intensifying/warming lube used in this fic that I couldn't for the life of me to properly tag. If anyone knows what lube for those purposes would be tagged, I can add it to the tags.

Summary Zenkichi convinces Reader into a little something new for the sake of some variety in their sex life, but goes just a little overboard.

Tags/Warnings

Consensual S*x, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation, Shameless Smut, Teasing, Vagina Fingering, Vaginal S*x

Taking Your Time (F! Reader/Zenkichi Hasegawa)

It hadn’t been long since Zenkichi had suggested trying something new to add some variety into your sex life, something he had been keen to try. Hardly even half the day had passed since you had agreed, wary but driven by immeasurable curiosity. He had been insistent on not elaborating, something about it being more fun that way. He had thoroughly reassured you, though, that it would be a good time. You trusted his word, even if it made you bubble with nervous energy along with anticipation.

Not long after his suggestion, that evening found in a somewhat unfamiliar position. You couldn’t say it was an uncomfortable one, however. Cushioned by the bedsheets, you sprawled naked on your belly across his bed; lying facedown on Zenkichi’s sheets though wasn’t the unfamiliar part - that and the cool, soothing sensation of the soft fabric on your cheek was commonplace enough.

The handcuffs linking your hands uselessly above your head, though, those were out of the ordinary. Handcuffs of the genuine kind, not the fuzzy kind reserved for gag gifts of kinky intimate moments. The kind that chafed and left marks on your skin if you pulled at them too much or they were cinched too tight. In lieu of a proper blindfold - the cuffs had been an easier resource to procure apparently - one of Zenkichi’s ties was bound around your eyes to complement the cuffs, obscuring your sight. You were left with only touch and sound to discern what Zenkichi might be up to.

He had left the room shortly after cuffing and blindfolding you, promising he’d only be a few minutes. That left you waiting, wriggling here and there to make yourself more comfortable and further muss the bedsheets. A sense of vulnerability lingered in your mind, though one accompanied by curiosity and anticipation rather than fear. You knew you had nothing to fear from him, even if he had yet to explain exactly what he planned to do to you. The light bondage on it’s own was enough to be considered a little spicing up things, but it was only the beginning it seemed.

The minutes ticked on and felt far longer as you waited impatiently on the bed. Just when you were becoming concerned Zenkichi might have been distracted by something, or somehow forgotten about you, you heard the door creak open and shut again, signalling his return to the bedroom.

“Took you long enough,” you grumbled, though there was no true displeasure in your tone. The false show of irritation earned you a small chuckle from him.

“I was only gone a few minutes like I told you. I guess you’re just so excited it felt like longer,” he quipped in returned, and you could hear the grin on his face.

“Sure, that’s it,” you dismissed wryly, though you were smiling, too.

Zenkichi laughed again, and the comforting sound was close this time, followed by his weight making the bed dip beside you. “Don’t worry, I promise it’s worth the wait,” he assured you, tone light at first, but dropping into something more husky.

His weight beside you shifted, relocated to either side of your outstretched legs. Your squirming ceased, uncertain exactly how he was oriented. You knew he had to be close, judging by the heat of his skin near your outer thighs. The bed moved again, and you nearly jumped when the weight of his hands settled over your shoulders. He rubbed in soft, light motions along your skin, down your shoulders and back, making you shiver, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingertips. They remained featherlight, teasing, trailing over the small of back, before each took a detour to split and map out the curves of your waist and hips, before drawing together again. They splayed across your ass, smoothing over it and cupping each cheek more firmly.

Zenkichi lingered there for a moment, before repeating the path over in reverse, then back down again once it was complete. You writhed beneath his hands, unsatisfied with the simple, light touches, though they felt nice. As pleasant as they were, it was maddening not to be able to return his touch, leaving you only with the sensation of his fingers and a steadily swelling well of heat gathering between your legs. A heat that stayed woefully untended to while he caressed your skin, neglected as if he had no idea what his touch did to you.

Yet it didn’t go ignored forever, and after what seemed like far too long, the light strokes ended, leaving Zenkichi’s hands spread over the backs of your thighs. He readjusted himself on the bed again, moving to part your legs. You shuddered from the cold, or maybe it wasn’t that it was cold, but rather your cunt was already so hot and damp the bedroom air felt cold in comparison. You shivered again when the sensation of a single long finger teased along your folds. It drew back and forth gingerly, sinking deeper between your lips as it went. It teasingly skimmed your entrance, joined by another digit that pushed into your opening far too shallowly to elicit any satisfactions. Both slid away as abruptly as they had come, and you whined as they moved toward your clit instead. Whatever game Zenkichi was playing, you weren’t sure you had the will to endure.

“Zen, please…” you were already willing to beg, set on edge just from all the light touching beforehand, more so than you would have thought possible.

He laughed once more, and his fingers brushed over your clit, making you buck your hips against the bed into his touch. “Aw, already? But we’re just getting started.” his voice oozed a cheeky mock disappointment.

You answered with a whimpered sound of protest, realizing by his tone wasn’t going to cave to your pleas so easily. The realization was equal parts exciting and dreadful.

He continued his game, teasing your cunt, running his fingers along far too lightly, stroking your clit or dipping his fingers into your slit, just enough to wind you up. Enough to make you squirm against his hand or reflexively pull against your cuffs. Occasionally, he toyed with you a little further, giving you just enough to make you gasp and moan before foregoing more contact. It left your core feeling molten and tense, but not in the tantalizing way that normally heralded an orgasm. Zenkichi was doing his best to work you up, but not giving you nearly enough to give you any release. Only the minimum to stoke the flames of your arousal and drown your mind in the fog of need.

You tried pleading again, though the plaintive whine of his named that crossed your lips was strangled when he rubbed the pads of his fingers harder against your clit. For an instant, when his fingers circled it a little more vigorously, you thought he might have given into your plea, but you quickly found you were mistaken. Your breath hitched and deepened as his fingers stroked you in just the right way to forge the burgeoning heat in your abdomen into a red-hot spring of tension. It surged in intensity, more and more with his touch, until you thought it might explode. But as you groaned his name between ragged breaths, his fingers stalled, the mounting sensation crashing down, the peak unmet.

The sinful touch on your clit vanished, and Zenkichi’s devilish fingers abandoned your cunt entirely. Your newest whimper of complaint was involuntary, a noise mourning the tense feeling that had built so high before being stolen away. Each second that passed without his touch, it ebbed further away from your grasp. It left you almost uncomfortably hot and aching, your pussy throbbing with unsatisfied desire, prominent and demanding.

“So close, but so far,” Zenkichi teased. Your hands flexed above your head, and right then you wished you could give him a dose of his own medicine. “Hm, I wonder if this’ll help?”

You worried your lip at the faux naivety in Zenkichi’s voice. The sound of some bottle lid snapping open drew your attention, and he was quiet for several beats of your pounding heart. His fingered returned to your core, and again you thought he was foregoing his torturous game, moved by your desperate state. It was a convincing act when two of his fingers slipped easily through your lips and inside you, at least, and you nearly swooned in relief. Curling his fingers and searching for a few seconds, he found what he was looking for. He rubbed more firmly, and your breath caught in your throat. But that attention, too, was short, and after too brief a time, he withdrew his fingers.

Confusion joined the indescribable horniness that plagued you. That had been enough to give you more hope, sure, but hardly enough to work you up like before. Your confusion lingered a little longer, until the sensation of heat in your insides intensified, morphing into a feeling so warm and intense it was almost too much to bear.

“Z-Zen, fuck, what,... what did you do?” you asked with a gasp. It wasn’t the first time Zenkichi had touched you like that, but your cunt had certainly never reacted so strongly in the past.

Another amused chuckle broke the air, and you had the fleeting thought among alarm wrought from new sensation that you might have been mad if you didn’t find the sound of his laughter so alluring. “Little something I picked up. Hm, guess you coil say it makes everything a bit more… intense.” he explained, sounding as if he was enjoying every second of your plight.

“If that’s what it’s for then, aah, fuck me already,” you demanded, squirming against the sheets, even without his touch to stir you up. You clamped your thighs together to alleviate some of the maddeningly hot feeling.

“Oh, but I’m not done yet.” There was that coy tone again, as if would be too much of a shame not to carry on with whatever he had planned.

You cursed quietly in answer, more so to distract yourself than in any anger. You buried your face in the sheet, blowing a frustrated breath into them and stifling a needy whine. Zenkichi thwarted your attempt to muffle yourself, though, smoothly rolling you onto your back. The heat and weight of his body settled over you again, this time between your legs, keeping you from squeezing them together. The bed sank around your head on either side, and you could only assume it was his hands flanking your cheeks. You could easily picture his naked frame stretched over top of you. That picture was made more tangible when he relaxed against you, resting flush against your skin.

He pressed several lazy kisses to your neck, his goatee scratching lightly against your skin. Between his hot breath ghosting across your throat, his solid form pressed into you, and the acute throbbing in your core fueled by whatever Zenkichi had applied to you, you were sure you would erupt into flames at any second.

Your body didn’t grant you even that reprieve from the heat, though. It only roared hotter, higher, when Zenkichi rutted against you, his cock firmly sliding against your soaked cunt. You whimpered and squirmed again uselessly, angling your hips toward him, hoping he might slip up and fill you up instead of teasing you by lingering oh-so-close. But he was careful, wise to what you were trying to do, and drew his hips back when you bucked yours toward him. Each of his thrusts, his erection slipping through your wet lips was a delicious agony, the thick head of his cock teasing your clit just enough to fuel your craving for more.

“Zenkichi…” you mewled pitifully, when one roll of his hips strokes you just so, more intensely than the rest.

“You know, you sound so sad I’d almost think you weren’t enjoying yourself,” he teased, his voice a low, playful purr in your ear, accompanied by more rasping of his facial hair against your neck.

You bit down on your lip, smothering another whimper. Part of you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, insist that everything was too slow and you needed more . But another part of you was so lost in the warm, hard parts of him pressing against you all over and the aching need between your thighs that coherent speech was nigh impossible. You settled on another plaintive moan of his name and stray curse, all that your foggy mind would allow you.

Zenkichi seemed to be quite enjoying putting you through such torture, however, and his breath grew hotter and heavier in your ear the more he thrust against your cunt. Large hands cupped your tits, roughly kneading them and catching your nipples between his fingertips to roll and tweak them. His head shifted from lingering at your ear to turning his face into your neck, mouthing amorously, the light scrape of his teeth joining the slick, warm touch of his lips and tongue. Every sound and sensation served only to further ignite your longing and moans. In turn, each sound you made served only to push Zenkichi into more of a frenzy.

When Zenkichi’s breathing reached a fever pitch, and his mouth abandoned your skin in favor of low, bestial groans and grunts, you realized how close he was, with no sign of stopping, despite still denying you the same release, letting you teeter on the edge instead. His cock twitched harder as he drew it back along your wet, welcoming lips again, and his breath shook when he exhaled. And then, rocking forward again, his cock slipped past your clit and further, and he came in thick, hot ropes of white that splattered across your skin, spattering your mound and your belly.

His breathing in your ear became exceptionally labored for a few moments, and for an instant you thought that was it and there had been some premature end to Zenkichi’s proposed fun. The thought was disheartening, and your lips curled in a pout. At least they did until his lips touched yours and gave you something else to be preoccupied with. The matter of your aching, over sensitive cunt remained at hand, but Zenkichi’s kiss, rough but slow and sensual, was enough to make it tolerable. His goatee chafed against your jaw again, but it was hardly noticeable, and you ignored it in favor of inviting him to push his tongue through your lips and twine it with yours.

For what seemed like a long while - you’d lost any hope of reliably keeping track of passing time in your state - you stayed drawn together, enraptured by the kiss, hardly aware of Zenkichi’s cum cooling on your skin. His hands explored new paths while you kissed, straying from your breasts to dance up and down along your sides, over the curves of your hips and thighs, even trailing up to gently ghost over the lines of your throat and back down. Between kissing and the constant touches, Zenkichi had given your ardour little time to fade away, the ache in your core as strong as ever, perhaps even more desperate than before.

He broke away from the kiss, moving down your body until he bent his head to your chest and his mouth took up the positions his hand had held. He teased each nip equally, slowly running his tongue in tightening circles before taking it into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. You arched your back into the warmth of his mouth, feeling hot all over and disregarding the tacky sensation on your belly as your skin brushed his. Tense, needy, and half-mad, you wondered if the torment would ever end. It was a punishment both divine and hellish that made you want to explode or scream or cry. You weren’t really sure which.

Tears won out in the end, but you weren’t sure if they were from frustration or pleasure or something else entirely. All you knew was you felt the hot prick of them welling up beneath the blindfold, and you cried out Zenkichi’s name again, the word a half-sob. The wavering sound of your voice gave him pause, and his eyes swept up to catch sight of the trail of tears leaking out from the makeshift blindfold.

When he spoke, you could make out a concerned beneath the huskiness that had overtaken his voice. “Hey, are you alright? Maybe I got a little carried away,” he wondered aloud, adjusting himself again, until the entirety of his body returned to lie over you. “Let me make it up to you.”

The teasing came to an abrupt end, and you couldn’t but be thankful. While you couldn’t deny it was enjoyable, to an extent, your desire had been kindled into such an out-of-control blaze the lack of satisfaction was driving you crazy. So you welcomed when the tip of Zenkichi’s cock, hard again from the time spent kissing and touching and teasing you some more, brushed your entrance. All the tension and heat erupted from you in a gasp that melted into a pleased sigh when he pushed forward and his hardness filled you in a single swift stroke.

He paused only for a short time, allowing you to adjust to the new stretch and burn, though with how wet and aroused you were from all the buildup and whatever it was he had used on you earlier, you hardly needed the accommodation. “Fuck, fuck, go, move. Zenkichi, please,” you murmured hazily, thrashing your head back against the sheets. Even being filled so fully wasn’t enough anymore to satisfy you.

Zenkichi said nothing, answering you only with an acknowledging hum as he started to move, driving in and out in hard, slow thrusts.

Though slow, the rhythm of his thrusts was enough, each roll of his hips added to by the lingering effect of the mystery lube he had applied earlier in your foreplay. It seemed to affect him, too, if the return of his labored breathing was any hint. Or maybe the change was from how tightly your pussy hugged him each time he sank back into your heat, as if it never wanted to let him go again. Your breathing mimicked his, escalating quicker than expected, until it was a match, both of you nearly panting.

“You feel so good,” Zenkichi rumbled in your ear, and your cunt throbbed and clenched more desperately, as if answering him, and you moaned. “How’s it feel? Worth it?” he asked, muffling a groan into your cheek.

“Yes, fuck, it’s better than good,” you squeezed out between panting breaths and cries.

The fervor and tension from before mounted inside you again in unison, molten and overflowing. You snapped your hips upward to meet each new thrust, steadily growing in pace, until the sound of your skin slapping against his joined the erotic chorus of groans and gasps and cries. You wanted more, needed more, anything to reach the pinnacle hanging just beyond your grasp.

“Zenkichi, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you warned him bawdily, driving your hips even more frantically against his, pulling reflexively against your restraints and hardly noticing the sting on your wrists.

“Me, too. Fuck,” he growled, and the cant of his hip grew harder, as if spurred on as much by your approaching orgasm as by his.

“Fuck, fuck, Zenkichi,” you chanted his name, the only thing left on your mind beyond your desire for release.

You could feel it, the molten coil drawn to its breaking point, so close, nearly there… until it burst, leaving awash with waves if bliss. Your mouth fell open in a dramatic ‘oh’, only to be covered by Zenkichi’s again, swallowing each obscene, frenzied sound. His tongue into your mouth, slickly overtaking your own tongue and smothering each erotic new noise. His hips stiffed against you again, signalling he had almost reached his peak, too, and your mouth deafened his own moans.

When Zenkichi finished for the second time, it was far more satisfying than the first. Instead of the stickiness of his cum spattering your skin, it filed you, hot and wet as he pumped you with more with each hard thrust. All the while, still in the throes of your orgasm, your cunt milked him greedily, sapping him for every last drop of cum until he had nothing left to give.

Finally sated, feeling warm and full, sweaty and sticky and tired, you fell still and quiet, save for your heaving chest. The last ripples of your climax ebbed away, the fluttering of your walls slowly dying down, too. Zenkichi let himself collapse over you, breathing just as heavily, buried inside you still. His cock twitched unbidden, and you gasped, the movement eliciting a last fleeting squeeze of your pussy, making him mirror your reaction. You lay like that for some time, recovering and enjoying the feel of his body pressed to you, even if having him there made everything so much more sweaty and hot. But it was well worth the inconvenience.

Eventually, once his breathing had leveled out, Zenkichi withdrew from you, rolling to the side and off you. You didn’t make a move to follow him, vaguely aware of the sensation of some of his cum seeping over your thighs. After a moment, he sat up, retrieving the key to the handcuffs and freeing you from them. When he pulled the cuffs from your wrists and took your blindfold away, you saw his face was flushed, his brows slick with sweat, and looking rather content. You wondered if you looked just as well fucked.

You dismissed the thought when he pulled you against him, gingerly rubbing at the marks the cuffs had left behind on your wrists to soothe them. He placed a few light kisses on your cheeks, over the lightly stained tear trails. He said something that you didn’t quite catch, and you sighed contentedly, melting into his embrace, happy to let him fuss over you. You would have to remember to thank him later for the torturous ‘spice’ he had invited into your sex life. But for now, some rest was in order for the both of you.

[thegreatwhiteferret]

Waiting For Tonight

Summary: Eddie always thought that he would wait until he was married to have sex, but after a year and a half of dating Richie with all of his teasing and innuendos, Eddie snaps. He can’t wait any longer and he challenges Richie to do his absolute worst on him and wreck his virgin body.

Pairing: Reddie

Rating: EXPLICIT

A/N: This was an unbelievably amazing PowerBottom!Eddie request from @theriodiaries , I am so sorry that this took me so long to finish, I wanted to make it the best that I could for you and definitely overthought some thing, but I really hope that you like it! (Especially since I have two more requests to write for you now!!! Super excited!) ❤️❤️❤️  Also, this is a shameless self promo but... @reddieforlove ...for your consideration for the next Reddie Fanfic Friday.

NSFW Under the Cut...

Eddie wasn’t sure what it was. It wasn’t out of some moral or religious obligation. It wasn’t his mother, and her horrific stories about all of the diseases that could be spread. It wasn’t because he was disgusted by the thought of it. Scared? Maybe a little, but not enough to keep him from doing it. It was none of that, he wasn’t sure what it was, but nonetheless he had made himself a promise a long time ago that he would wait until he was married to have sex.

The problem with this of course, was that Eddie had made this decision when he was seven years old. When he didn’t understand what it meant. When he hadn’t been able to come to terms with the fact that he found little girls icky, and didn’t think that his feelings would ever change about that. He had made the decision before he realized that he was hopelessly in love with Richie Tozier.

Being in love with Richie presented its own set of unique...challenges, but Eddie wouldn’t take him any other way. He loved him more than he ever imagined was possible.

One of Richie’s many strengths was how understanding he was. Eddie had told Richie way before they had even started dating, way back the summer they turned thirteen, that he wanted to wait to have sex. Richie had balked at first, shocked that anyone in the world wouldn’t be itching to tickle their pickle, but stopped immediately when he saw how serious Eddie was. If this was something that Eddie was adamant about, he would never pressure him.

That didn’t mean that he was going to stop with all of the innuendos and obnoxious jokes, that’s just who Richie was as a human being, but he did curb them a bit when it was just the two of them.

------

They started dating at the end of their sophomore year of high school. It was long overdue. Eddie had known deep down that he was in love with Richie for at least four years. It took him a while to process it, and even longer to actually admit to himself, and then to his friends, that he was gay. Richie had known that he was bisexual since he had snuck into the backroom of the video rental store when he was a kid and saw the glory that was Deep Throat. That film was his bisexual awakening, which he would tell anyone who would listen, and then they would yell at him for being too young and disgusting. He had also known even before that movie, that he loved Eddie more than anything and would stop at nothing to protect him. He was his Eddie Spaghetti, and anyone who even came close to hurting him was going to die.

Eddie had been the one to make the first move. Richie had been casually seeing this kid from a few towns over that was in a band. Richie had fallen hard for the guy, he wore all black and smudged eyeliner around his eyes, he had metal studs up and down his ears and had a tongue piercing. Eddie was repulsed. Mainly because he was the one that Richie would run to with all of the details from his dates. Would sneak into his window at night, with fresh hickeys sucked into his neck and tell Eddie about how amazing, Freddie was.

It lasted three months and then things changed. Freddie decided that Richie was too simple for him, he had called him one dimensional. He didn’t like the neon colors and crazy prints. Couldn’t stand how Richie ran his mouth, or the fact that he seemed to talk about one of his friends more than any of the others. He told Richie that he wasn’t experienced enough for him, and it broke Richie’s heart. They had had sex for the first time just a few days earlier, and Richie couldn’t help but feel the rejection ten times over because of it.

Richie tried to pass off his pain with humour, like he always did, but Eddie saw it. Saw the pain in his eyes. Richie stopped being so bright. Stopped being so loud, he withdrew inside his head, and it broke Eddie’s heart too. Richie stopped climbing through his window at night to have their talks as well, and that’s where Eddie drew the line.

One night, Eddie snuck out of his own window and rode his bike the few blocks over to Richie’s house and climbed the old tree outside of his bedroom window. Richie bolted from his bed when he heard a knock on the window, sliding his glasses onto his face before grabbing the baseball bat that he kept next to his bed and preparing to swing.

“Whoever the fuck you are I will fucking kill you!” He aimed towards the window as a small figure slid the glass open and all but fell inside. Richie raised the bat preparing to slam it down onto the person’s head, when he heard familiar wheezing. “...Eds? Eddie? What the fuck? You almost gave me a heart attack! I could have fucking killed you! Jesus Christ, you’re choking. Where is your inhaler?” RIchie slid on his knees so that he was next to Eddie, searching for his fanny pack and his inhaler. Eddie looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Hi.” He choked out, and Richie shook his head in belief at his friend, crashing through his window in the middle of the night, just to say that. He helped Eddie to stand and moved him over to sit on his bed.

“Well shit, hi, Eds.” Richie said, joining him on the bed. He tried to straighten out his sheets a bit so it didn’t look like a complete mess, he knew that he didn’t have to impress Eddie, he had seen his room like this a million times, but he still felt the urge. Eddie didn’t look like he was going to start talking anytime soon, so Richie did what he did best and filled the silent void. “So, not that it’s not a nice surprise and all, but what are you doing here, Eddie?”

“I uh...I had to come and tell you something.” Eddie forced out, and Richie looked at him confused, urging him to continue. “I uhm...wow. In my head this went better.” He looked pensive, like he was fighting a battle within himself, and it was unnerving for Richie.

“Look, Spaghetti Man. Why don’t we just...you can either sleep here or I can walk you home. We can talk about whatever you wanted to in the morning…” Richie was cut off by Eddie pressing his lips to his. It was quick, before Richie could even registered what had happened, Eddie was pulling away. “Wait, no come back.” Richie murmured and pulled him in for another kiss. This one more drawn out, but he was still careful to not spook Eddie too much. They pulled away breathless after a few moments, looking wide eyed at each other.

“Richie, will you be my boyfriend?” Eddie asked, and Richie could have sworn that it was the most adorable thing that he had heard in his entire life. His heart swelled in his chest and he just nodded. Eddie looked relieved.

“Took you long enough.” Richie sassed and Eddie just rolled his eyes and pulled him in for another kiss.

------

Eddie held true to his pledge of abstinence, even after Richie became his official boyfriend. Always careful to stop things before they went too far. They had been dating for a little over a year and a half now, and they had experimented with some heavy petting and a few handjobs, but nothing more. Richie respected Eddie’s boundaries.

Richie being Richie however continued to make crass jokes all of the time. The other Losers didn’t know about Eddie’s vow for purity, they never pried, but Richie supplied plenty of innuendos anyway, maintaining his position in the group as the Trashmouth.

“Ow, shit this soup is hot.” “Yeah, you know what else is hot? My boyfriend’s ass.” “Beep beep, Richie!”

“What does the sign on an out-of-business brothel say?” “J-jesus Christ, Richie. I’m t-trying to do my h-homework.” “BEAT IT, WE’RE CLOSED! Hahahaha.” “Get o-out of my h-house. Beep f-fucking beep.”

“What’s the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?” “I will kill you.” “One’s a Goodyear, the other’s a great year. Stanley, let me tell you man, I’m having a great year.” “Let go of me, Bill! I just want to strangle him a little!”

“I’ll have a Dr. Pepper please.” “Oh, that reminds me of a joke. Hey, Mike?” “No.” “Why does Dr. Pepper come in a bottle?” “Richard, why can’t you just let me enjoy my soda in peace, I don’t…” “Because his wife died.” “I...I’m sorry guys, I have to go, I can’t…” “Are you fucking happy? You broke, Mike!”

“Bevvvvvvvvvvy Baby, I have a hot lesbian joke for you.” “You also apparently have a death wish.” “What do you call a lesbian dinosaur?” “Don’t…” “A lick-a-lot-of-puss!” “Eddie, I hope you don’t need your boyfriend’s dick for anything, I’m about to castrate him and shove it down his fucking throat.”

Eddie was a semi-patient person, he had taken to boxing as a way to control his anger, but Richie’s constant teasing and joking had brought him to a new level. He wanted nothing more than to shut his boyfriend up. Truth be told, he was tired of waiting. Tired of listening to Stan describe how Bill had made him fall apart on his tongue and fingers. Tired of how sweet and soft Ben was in his descriptions about Beverly. Mike kept pretty tight lipped about his trysts, but Eddie had seen many a girl swoon over just the sight of him walking down the street.

Eddie was tired of waiting. Tired of his boyfriend’s jokes about how tired he was of dating his left hand. He wanted some action, and he was going to get it.

------

It was the night of the Homecoming football game, their senior year. Eddie had decided that this was the perfect opportunity. They would all be cheering Mike on and then heading back to the farm for a bit of a party, win or lose, there would be an excuse to consume copious amounts of alcohol.

Mike’s farm also had the benefit of lots of places where people could sneak away. Eddie’s favorite had always been the loft in the old supply barn. He would always find himself sitting in the loft, legs hung over the side of the hatch, watching the sun come up. Richie joined him most of the time, cigarette poking out from his lips. They’d just talk and be themselves. Eddie couldn’t think of a more perfect place for them to be together for the first time.

“Hey Mike, would it be okay if I decorate the loft in the old barn a bit for the night of Homecoming?” Eddie asked as he and Mike were moving through the lunch line a week or so before.

“Why do you want to decorate it? The party is going to be in the big house, my grandparents are going to stay in the cottage that night so that we can have free reign.” Mike responded, smiling at the lunch lady to get an extra slice of pizza, damn that charming bastard.

“I uhh, well I uhh…” Eddie stuttered out, and Mike froze turning to look at Eddie with the most deadpan face Eddie had ever seen him make. He blushed under the gaze. Mike rolled his eyes.

“You want to use my barn to create a sex dungeon?” Mike deadpanned, and Eddie choked on his own spit, Mike patted his back a few times, helping Eddie regulate his breathing.

“Can you not use the words ‘sex dungeon’ ever again???” Eddie whisper yelled, trying to not draw any additional attention to them. “I just need a safe space where I can feel comfortable…” Mike stopped walking and turned to Eddie again, realization dawning on his face.

“Eddie, are you a virgin? Are you planning your first time with Richie?” Mike asked carefully, not wanting to embarrass the other boy. Eddie frowned slightly and nodded. “Well, okay. Are you sure you want the loft? We have the guest bedroom, it might be more comfortable?”

“No. The loft is perfect, it’s kind of our...place.” Eddie explained, they had reached their table now. The others would be arriving soon. “Look, Mike. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell the others, or say anything to Richie. It’s kind of a surprise for him.”

“Sure thing, Eddie. My lips are sealed, and the barn is all yours.” Mike said, taking a bite of his pizza and nodding to Bill and Stan who had just walked into the cafeteria. Eddie nodded in thanks, and dropped the subject.

Mike had helped Eddie drag a spare mattress up to the loft, and then kept his mouth shut without judgement when Eddie sprayed the entire thing with disinfectant. Eddie had strung up so old christmas lights too, giving the space a nice romantic glow. He put new silky sheets on the mattress and even laid out some condoms and lube, which Mike had graciously provided for him. Everything was set up and perfect. Now Eddie just had to make it through the rest of the game and convince Richie to leave the afterparty to go to the barn with him.

The game was almost over, there was only five minutes left in the fourth quarter and most of the crowd were on their feet. Eddie and Stan sat huddled together under a blanket while the other Losers stood around them.

“Go team! Throw the ball, yay sports!” Richie called out from where he was standing next to Eddie, a goofy grin on his face. He turned around and plucked Bev’s cigarette out of her hand to take a drag. Bev slapped him across the head, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

“What’s happening, Bill?” She asked with a bored tone in her voice. It made sense to ask him. Bill was the only one besides Mike that could follow almost any sport. Eddie and Ben ran track, and Bill and Stan played baseball, but none of them were really all that focused on all sports. Bill sighed.

“It’s t-third down and t-twenty, we are o-only up by one t-touchdown, if they m-manage to keep p-possession of the b-ball and score, t-then we are t-tied...and we d-don’t want that.” Bill explained, squeezing Stan’s hand that was peeking out of the blanket for him to hold.

The ball snapped, and the opposing quarterback threw the ball, but as it soared through the air Mike sprinted, faster than any of them had ever seen before, he jumped, grabbing the ball out of the air and took off running in the opposite direction. He was so fast and everyone was so stunned that he had intercepted the pass, that it was like time had stood still. Eddie and Stan jumped up, joining everyone else in the stands who were jumping around and screaming. Mike ran straight into the endzone as the clock ticked down, scoring the winning touchdown.

The crowd went ecstatic. Everyone was screaming and hugging. Richie lifted Eddie up and spun him around. They sure as hell didn’t give a shit about sports, but their boy just won the game, and that they did give a shit about.

------

Mike’s house was packed with people, everyone talking and drinking. It seemed like most of the school was there. A game of beer pong was set up in the kitchen. Bill as the reigning champion of beer pong, had decided to challenge Richie to a duel. Eddie and Stan were their partners, but they were really just there to look pretty. At least that’s what Bev had said while she watched them and sipped on her own beer.

“We need to get you too some pom poms.” Bev said, and Ben nudged her in warning. “What, they are definitely the pretty little trophy wives. Ben, don’t even try to fight me on this.”

“Benjamin, control your lady.” Richie teased, as he sunk another ball in one of Bill’s cups. “Drink up Denbrough, don’t make Stan do it for you. Be a man!” He finished dramatically, and Eddie looked over at Stan with wide eyes.

“First the fuck, Richard. My man is plenty of man. Secondly, Beverly...I am a damn fine trophy wife, don’t be jealous.” Stan said waving his hands around and sticking his tongue out at Bev. He had enjoyed a few too many shots of Malibu, and was feeling himself.

“O-okay, Babe. Point m-made. Let’s go g-get some water and f-food.” Bill said, trying to diffuse the situation a little bit, Stan snapped his head towards Bill, and Eddie had to try and hold back his laughter. Richie did not have the same courtesy.

“William Denbrough. Did you just imply that I have had too much to drink? That you know my body and limitations more than I do?” Bill stayed very quiet while Stan was talking at him. No sudden movements or words. “Mhmmm. That’s what I thought. I will decide when I have had enough…” He spun around towards Bev, but he froze and grabbed onto Bill as his stomach lurched and the room began spinning. “Okay, I’ve had enough.” Bill nodded towards the others and helped Stan make his way to the bathroom.

“Hey.” Eddie said, pulling his boyfriend’s attention to him. “Come take a walk with me?” He asked, fluttering his eyelashes a little and biting his lip. Richie gulped at the sight, alcohol and general lust for Eddie.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He said and allowed Eddie to pull him through the crowd and out the back door. They started walking down the familiar path, but Richie figured he needed to break the silence anyway. “So, where exactly are you dragging me off to, Spaghetti Man?”

“You know where.” Eddie said with a playful roll of his eyes. They reached the barn a few minutes later, and Eddie pulled open the barn door. Richie threw himself on top of the stack of bales of hay while Eddie closed it behind him. He giggled when he saw Richie struggling to sprawl out on the rough material. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea.” He headed over to the small set of stairs that led to the loft and he climbed up them easily.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on…” Richie froze at the top of the stairs when he looked at what was in front of him. “Eddie....what is all of this?” He looked from all of the twinkling lights hanging from beams, to the hatch that allowed the moonlight to shine in, and finally to the bed. Covered with tons of blankets and soft looking sheets.

“Richie, I want you to make love to me.” Eddie said, taking his hand and pulling him towards the bed. Richie shook his head, and then stopped moving.

“Eddie. No. You want to wait until you’re married. You’ve been saying that since we were kids. I don’t want...I don’t want you to just change your mind because you think that I need sex to be fulfilled. I love you, just the way you are, we don’t have to…”

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” Eddie asked, face dropping as he looked at Richie. “Is that what this is? You don’t find me attractive and you don’t want to sleep with me?” Eddie said, tears filling his eyes. Richie’s heart dropped.

“No. Eddie, no, listen to me. That’s not it. You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I just don’t want…” Richie promised, trying to explain his feelings, but failing miserably. “I don’t want you to regret it.” Something changed in Eddie, like a switch was being flipped.

“There you fucking go again, thinking you know everything.” Eddie shook his head, he was pissed off now, no one got to decide for him. “You like challenges, huh, Rich? I know you do. You can’t resist them. I challenge you to do your very worst, Tozier. To wreck my virgin body. Think you can handle that, or should I go back to the party and find someone else to do it for me?” Richie’s jaw dropped open in shock, he had never heard Eddie talk like that before.

“Challenge accepted.” Richie murmered, moving to press a bruising kiss to Eddie’s lips, pulling him with him towards the bed. He pulled his own jacket off and toed out of his shoes, then let himself fall back on the bed, sliping his shirt and jeans off before leaning up on his elbows to watch Eddie. “Going to do a strip tease for me, Eds?” He asked half joking, but there was a sparkle in Eddie’s eye.

Eddie licked his lips as he looked down at Richie. He let his jacket slipp off of his shoulders and drop to the ground. His scarf was next, he shimmied with it a little, dropping down and pulling back up so that his jean clad ass was on display for Richie. He dropped the scarf to the ground and pulled his sweater over his head, tossing it in Richie’s direction. He took his time unbuttoning his shirt, not wanting to destroy it even in the heat of the moment. Richie watched him eagerly as more and more of his toned little body came into view. He turned around again, as he slid his jeans down over his hips and ass, kicking them off and leaving him only in his tiny grey briefs. He wiggled his hips for Richie putting on more of a show for him. He turned around and stepped on the mattress moving over Richie and then dropping down until he was straddling him.

“Holy fuck. That was the hottest thing ever, Baby Boy.” He let out as he ran his hand up and down Eddie’s torso. Eddie ground his ass down on Richie’s dick, moaning when he felt how hard he was already.

“Mmmmmm no. The hottest thing you will ever see is me riding this pretty cock of yours, but there’s some work you need to do first, don’t you think?” Eddie asked sweetly, and Richie almost came right then and there. He nodded and let Eddie move off of him a little to lean over the side of the mattress. He came back with a condom and a bottle of lube. “I think you’re going to need these, but first, there’s something I want to try for you.” Eddie smirked at him and moved down the mattress, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down, letting his erection spring free.

Eddie smirked at Richie one more time before taking his leaking cock in his hand and leaning down to tease the head with his tongue. Richie’s hips thrust up without him even thinking. Eddie used his other arm to push down across Richie’s hips and keep him still. He took just the head of his ock back in his mouth, a little tentatively, and began sucking. Richie threw his head back from the feeling. Eddie decided to push himself a little bit further, he licked a strip up Richie’s entire length first, and then slid his mouth around his dick. He could only take a few inches in at first, but he worked his way down little by little. Richie was moaning and writhing on the bed beneath him, obviously unphased by Eddie’s inexperience.

“God, Baby Boy. That mouth. Ahhhh, Eds, I’m gonna cum.” Richie was moaning more and more, getting close to finding his release. Eddie pulled off, stroking Richie from root to tip a few times, until Richie’s body tightened up and he blew his load all over Eddie’s hand and his own chest. Eddie stroked him through the aftershocks, then looked down at his hand that was covered in Richie’s cum. He thought about it for a minute before looking Richie dead in the eye and lifting his hand to his mouth, and starting to lick it off. “Oh my fucking God, Eddie that’s fucking filthy…” Richie groaned out as he watched his boy.

“Mmmmmmmm. So good.” Eddie moaned, as he leaned down to lick a stripe up Richie’s chest, collecting the rest of his cum on his tongue. He caught Richie’s mouth in a kiss, letting him taste himself. Eddie pulled back, and kept his eyes trained on Richie. “Richie, are you going to open me up so I can take that pretty cock of yours, or do I need to do everything myself?”

“I’ve got you, Baby.” Richie said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Eddie crawled down the bed a little bit, staying on his hands and knees and popping his ass out for Richie. “Oh, Baby Boy. Those briefs are doing nothing to hide that beautiful ass of yours.” Richie moved behind him, palming one of his cheeks in his hand. Eddie moaned at the feeling, and Richie gave him a little pat, before he pulled the fabric down over his ass, leaving them bunched up on his thighs. He used his thumbs to spread his cheeks apart. “My God, Baby Boy. You’re killing me. Soft and hairless. So pretty.” Eddie mewled at the compliment.

“Come on, Richie. I need more. Give me what I need.” Eddie begged, and Richie leaned in licking all the way from Eddie’s balls up his crack. “Oh fuck!” Eddie had never felt anything like it before. He’d never even played with his own hole, Richie’s tongue was the first stimulation he had ever had down there, and it was enough to make his cock drip precum into his briefs. Richie repeated the action, letting his tongue poke lazily at the ring of muscles. He suckled around his hole, finally breaching the muscles properly with his tongue. Fucking gently into the heat. Eddie moaned at the intrusion, it felt weird, not bad but weird. Richie kept playing with him, gently licking his hole open. He moved his hand around on the bed, trying to find the bottle of lube, he snatched it up quickly when he felt the hard plastic. He gave Eddie’s fluttering hole a light kiss before pulling back completely. “Are you going to fuck those long fingers in me? Come on, Richie. Do it.” Eddie instructed. Richie was taken aback by how vocal Eddie was.

Richie popped the cap of the bottle off and let some of the slick liquid drip down his fingers. He closed the bottle before dropping it back on the bed. Her rubbed the tips of his three lubed up fingers around Eddie’s hole, teasing circles around the muscle until Eddie was groaning and whining from being forced to wait. Richie took pity on him and began to push his first finger in slowly. Eddie choked out a sob at the feeling.

“It’s okay, Eddie. You’re doing so good for me. Taking my finger, just relax baby, so good.” Richie praised as he pushed his finger in the rest of the way. He could feel Eddie relaxing and took the opportunity to slowly begin thrusting his finger in and out, letting Eddie get used to the feeling. It was strange, feeling this full, but Eddie knew that there was so much more to come. Richie waited until Eddie was moving his hips back to meet his thrusts before he added a second finger, careful to keep them still so the stretch was bearable. When Eddie signaled that he was ready to continue Richie began twisting his fingers and scissoring them open, on one of his thrusts he hit something inside Eddie that ripped a scream out of his throat.

“Ugh. Fuck, Daddy, right there.” Eddie moaned, and Richie froze at what Eddie had just called him. It was unbelievably sexy, and Richie was pretty sure that he should be ashamed to admit that. Eddie seemed to realize his slip because Richie was no longer moving. “Your two fingers are in my ass and that’s what trips you up? Keep fucking moving, Daddy. Open my ass for your cock.” Richie choked on his own spit, but began moving again, thrusting in to hit that spot again, before adding another finger.

He made sure that Eddie was good and stretched, not wanting to hurt him when he thrusted in. He had Eddie flip over on his back and pulled his briefs the rest of the way off of his legs. Eddie pulled his legs to his chest, giving Richie space to move between them. Richie tore open the foil packet and slid the sheath down his shaft, he added more lube, making sure everything was nice and slick before moving into position over Eddie. He looked down at the love of his life, trying to make sure that this is what he wanted.

“We can stop right here, Eddie. We can wait. I love you so much, I’d wait forever.” Richie said looking into his eyes. Eddie looked up at him, with a smile on his face, and it touched Richie’s heart.

“I love you too. Now stick your fucking dick in me now. Did I stutter?” Eddie sassed, looking at Richie with determination in his eyes. Richie nodded, knowing that Eddie knew his body better than anyone else. He pressed the tip of his cock against Eddie’s hole, and then slowly pushed in. Eddie’s mouth flew open and he screwed his eyes shut at the feeling, so new. Richie went slow, inch by inch until his hips were resting against Eddie’s ass. Eddie gasped out a breath. “Holy fuck.”

“Are you okay? Is it too much?” Richie asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Eddie just nodded that he was okay, taking a few deep breaths. He relaxed. “Do you want me to move?” Richie asked and Eddie nodded again. Richie started thrusting in, slowly and gently, barely moving at first. Eddie quickly started to get inpatient, he knew that Richie was holding back.

“Fuck me like you mean it.” He let out, wrapping his legs around Richie’s waist to pull him in tighter. Richie sped up a little bit, pumping in and out in a rhythm, Eddie rocked his hips to meet his thrusts, legs still wrapped around his waist. The discomfort had turned to pleasure and now he wanted more. “Richie! Harder! Fuck me harder, Daddy. Please!” He cried out and Richie tried to move faster to satiate his boy, but Eddie was moaning like a porn star and Richie was a little lost. Eddie raked his nails down Richie’s back, trying to encourage him to go faster, and Richie cried out from the mixture of pain and pleasure. He wasn’t the most experienced, and his only other partner had definitely not been as enthusiastic and receptive as Eddie.

Eddie was done waiting, he rolled them over so that Richie was on his back. Eddie straddled him again and grasped his cock, he held it in place and let himself sink down on it, feeling Richie way deeper than he had before. He started to pound himself down on it hard and fast over and over, rocking his hips until Richie’s cock was brushing against his prostate with every thrust. Eddie braced himself with his hands on Richie’s chest. He kept fucking himself down, his own cock slapping up against his belly from his movements. Richie lay beneath him, trying to thrust up in time with Eddie’s thrusts, watching his boyfriend get himself off by using his cock like a toy.

Richie could feel his stomach getting tight, his body racing towards his climax. Eddie was doing so well for him, his tight hole milking his cock perfectly. Eddie slammed down one more and Richie was cumming in the condom, screaming Eddie’s name as his body started to tingle all over before going numb. Eddie kept bouncing, hitting his prostate, and then wrapped his hand around his own cock, flicking his wrist just how he liked it, and cumming in thick streaks across Richie’s chest. He let himself catch his breath then carefully moved off of Richie before falling onto the mattress next to him. He could already feel how tender his ass was, but it was worth it.

He grabbed a pack of baby wipes that he had left off to the side and wiped himself and Richie down a little bit. He wanted a hot shower, but he wanted to curl up with his love even more. Richie opened his arms and let Eddie snuggle into them, pulling the sheets and blankets up over them. It was quiet for a moment before a thought popped into Richie’s head that he had to voice.

“You were right. Watching you ride my cock, is the hottest thing that I’ve ever seen.” Richie admitted as they lay wrapped up in each other. Eddie giggled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. They fell asleep intertwined, the sounds of the party in the background and the moon shining through the hatch.

[mrvdocks]

Preacher II

Fandom: Preacher

Pairing: Cassidy/Reader

Word Count: 1807

Friday - Day 1

She finds it a bit off when she notices Jesse doesn’t come to the diner, most of the time he didn't, which either meant he was still recovering from a hangover or just did work around the church. But judging from the night before, he'd normally try to make conversation with everyone in case he was serious about leaving.  

"You don't think he actually meant it, do you?" Emily asks, shuffling around to attend others besides her.  

"Jesse says a lot of things." She says quickly, but even as fast and automatic as she says it, there's a gut feeling that doesn’t sit right with her. She gives Emily an empty look and drops her eyes to her steaming mug of coffee. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter anymore, and she decides that something's off.  

"I've got to go." She scampers off, not hasting to run as far as she can make it to the church.  

She nearly broke the front door of the church, barely able to contain the surprise and shock she felt as she stared at the front. The first row of pews were out of line, almost as if they had been moved violently by a tornado. Jesse was amongst them, clearly passed out.  

She ran forward, and automatically her hands found themselves checking for a pulse, any sign he could be alive. When he proved to be breathing, she let out a sigh of relief.  

There were faint footsteps that she could make out, and they were coming closer towards her and Jesse. Without hesitation, she withdrew her gun, ready to aim at whoever might've done this to Jesse.  

The intruder wore something that covered him, a heavy and stiff poncho she recognized from the donation box. Once the intruder caught sight of her and her weapon, he dropped the wet towel he had been holding in surprise.  

"Who are you?" She demanded.

"Whoa! Hey!" He stepped back, as she stood now, eyes trained on him.

"I found him like this a few minutes ago, I just went to go get somethin' to wake him up."  

Her eyes softened as she recognized the intruder, the giggling Irishman.  

"You're that guy from the bar." She lowered her weapon just enough to ward him off.

He nodded compliantly.

"Cassidy." He introduced.

"What're you doing here?" She asked wearily.

"I wanted to sort of – it's complicated." He had gestured to Jesse at first, then waved his hand.

"Well, you're not the first to try and crash here overnight." She wasn't sure of his intentions, but nonetheless relaxed, putting her gun back and sighed.  

"You're going to have to help me with him." She said, already putting her arms under Jesse to try to lift him up. Cassidy helped her, taking Jesse by his left side while she carried him from the right. Jesse slumped forward between them, his head hung low and feet dragging against the hardwood until they reached his bedroom.  

Once Jesse was in bed, and deemed to be at least alive, they both headed down to the kitchen. There was some sort of tension between them. She was caught off guard by him. Cassidy on the other hand, couldn't stop staring at her. She shook off her jacket, and sat down on the couch, laying down to shut her eyes.  

"He your boyfriend or somethin'?" Cassidy suddenly perked.

Her eyes opened slightly, and she sat up to face Cassidy. "No."

He made a hum, almost as if he didn't believe her.  

"He's a close friend, and I worry about him." She answered simply. That's all there was to it.  

"You know, you seem very relaxed in front of a stranger you only just met." He concluded.

"I'm relaxed because at least I'm armed in case you try anything."  

Cassidy fell silent, agreeing with this.  

She sighed deeply, and stood, walking over to the coffee machine, reminiscing about her steaming mug she'd left at the diner. "You want some?" She offered Cassidy, gesturing towards the machine.  

"Not much of a coffee person."  

She shrugged him off, pouring herself a cup.  

She pulled herself up a seat, facing him. "Well, it's just you and me." She announced.  

"So what's with you? Back at the bar." She probed curiously.

"Just got into some trouble, no need to worry, I'll be gone by tonight."  

"You waiting for someone?"  

"Something like that."  

She hummed in response, rubbing at her tired eyes. Suddenly she leaned forward and spoke softly but sternly. "Listen, can I trust you to take care of him while I'm gone?"

He hesitates for a beat and then carefully nods.  

"If you need someplace to stay for the night, there's an old bed in the attic." She said conversationally.  

He nodded again.

They sat in silence for a minute.  

-

Saturday Day 2

She warms up to Cassidy on the second day, only when he had offered to fix the air conditioner once he noticed her fanning herself with a lid.  

"You can fix an air conditioner?" She paused her fanning, eyes wild.

"I can try." He simply said.

"So you're a bar hopper and a handyman? I’m surprised."

"Yeah well there's lots of things you don't know about me."

"I guess so. But I do know one thing."  

His brow rose.

"You're a drinker. You drink single malt whiskey because you're afraid beer would give you a frat boy vibe. You've never been inside a fraternity house. Unless it was to get into some girl's pants. You probably weren't even a boy scout. There is no club you would join because it would choke the air from your lungs. You'd suffocate. Shall I go on?"

Cassidy stayed silent in amazement. Here was this girl, who he hadn't even known for more than 2 days, who took a jab at him all the while keeping him entranced.

He made a hand movement, gesturing her to continue.

She stood up, only partially so she could lean in front of him, staring him down.  

"You think I'm pretty. But at the same time you've got that glint in your eye that shows something else. You're hiding something. I wouldn't hold it against you, though. Everybody's got something to hide here."

Cassidy's eyes followed her every move, as she smoothly made her way closer and closer to his face.

"What about you? You got something to hide?"

She cocked her head down, shoulders shaking from keeping her laugh in. She turned her head back up to respond. "Maybe I do."  

Cassidy would've had to be a damn idiot to ignore how close she was to him. He gulped. Just as she retracted and pulled herself away from him, he almost made the desperate decision to take ahold of her arm to stop her. He held himself still instead, choosing to press half moons against his palms.  

She discarded the fan, and walked out of the room, leaving him speechless.

Sunday Day 3

She could feel his stare burning into her. Tulip hadn't, she had been more or less captivated by Jesse. But he had been drowned out as her total focus went onto Cassidy. She doesn't notice her eyes are wrenched tightly until she begins to see stars. Once they open, the room suddenly seems to shine brighter and she can't shake the feeling in the pit of her stomach. She manages not to jump when she feels Cassidy's hand touch her shoulder sending a jolt of energy down her back.  

She's on her feet faster than she can blink up, following everyone out to the front of the church. She wonders if he could see the pink on her face – probably not.

-

Emily stutters to conversate with Miles and clumsily tries to work the cappuccino machine, hitting it with her palms when she gets frustrated. She cuts in, pulling Emily away from the machine, "I got it, I got it."  

Emily huffs, and walks away without a word. Miles following not too far behind. Once she unplugs the machine, she carries it over to the sink and is about to wash it until Cassidy's voice interrupts.

"Nice bloke."  

"Mm." Her brow lifts.  

"So,' he begins, scratching at the back of his head.  

She turns to face him, "Spill."

"I need an advance."

"Mm see, it's not up to me. And the air conditioner's still broken."

"I'm waiting on a part for that." He counters.

She shrugs.

"Look, listen." He sighs. " I...I'm in the middle of South West Nowhere here. I have no money. I have no transport. I'm running dangerously low on drugs. And I'll do something desperate I swear to god."

She glares at him before she turns to walk away, to which Cassidy lightly holds onto her arm in response. "I'm jokin' about. Don't be like that."  

She sighs in defeat once she realizes Cassidy's just not going to give up today.  

"I'll ask Jesse, just please stay here and don't drink anything else. Like the communion wine." She gives him a knowing look, and he abides by her. She's not even one foot out the kitchen until Cassidy exclaims suddenly. Her attention goes to Eugene.  

"Eugene!" Sheriff Root calls out, and everyone's voices go low as they keep their eyes on the scene in front of them. She restrains herself from having to curse Cassidy out in front of their town.  

"What the bloody hell happened there?"

"Shotgun. Tried to kill himself." She whispers, moving Cassidy away from the center of the room.

"He's walking the earth with a face like an arsehole. Should've tried harder." He pauses. "Was that an un-Christian thing to say, was it?"

"Yes. Very much. Listen, I know you need money and all, but can I just trust you to not cause trouble around here?"  

Cassidy's head drops, contemplating. "Yeah, no trouble." He agrees

She nods. "Good. I like having you around."

Cassidy grins like a madman once she's out of sight.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

Untold Tales of the Proletariat, No. 4 - Renaissance Country Club, Dramatis Personae, Part 1

Call me Ishmael, for I now embark on a stormy sea of words: a series of Untold Tales about the Renaissance Country Club, may its memory be a blessing and where all my changes were. See, Neil Young, Helpless, 1970. This post is about the club itself and the scoundrels, ne’er-do-wells, and drug fiends who called it home. 

Frank the Owner

Frank was the owner. Not sure if he had partners or owned the whole thing himself, but who cares? We didn’t see much of him. His office was in the front and we were in the back. Occasionally he’d come in the back looking for Bimbo, and tell me to pick up a piece of trash on the floor. Managing by walking around and talking to people, as it later came to be known. He also PERSONALLY handed out the Christmas bonuses. 

Frank owned a Cord, which was a Fancy Ass Car that Gram Parsons wrote a song about. See, The New Soft Shoe, 1973. Parked in a garage right outside the kitchen. We’d often see him take it out for a spin. Say what you will about Frank, he has some serious class. And enough cash to burn a wet mule. 

1936 Cord 810 Phaeton. This is a pic of Frank’s ACTUAL car. Sold by a subsequent owner in 2016 for $154,000. I once licked the bumper.

Jerry and Joe

Jerry Bimbo was the maitre d’hotel (MASTER OF HOUSE). I have refrained from using real names in these Untold Tales, but can’t help it here. Given all the hijinks and pranks that the veterans played on the newbies, it took me a long time to realize that no one was playing a joke on me when they’d say “Go talk to Bimbo” and that this fellow’s name was actually “Bimbo.” Blue velvet tux with extremely frilly shirt. Porn star mustache. Eventually changed his name to Beretta. Jerry Beretta, that is, not Beretta Bimbo. Decent guy, treated us pretty well when he wasn’t yelling at us about something.

Joe C was the catering manager and he worked hand in hand with Jerry, making sure the food was ready when it was supposed to be, and that the Cro-Magnons in the back didn’t poison anyone. Similar to Jerry, nice enough when he wasn’t yelling. Random memory of him going on about how much he liked watercress on a sandwich. Amazing what one remembers, 50 years later. 

Joe Banks

After Sonny met his doom, Joe was in charge of the kitchen until Big Bob came along. Joe was a Williston Park homie a couple of years older than us, so we all knew him.

I loved working for Joe, and he loved me working for him. It was my first real job, and I was ready to work hard, and that made Joe happy. He’d give me something to do (150 deviled eggs, sure; 100 stuffed mushrooms, got it; Chicken Cordon Blue, what is it? OK, I can do that. ). I barely knew what those things were, but he’d explain them to me, and off I’d go. You learn a lot by doing and working at it until it tastes good. And this was a fancy-ass North Shore joint!  With a pimply-face, snot-nosed kid (ME) preparing these exquisite delicacies (MUCH, MUCH, TOO MUCH MORE ABOUT THIS IN FUTURE INSTALLMENTS). It was here I got hooked on the kitchen adrenaline of cranking it out. See, Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential, 2000. Beano no doubt knows of what I speak. 

I have a VERY VIVID memory of Joe making some kind of bet with Head Altar Boy Jimmy (HABJ), who was the hors d’oeuvre cook at the time. I don’t recall the subject or the terms other than that Joe said HABJ could chop off his dick if he was wrong. After a fact-finding mission, HABJ gleefully reported, with a large cleaver in his fist, that he was right and that Joe was wrong. The cleaver was of a size that could have been used by Fred Flintstone to shatter boulders. 

Joe, a Man of Honor, complied and bravely met his fate. As a crowd gathered to witness the reckoning, Joe unzipped and laid his member on the large butcher block table (NOT A HEALTH CODE VIOLATION - I CHECKED). HABJ raised the cleaver high, and as it sped downwards towards a new life for Joe, there was a collective intake of breath that would have impressed the most advanced yoga teacher. Joe withdrew Little Joe at what seemed like the impossible last minute. There may have been a slight loss of hair, but Joe wasn’t saying.

Joe went on to accomplish great things in the restaurant business. Had a nice place of his own in the Hamptons, and became a pillar of the community. Sadly, he died in a small plane crash just a few years back. So let me say, with all love and sincerity, may his memory be a blessing.

MY ONE GREAT REGRET IN LIFE

When I couldn’t find a date for the prom, Joe suggested that I take Linda. “Who’s Linda?” I asked. “She’s my wife,” Joe responded, in all sincerity. She never got to go to her prom, and was apparently willing. Sadly, I declined the offer, in hopes of meeting someone who was, shall we say, more available. Meeting that person was still a few years off. So I blew my chance to take Linda to the prom and, when my classmates asked who she was, I could have told them: “She’s my boss’s wife.”

Big Bob

As great as Joe was, Big Bob was the worst. Or, to be charitable, he was the least great. He was big and built and liked to boast about how tough he was. Lots of yelling. He didn’t drink coffee, he drank tea, with like eight tea bags in his stupid New York Giants mug (Jets fan here.) We coffee drinkers (I was on the bean by then. Started out with coffee milkshakes and quickly moved onto straight java. More about this later.) saw this as a character flaw, but never said anything. Did I mention the yelling? It was kind of like this, except in a kitchen, not a barracks:

But, in Big Bob’s defense, he didn’t freak out when I broke his fancy-ass knife. I was chopping some onions with his knife. BIG BOB’S KNIFE, DON’T MESS WITH BIG BOB’S KNIFE. He was letting me use it while we were in the middle of some stupid argument. I was stupid and he didn’t know why I didn’t just shut up because I wasjustsomepunkkidwhoknewnothingsojustshutupbeforeIcrippleyou. 

As I was contemplating my response - something along the lines of “I’m doing the best I can and why don’t YOU shut up”-  Big Bob’s knife broke. Snapped clean in half. Total loss. I wasn’t even honking on it, and Big Bob was right in front of me, so he couldn’t accuse me of goofing around with it. So, as I was fearing for my life, he took the knife and threw it in the trash. “It happens,” he said. End of story. One point for Big Bob.

On the other hand, he did saw my frisbee in half. Not to be judgmental, but Big Bob should burn for all eternity in the Bad Place for what he did. Some background: we worked hard in a really hot kitchen and dishwashing room. When we had some downtime, we’d go out into the parking lot and throw the disc around. Maybe five or ten minutes of fresh air. On the day in question, Big Bob came out to join us. Cool! Oh wait, he’s taking the frisbee inside. I guess this is his way of telling us break is over. Oh, he’s taking it over to the band saw, to pretend to cut it in half. Funny. Oh, he’s actually cutting it in half. Bummer. Let’s dig Dante up and have him write a new circle of hell for this indignity.

I suppose I had some small measure of revenge. We got paid on Thursdays. I was scheduled to work on Friday, but was paid up to date, so I blew off the last day. The timing was perfect, I could skip out without any hassle about getting my last paycheck. I didn’t want to deal with whatever fresh frisbee-related hell Big Bob had in store. Avoidance! It’s the best. I spent the whole day playing softball at Sagamore field, where I made a spectacular diving catch in the outfield.

Years later, I stopped in for a visit. By then, I had gotten into law school and was hailed as a conquering hero. Big Bob remembered me blowing him off, and told me I was crazy to think he would make my last day miserable, He said he planned to have me sit in the corner and eat cake all day. As the French say, “My ass.”

Accumulated Wisdom of Big Bob

If you eat too much Italian sausage at a picnic down at the Jersey Shore and the sausage gets stuck in your throat, here’s what you do. Take a bottle of creme de menthe (pronounced CREEM DA MINT; and get the green, not the white) and chug it down. It will blast the sausage right out of there. Guaranteed. But who brings bottles of creme de menthe to Jersey Shore sausage parties? We never asked.

“She was only the fisherman’s daughter, but I showed her my rod and oh, did she reel.” He’d say this about ten times a day, apropos of nothing, and then look at us as if he had just delivered the ten commandments.

“We laugh and joke, and take a little dope, but we don’t fuck around.” OK, maybe slightly more on point, but we didn’t need to hear it 20 times a day.

“Fuck with the baker and you get the bun, fuck with me and you don’t get none.” Finally, something that makes sense. Words I have tried to live by.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Chapter 22

Beric squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about the fifteen to twenty foot drop below him. Tried not to think about the distinctly breezy feeling between his legs. Tried not to think about how that giant crash of the trellises would have staff running any second.

All he had to do was clamber over a couple feet to where the next window was and pop in.

Or maybe he would slip, fall and sustain a horrendous injury. Again. And they could find his mangled half-naked body in the rubble.

Beric gritted his teeth and forced himself to open his eyes. With superhuman effort, he scooted himself one rung over. There, that wasn’t so hard. Then another. Then another.

He had reached a portion of the trellises that had managed to survive Jaime Lannister, and he slid his feet into the rungs gratefully. Maybe things were finally turning around.

The distinct sound of voices floating from around the corner caught his ear. Or not.

Beric scrambled to the window, prior fears vanishing when faced with the all-consuming imperative of not being caught at a fancy dress party in purple lightning bolt undies. The window thankfully opened easily, although it might have just been the adrenaline lending him superhuman strength. He flung himself through and hit the carpet in a dive and roll, just as two chatty workmen came around the corner to inspect the damage.

Beric allowed himself to take a deep breath. For the first time in several hours, he was finally, mercifully alone.

He was used to being alone. He had no siblings and had struggled for most of his life to make friends. His one previous relationship had been with a guy who was in love with someone else, and that was really its own special brand of loneliness. 

Solitude could be comforting. There weren’t expectations for one. Nobody to disappoint. 

Then Thoros had come along, and dragged him from that little half-life which had been cozy in its own way, but also painfully dull. Life with Thoros was never dull. In fact, Beric smiled ruefully to himself, sometimes it was rather too exciting.

How on earth Robert getting married to Cersei had managed to upend his own life, he honestly had no idea. He had just been trying to be a good friend when Robert asked him to be in that stupid commercial. Wasn’t saying yes the right thing to do?

Beric had been sixteen when he’d had his motorcycle accident. As far as he was concerned, little good had come from that episode. But one silver (okay maybe more like brass) lining had been that he’d stopped getting attention he’d been quite uncomfortable with in the first place. He’d gotten plenty of stares instead of course (and to this day he couldn’t quite look in the mirror without flinching) but he’d built up walls and walls of self-defense to those.

It was quite another thing to have undergraduate girls giggling as he hurried through the quad on his way to class. He’d had to get a lock for the cubby where he kept his books, lest it look like a flower bomb had gone off. Even some of the law school girls would nudge each other, and the law school boys, particularly Crakehall and his crew did not like that at all.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re tending bar with me,” Thoros had said earlier that week counting up their tips so they could split them.

“You’re there to protect me,” Beric said matter of factly. “Plus it feels like it has a point. Like I’m getting something out of all the embarrassment. When I’m just sitting on a bus and some tween is taking photos of me... that is completely pointless,” he finished and flopped back on their bed.

Thoros, having finished divvying up the spoils, proceeded to start sprinkling Beric’s bills on top of him.

“Stop making it rain on me,” Beric rolled on his side to better glare at him. 

“I’m practicing for Sunspear,” Thoros said cheerfully, flicking a ten-dragon note at his nose.

Beric propped himself into a seated position.

“You’re using the money to rent a tuxedo for the engagement party remember?” He said sternly. 

“I was thinking...”

“No.”

“But...”

“No.”

“You’re not even listening!” Thoros said in a joking whine.

“There’s no justification for skipping your friend’s engagement party so you have money for a strip club,” Beric huffed.

“I hate tuxedos,” Thoros pulled a face. “I look like a waiter.”

“Only because you always rent so they don’t fit well. If you bought one...”

“Are you taking me to many fancy parties my lord?” Thoros teased. “Besides, we can both skip. You can’t tell me you’re looking forward to this.”

“Of course not.”

“So let’s stay home. Robert won’t even notice we’re not there,” Thoros wheedled, crawling across the bed to straddle Beric’s lap. And as Beric looked at Thoros’ perfect crooked smile, he really wanted to say yes.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad. There can’t be many tween girls in attendance,” is what Beric said instead.

He should have said yes.

For starters, the dry cleaners had misplaced a number of his clothes, most upsettingly his tuxedo. So come Friday, both he and Thoros were at the store to rent tuxedos. 

“See? Waiter vibes,” Thoros said glumly, looking at himself in a mirror.

Beric scowled as he tried on yet another pair of trousers. He knew he was lanky, but it was infuriating that the only sizes that were long enough were for men of much wider girth.

“It’s just for one night,” he said finally. He had no idea whether he was trying to convince himself or Thoros.

Then Saturday morning, he woke up to discover three new fan accounts dedicated to #oneeyedhottie. He groaned.

“You seriously don’t see the humor in this?” Thoros asked drily, looking over his shoulder. “Is that your highschool yearbook photo?”

“Where did they even find it?!” Beric fretted. “And no. I don’t see the humor in being MORE of a freak show.”

“I don’t like it when you say those things,” Thoros wrapped his arms around Beric. “First, I would deck anybody who said that about my boyfriend. So you’re treading on thin ice ser. Second, I have plenty of scars myself.”

Beric turned hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not the scars. I just don’t like people looking at me like I’m something I’m not.”

“Like?”

“I dunno. Somebody to be admired.”

“I admire you,” Thoros said bluntly. “You’re my hero.”

“I think we’ve already proven your judgment is questionable,” Beric noted. When that failed to provoke a smile, he shifted tactics.

“What will make you forget I ever said anything?” He asked, running an idle finger down Thoros’ side, pleased when he got a shiver in response.

“You could...” Thoros broke off as he squirmed away, making a sound of mock exasperation. “You could give me your phone. It’s making you all broody.”

“My life is making me broody,” Beric rolled his eye, but he tossed the phone, and used Thoros’ momentary distraction to pull him close again.

But Thoros might have been on to something, because by the time they had gotten to King’s Landing that evening, his spirits were feeling markedly lifted. In contrast to Thoros, who ground his teeth as yet another person handed him an empty glass.

“Maybe I should just start chucking them into the crowd,” Thoros scowled.

“You will not,” Beric yoinked it from him gently. “I’ll find somewhere to put it down.”

“Okay, I’m going to go stand over there on the lawn where there’s no people to hand me garbage,” Thoros said. “Are you good by yourself?”

“Yup,” Beric said cheerfully. And of course, no sooner had he set down the empty glass on the bar then he became cognizant of a young girl staring at him. He moved to the garden. Seconds later, she appeared in the tree line, this time slightly closer. Beric swallowed, a little unnerved by her unblinking gaze, and decided to go into the house. Only to hear her soft footfalls trailing eerily behind him.

That he had proceeded to lose her, only to end up locked in a room with Jaime Lannister, only to escape to find himself without pants entirely (he knew the rental tuxedo was too big!) was only indicative of the fact that he was no hero. He was a hapless idiot who screwed everything up. He’d tried to do the chivalrous thing and give that girl the slip without hurting her feelings. Then he’d tried to be a nice person and help Jaime Lannister. And where did all of this trying ever get him?

Beric dusted himself off glumly and looked around. Jaime Lannister’s bedroom had the forlorn look of a room that had not received much use in four or five years. He walked over to the bureau and pulled open a drawer, thinking that while Jaime was an inch or two shorter than him, at this point any pants were better than no...

The drawer was empty.

Beric, with increasing anxiety, began to pull out the other drawers. Empty, empty, empty. He checked the closet. Empty.

Fuck. He sat on the foot of the bed heavily. He knew Jaime hadn’t lived at Casterly Rock since high school, but he’d assumed he would have some clothing left lying around. 

Okay think. Brienne’s suitcase in the corner would be of no help. Who lived here? Tyrion was still here—Beric shook his head at the idea of trying to use any of Tyrion’s clothing—and... Tywin. 

Tywin Lannister was Jaime’s height, so they would be short on him, but he was also thin. They’d probably fit better than any of Jaime’s old clothes. All the same... Beric winced at the idea of having to explain to the host of this party what exactly Beric was doing running around in his trousers.

But it would only be for the ten minutes it took to get down to the garden and retrieve his own. The odds of running into Tywin were infinitesimally small.

Beric took a deep breath and opened the door, poking his head out. He looked left, he looked right. The hall appeared abandoned.

He edged out. Okay first question. Where exactly was Tywin’s bedroom?

After several wrong turns and dead ends, Beric heard voices. Quickly he withdrew into what appeared to be a linen closet and held his breath.

“It’s just too vexing for words! I can’t believe none of the staff here can fly a helicopter! I would have thought that at least Westerling...”

“Leave the poor man alone. Just accept that you’re going to have to ask Steffon to repark his vehicle. Maybe you can make an announcement. ‘Will the owner of the corporate helicopter obnoxiously parked on the lawn please move their vehicle?’”

“Everything’s a joke with you! Look, can I at least borrow your phone?”

“Fine here.”

Beric peeked through the crack in the door to see Cersei typing out a text, an experience of concentration on her face as Tyrion tapped his foot impatiently. He briefly considered poking his head out and asking for assistance, but then considered that every time Cersei had involved herself in his life it had gotten worse. He kept his mouth shut and watched as they slowly ambled down the hallway.

“Who you texting?” Tyrion asked when Cersei tossed his phone back.

“Just responding to Jaime,” Cersei said and then they were gone.

Beric counted to a hundred while considering that when last seen, Jaime didn’t even have a phone. He decided to walk in the opposite direction.

Finally he got a break, when he saw the cavernous oaken doors of what could only be the master bedroom. 

If bedrooms were windows to the soul, Tywin’s soul was dark and rather minimalist.

Beric mentally apologized to the wedding photo of Tywin and his late wife, the silent witnesses to his crime. He opened a closet and... voila! 

Beric wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything more beautiful.

Less than a minute later, he was at the very least decent, even if he also looked like he expected an imminent flood.

Being somewhat fully dressed turned out to be a relief, because the aforementioned oaken doors unexpectedly started to open.

For the second time in perhaps twenty minutes, Beric found himself hastily darting into a closet.

Tywin Lannister slowly let himself in, and Beric tried to retreat even further into the closet. 

Please don’t let him find me, Beric begged a universe that had never been particularly kind to him. Dear gods, I can’t go like this. Cowering in a closet in the man’s trousers.

Tywin, instead of turning to the closet, went to the bathroom. Beric heard the faucet turn on briefly, a splashing sound. He peered through the crack in the door. 

There was a second of nothing, and then Tywin returned to the bedroom, his tie and cuffs unloosened. He sat on the foot of the bed heavily, staring at the same photo that Beric had noticed earlier.

“She’s your daughter,” Tywin huffed at length. “What am I supposed to do here?”

He’s talking to his dead wife. Please don’t let him find me cowering in his closet wearing his trousers listening to him talk to his dead wife. They’ll never even find my body.

“Part of me wants to just drop it. Steffon was my first friend. He warned me about Aerys and I chose money, I chose power. I chose incorrectly. I think... I think had you been there I might have done things differently. But it you weren’t. You died. And fuck that asshole, he wasn’t there. He betrayed me first, you know he did.”

There was a long pause.

“If you were here, you’d tell me to get over myself,” Tywin sighed. “Gods I can hear you in my ear sometimes. I just wish I could get some kind of sign, that this will be okay, that I’m not making more of a godawful mess of my children’s lives than they have already done on their own.”

There was a longer pause. One that seemed to last an eternity. Beric swallowed, screwed his eyes shut, and then kicked the back wall of the closet hard.

The echo of that thump seemed to last even longer than an eternity.

“Fucking mice. I’m calling the exterminator tomorrow,” Tywin grumbled. But maybe it was Beric’s imagination, only he didn’t seem quite as sad.

Beric counted to a thousand after Tywin left.

Thankfully this time he knew where he was going. Outside, outside and over to the east wing. And there, somewhere on the ground amidst the rubble, would be his pants.

He hurried out through the maze of Casterly Rock, a mansion whose floor plan he was now unfortunately and intimately familiar with. He cut across the second floor, smiling to see Brienne Tarth and Catelyn Stark, sequestered in a reading room laughing together. He slipped by, not wanting to intrude on their moment, even less as he was currently dressed.

Upon reaching the outdoors, Beric was momentarily disoriented by how dark it had gotten. People were having dinner now, he could hear the clink of silverware. He hoped Thoros wouldn’t feel abandoned at their table—probably not, he was fairly sure Cersei had relegated all of Robert’s unattached friends to a table in the back. Thoros would be laughing with Melisandre and Oberyn and Elia, her boyfriend Arthur, and Mace… no Mace would be at his mother’s table, Beric corrected himself. Regardless, he looked forward to sitting down with friends and putting this entire sordid ordeal behind him.

He rounded the bend, noted that there had been little effort to clean up the massive collapse of flowers. He could see the window where he and Jaime had crawled out, the broken bushes where Jaime had fallen, which meant he would have put Beric’s pants down right... there.

Beric looked blankly at the bare ground before him. He nudged some plywood away, lifted some flowers up. He proceeded to work with greater urgency, in a wider and wider circle around where he had been sure Jaime had put them.

Thirty minutes later, he sat down with a sigh, wincing as the trousers rode up even higher. He had to face the facts. He looked ridiculous and his the bottom half of his rental tux was nowhere to be found.

He nudged a bit of broken wood with his foot forlornly. Maybe he should just go find his dinner table. Even if people stared, Thoros would have some silly story for him that would take his mind off things.

Beric brushed himself off and headed toward the courtyard. As it happened, he had a perfect view for what happened next. As did several hundred dinner guests.

Ned Stark slammed both hands against the table where he was sitting and stood up, his chair tipping backwards with a crash. He looked furious, and yes, maybe a little tipsy.

“Well MAYBE,” he shouted at Hoster Tully, seated a mere two seats away, “she isn’t here because you humiliated her in front of all these people!”

Hoster Tully, refusing to be talked down to, stood up as well.

“How dare you take that tone of voice with me?!”

“See?! You don’t even deny it! That’s the worst part, that you know what you’re doing and you just DON’T CARE!”

“Lower your voice this instant or I’ll...”

“YOU’LL WHAT?!”

And then Hoster grabbed Ned’s shoulder, and Ned hauled back and punched him square in the nose.

Even from a distance, Beric could see the spurt of blood, and he could almost feel the silence radiating outward across the courtyard.

Beric closed his eyes. With everyone distracted, now would be the perfect time to walk to his table and plop down. Thoros would hand him his flask and Beric could have a swig of rum and he could just relax and enjoy the party.

Or he could go back into that gods-damned maze of a house and find Catelyn and send her out to rescue her husband and hope she didn’t notice he was wearing Tywin Lannister’s clothing.

It was a very easy choice, but Beric was already heading back to the mansion.

He found Catelyn more or less where he left her, with Brienne. Both girls were holding empty wine glasses, and Beric thought rather wistfully to the flask waiting for him in Thoros’ pocket.

“Catelyn, Brienne, I’m so sorry to interrupt. There’s been an um incident, Ned rather needs your help,” he said to Catelyn.

He knew she’d registered the ill-fitting trousers because her gaze had drifted briefly to them, but she was too polite to say anything.

“Of course Beric,” Catelyn rose. She turned to smile at Brienne. “I suppose I’d better rescue Ned.”

“Of course,” Brienne gave a bright slightly unfocused smile. “Beric, I thought that commercial was terrific. It was really nice of you to help out Robert like that.”

Beric began to redden at the reminder of the commercial that as far as he was concerned had started this entire mess. But Brienne’s gaze was open and guileless and he knew that she just meant the comment sincerely in the same way he knew she hadn’t noticed his outfit at all.

“Thanks Brienne,” he gave her a small smile back. She was already snuggling deeper into her arm chair, the strap on her pink-ish dress falling down one white shoulder. He thought in that moment she looked rather like a modern day Cinderella after midnight, tired of glass slippers and needing a nap.

“So what’s Ned need a rescue for?” Catelyn asked drily.

“Oh! Right,” Beric took a deep breath. “He punched your father in the face.”

“HE WHAT?!”

Catelyn Stark née Tully was truly frightening when she got angry. An almost dead expression in her eyes. Beric, feeling slightly guilty about being responsible for such a transformation, decided to hang back and let her march ahead.

And that was how he noticed Cersei hurrying from a cellar corridor, a bundle of clothing in her arms.

Beric did a double take. Surely she hadn’t purloined his trousers?! But no, it was all women’s clothing. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to follow her.

Cersei casually shoved the garments into an antique highboy drawer and then flagged a waiter.

“Sir, where is the sommelier? I’ve been looking for her all night. I must say, I’m finding this dereliction of duty to be rather... unprofessional.”

“So sorry Miss Lannister, I’ll track her down right away,” the waiter bobbed his head nervously.

Cersei gave him a charming smile.

“You might start with the wine cellars.”

“As soon as I deliver these desserts,” the waiter promised.

Cersei floated back to the courtyard, and after a brief pause to wipe the sweat off his brow, the waiter did the same.

Beric hesitated. This really REALLY wasn’t his business. But...

He quickly went to the highboy and retrieved the clothes, and set off for the wine cellars.

“Hello?” Beric called cautiously as he opened the first door. This far down, the air was cold and clammy. It reminded him of a different cellar, Gregor Clegane’s hands around his neck, drowning... Beric forced himself to take a deep breath. In all likelihood there was a scared girl who had fallen afoul of Cersei Lannister out there. This was not the time to be having a panic attack.

“Hello, um miss? I found your clothes, are you okay?”

Beric listened for a moment and upon hearing nothing was turning to exit when there was rustle.

“Wait! I’m here, um behind this rack. Please don’t look, I’m um... not wearing much.”

Beric could relate.

“I’ll toss your clothes in that direction, and I’ll wait for you in the hall. But you need to hurry, I think a search party will be looking for you.”

A minute later, a rather bedraggled looking girl a year or two younger than Beric emerged, trying to smooth her skirt suit. A lacy black bra was still visible under her white shirt, and Beric coughed and nodded in the general direction. The girl looked a tad confused.

“Oh!” She tucked the shirt in, which had the effect of pulling it even further down and revealing more cleavage. Beric winced.

“Here why don’t you wear this,” he shrugged out of his jacket. 

“I know these cellars are cold but I’m rather used to—“

“I insist,” Beric said firmly and draped it over her shoulders, rendering the outfit somewhat more work appropriate. “Now we really must be going.”

He led her out, barely skirting several waiters who had clearly been dispatched to fetch her.

“I don’t know what happened, I had the most lovely romp with Tyrion and then he texted me for a repeat during dinner and that he would wear his birthday suit if I would. And I went and I waited and...”

Beric was glad it was dark because he knew he was blushing terribly. They had made it out of the mansion, and were now hurrying across the lawn. He had the vague idea that if he could get her to the catering prep tent, she could act surprised that anyone would think her missing. It was pitch black, and their progress was only occasionally punctuated by the flash of the fireworks from above.

“I can’t think what was taking him so long, and what on earth happened to my clothes,” the girl was saying. Beric flashed back on Cersei borrowing Tyrion’s phone and rather doubted that “Tyrion” had been planning to come at all.

“I suppose I’m just—oof!” The girl lost her footing and landed on her knees. 

“I think I broke my heel!” She cried, clutching the shoe to her person as if it were a small pet.

“Shhh,” Beric tried to shush her. They were so close, but any noise could call the attention of the staff. “Can you walk?”

“No I don’t think so,” the sommelier tried some weight on her foot and winced.

“Okay, I’ll carry you,” Beric decided, looking doubtfully at the tent. It wasn’t terribly far. He could manage.

He staggered the remainder of the way, her arms around his neck, head buried in his shoulder, before at length he could put her down on a folding chair.

“New plan,” he panted as he set her down. “You twisted your ankle in the cellar and have been icing it here for the last hour.”

He cast around for some ice and knotted it into a dishrag as a makeshift ice pack.

“They’ll be so mad at me for playing hooky and not getting anyone to cover!” The girl bit her lip. Then she looked at him more closely.

“Say you look familiar.”

“I’ve got one of those faces,” Beric offered tepidly, aware that with the whole missing eye thing he most certainly did not. “And Miss, I really don’t want to presume, but you DID play hooky without getting anyone to cover. TWICE. And not for a legitimate reason like spraining your ankle but to hook up with the son of your employer!”

His companion had the grace to look a little sheepish.

“You’re right. I suppose it wasn’t very...”

“Professional,” Beric prompted, recalling Cersei’s word.

“I’ll take my lumps. And... and I’ll text Tyrion that it was fun but I have a job to do,” she added.

Beric gave a smile of relief and bent his head to the work of getting the ice pack on her ankle. He didn’t know what the situation there was, but he thought the more distance that this girl put between herself and Cersei Lannister, the better.

“You’re even better in real life you know,” the girl said suddenly. 

“Real life?”

“You’re from that commercial right? With the little boy? But you’re even better in person,” she pressed. “Wait till I tell all my friends that I got rescued by the one eyed hottie from the commercial!”

“I um have to go,” Beric blurted to keep from screaming.

“So basically,” Thoros smirked when Beric found him—or rather when Thoros found him, after the fireworks were done and people were lining up for the valet. “Basically you saved the day. I told you you’re a hero.”

“I didn’t save anything,” Beric protested. Now missing his jacket in addition to wearing somebody else’s trousers, he felt exceptionally unheroic. “I just did what anybody would have done.”

“You convinced Jaime to talk to Cersei about the wedding. I ran into him later, you know. You tricked Tywin into forgiving Steffon. Jaime says he saw them in the library drinking scotch.”

“I just said that to Jaime, he didn’t listen,” Beric disagreed. “And nobody tricks Tywin Lannister. He already wanted to do it, he was just looking for a nudge.”

“Fine you NUDGED Tywin Lannister,” Thoros dipped his voice to make it sound dirty, and Beric glared at him. Thoros only grinned back.

“Then you sent the cavalry to save Ned and finished it up by foiling a Cersei Lannister plot. Has Cersei ever been foiled? I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Well I think she just wanted to break up Tyrion and...”

“Tysha,” Thoros supplied.

“How do you know her name?”

Thoros handed Beric back his cell phone. It was opened to one of the fan Ravengram accounts. There was a picture, of Beric looking down in concentration as he held an ice pack to a purpling ankle. 

The post was by one Tysha Crofter. My hero, said the caption.

“I’m not a hero,” Beric began stubbornly, but Thoros kissed him to cut off his argument. He tasted like rum and a little marijuana and no matter what Thoros thought, he looked good in a tux. 

“If the Internet says it, it must be true,” Thoros grinned when he broke the kiss. And Beric found that he had quite forgotten what he had been planning to say.

[bluebookbadger-blog]

The Price of a Life - Chapter 12

Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance to modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13

The next week sped by in a blur, every little inconvenience bringing tears to my eyes. I literally cried over spilled milk. Twice. But, despite the heavy cloud hanging over my head, I had made some headway in my plans. With Gracia, I visited the bank, and relearned the process of making a withdrawal, the banking system quite similar to the one back in my world.

However, on Friday, when I was officially declared well enough to be without crutches and had my stitches removed, was the day of Miss. Reich's funeral. The wake would be held in a funeral home on the other side of the local cemetery.

I didn't tell Camilla or Gracia where I was going, but from my black dress that the Fuhrer had given me and the thin shawl over my shoulders, they could have easily guessed.

The walk felt much longer than it had previously, the hot sun making the stiff black clothes unbearable. My mind drifted to the idea of the wake. Would there be a priest? Would there be a lot of family there? Would I even be allowed to attend? I thought about the last funeral I had attended in my world.

It had been for the old German spinster who lived across the street from us. Me and my siblings always called her Omama. She was strict and would always yell at us for trampling her tulips or letting the chickens free range on her lawn, but the old woman had a softer side.

We would go over to her houseafter finishing our school work to eat some of her famous spritzkuchen, which were like doughnuts. She would help us with our Latin homework, or at least she tried to, her explanations wandering into German. Omama was single, and was the youngest in her family that came to America. All of her siblings had died, and despite her snappiness and angry grumbles, our family had become hers.

My mother had known her when she was younger, and even then my mother would bring her boyfriend of the month over and eat popcorn and watch a movie. Afterwards Omama would take one last look at the guy, and tell my mom he wasn't the right one. My dad was one of those guys, but I think that was the only time Omama was ever wrong about something. Or at least the only time that I know of.

Her funeral had been about a year before I left my world. It was unexpected, or at least as unexpected as the death of a 104 year old woman living alone could be. Ironically, I wasn't even that sad. All I could think about at the wake was all the New Year's Eves spent huddled around her little tube television with a mouthful of popcorn, and all the times she threatened to cook up one of the chickens for eating her tomato garden.

But this wake was going to be very different, judging by Hughes' funeral. It would most likely be curt, professional, and silent. Though I still blamed myself for what happened, some of those self loathing feelings had ebbed. Perhaps she and Albert were destined to die. Maybe someone else had died, somewhere far away, and maybe their death's were simple coincidence.

Somewhere my subconscious dismissed those thoughts as wishful thinking, but they gave me some relief from the weight on my conscience.

The funeral home was small, with vines growing up the brick and mortar sides. There were a few cars and buggies parked haphazardly on the road in front of it. I was frozen standing at the steps, the questions returning.

Just as I was about to turn away, social anxiety clawing at my insides to go back to the apartment, the door creaked open. A man stepped out, a freshly lit cigar between his lips. He wore a top hat and suit reminiscent of one you would imagine in a Jane Austen novel. He had dark hair, by evidence of his twitching black mustache. His eyes stood out the most: bright, clear, blue eyes. Blue eyes that were staring at me.

The man blew a puff of smoke, motioning with the cigar in his hand.

"Ye can go in y'know," The man said, his accent strange compared to the clear and enunciated speech of most Amestrians to which I had spoken. Now that I thought about it, Amestris had almost no variety of dialects, at least not in Central. I suppressed a smile, recalling my cousin Morgan's conclusion that, 'You Nutmeggers have an accent - the accent of not having a damn accent' the same could be said about Central. No slurred consonants, emphasized vowels, or abbreviated words - they spoke as if they were reading from a dictionary.

"Hey, ye okay lass?" The man's gruff voice stirred me from the brief moment of thought. I nodded numbly, all of my fears and sorrow regarding the wake dissipated. I had attended at least a hundred funerals in my time (related to old age and illness, though I believe there may have been a car crash or two in my extended family at some point). This one would be no different. This would be executed with the same solemn, collected, finality that Hughes' funeral had, and I would be just fine with that.

I stepped inside the quaint building, greeted by the homey, slightly smokey scent of the funeral home. Seeing a guest, book, I approached and read the names.

Reich...Reich...Reich...

All family, except for me. I scribbled my cursive name and followed the faint sounds of voices. Everything was strangely muted, my own breathing and uneven steps muffled by the carpeted floor and atmosphere of the hallway. I soon found a small room filled with people who stood in groups of three or four, mumbling quietly to each other.

Suddenly feeling unwelcome, I turned to leave but found my feet unwilling. I had to go in there.

I took a deep breath, and took a few steps into the room. No one even noticed me.

'Finally,' I thought, maneuvering between groups. 'My wish to become invisible had been granted,' At last I was beside the raised casket, the top portioned opened to reveal the body inside. I swallowed a lump in my throat at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, as if she were asleep, but her stillness was too unnatural and broke the illusion.

Unlike the wakes I had attended previously, there was no kneeler for me to say a few prayers on, not that I was capable of doing so without rekindling the pain in my side. I stood there quietly for a moment, my hands folded before myself for a few whispered prayers. When I finished, I felt the urge to turn and run, before the crowds noticed my presence.

Stronger than that urge was the habit of tradition. I brought my hands to my neck and undid the clasp of my mother's golden necklace, the attached rosary and earring clinking quietly as I lifted it from my chest and laid it in the coffin beside Mrs. Reich.

It was a tradition of my family to put a small token of oneself in the coffin. Some caskets would be stuffed with books and wine glasses, other bedazzled with jewelry and small statues. I considered Mrs. Reich to be one of the few people I knew as family in this world, so the gift was justified. Keeping my eyes trained on the ground, I weaved my way back to hallway.

Stepping softly back into the warmth of the city, but the bright sunlight seemed colder now. I was not going to sit through the funeral, however brief it may have been, just to be alone in a crowd.

Back at the apartment, all was quiet. It seemed the Grace, Camila, and Elicia had gone out for the day, leaving me to my schemes. I limped to my bedroom, exhausted by the long walk. Stripping off the dress, I threw on a loose blouse and some comfortable pants before getting to work. I changed the sheets on my bed, neatly folding every corner, before emptying every drawer and packing it into the bag I had been given.

Once satisfied with my choice in attire, I closed the bag and hefted it onto my shoulder and exited the room. I stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering what I was doing before shaking myself from the doubts and heading to the door.

Quickly placing on the table a previously composed note expressing my wishes to leave, I left the apartment. I moved robotically, I can barely remember even leaving the apartment. My thoughts were elsewhere, wandering the expanse of my life that had led to this cowardice.

That's right, I was a coward. I was just running away from these people and this place. And I was just fine with that. I wasn't even supposed to be here, let alone involve myself in the lives of the people here. It wasn't my place to play God and decide who lived and died, and as of late, I no longer had any power in such matters. And that was okay.

I continued walking until I found the bank, keeping my eyes low as I withdrew some money from my account, receiving hostile glares and suspicion from the teller. I then realized I wasn't wearing a hat, and that I must have appeared mightily foreign to the teller. I didn't care. They couldn't get me arrested for taking money from my account. Well, maybe they could call the police, but what harm would that do? I gathered up the cenz and paper money and threw it into my bag before strutting arrogantly from the bank. I didn't care what they thought.

Night was falling as I made my way farther from the center of the city, the dilapidated flats and closed store buildings becoming more sinister as darkness fell. The lights here were not electric, and it seemed only a few had been lit out of necessity. The exhaustion from the day was making me weary, but the dark alleys and the less than pleasant looking residents of the slum were enough to keep me from lying down in a side street to rest. Still, I needed somewhere to sleep for the night, and I wasn't about to risk any of the parasites or diseases that lurked in the apartment buildings.

So I continued walking towards my destination. I was tired, yes, but fear is a damn good motivator. And currently, I was quite afraid. Afraid of the man who has been walking behind me for a few blocks now, afraid of the prospect of sleeping in some alleyway, afraid of sleeping without a weapon - there was plenty to fear on a night like that.

The man following me was my greatest concern in that moment, his dark silhouette barely illuminated by the flickering streetlamps. I had walked around a block a few times to make sure I wasn't being paranoid, but the figure was definitely stalking me.

It was unnerving, especially considering the only weapon I had was probably in a plastic evidence bag somewhere in Central Command. I guess I could have grabbed a kitchen knife, but it would be too awkward to carry around, and butcher's knives didn't have a handle to keep you from cutting yourself if your hand slid forward. I had no other choice except to keep moving. I could sleep when I inevitably died.

The footsteps disappeared into one of the dilapidated buildings, but my anxiety did not let up.

The slums gave way to the outer ring of the city, populated by the tents and shacks of the homeless. A few fires burned here, the only source of light in the dreary landscape. Most of these fires were encircled by cloaked figures, their tired red eyes trained on the flames and their dark lips speaking in hushed whispers. I kept to the path, but avoided these areas. I may have trusted them in the day, but night made it difficult to discern friend from foe. I doubted even my likeness to the Ishvalans would grant me automatic acceptance in these dark outer limits of the city.

The pathway I walked on was raised above the haphazardly constructed shacks, which sat in low ditches carved into the sandy earth. The path would branch into grids that outlined the square ditches. I imagine that it must have looked like some complex computer chip from the air, with the scrap metal rooves reflecting the silver light of the stars and the fires pin pricks of gold.

I continued walking until I came upon an abandoned fire, the red embers still giving off enough light to be seen from my distance. I began walking towards the dim light, the secondary pathway narrow and ill defined from its surrounding ditches. I somehow managed to maneuver through the maze of pathways without falling down the steep incline to the shanties below. The people who huddled around the fires watched me with unblinking eyes. I could not tell if curiosity or wariness was the cause of their stares, so I avoided meeting their crimson gazes.

I kept my own maroon eyes fixated on the nearing embers. This ditch was slightly larger than the surrounding campsites, but the hovels were more numerous and smaller. I cautiously slid down the incline, the gravel and sand scraping my hands as gravity pulled me down. All was quiet, with the exception of the muffled crackle of the embers. The faint glow revealed several sleeping forms, and I had to push away the urge to continue walking. I needed to rest for a little while, and the chill of the autumn air was numbing my hands.

Stepping gingerly over the slumbering beings, I crouched by the embers and tried to warm my hands. Using a nearby charcoaled stick, I stirred them to life, and reveled in the heat they gave off. The flickering lights illuminated the sleeping forms to reveal children, who huddled together for warmth. It pulled at my heart strings, seeing their thin shivering forms wrapped in rags. Some bore pale scars on their dark skin, evidence of the cruelty such small children had already endured.

I counted them, noting that there was no one in the huts. In total, I could make out at least sixteen children. I wondered where their parents where for a moment, before the memory of the war resurfaced and I once more felt intense pity for the children. Homeless orphans, from my best guess. I shrugged off my jacket and laid it over a boy who wore only a pair of tattered shorts.

Using my bag as a pillow, I laid my head down and looked at the stars. I could never properly see them in the city, where the glaring lights obscured them from view. Here, however, they were bright and clear, sharply defined against the inky indigo abyss of space. They were not familiar at all. No Ursa Major or Andromeda were visible, the scattered lights uncoordinated with any familiar constellations. Another reminder of how out of place I was. Another reminder of this alien world.

At some point in the night I had drifted off, but only briefly, as the first grey lights of the morning sun startled me awake. Well, more than the light, the rumble of engines woke me. The children from the night before were gone, their shabby blankets missing and the only evidence of their existence being the footprints in the sand. My eyes followed the prints to find that they led to the shacks. Before I could investigate further, a truck rolled to a stop above me.

"Hey!" A voice called, a young Ishvalan waving to me. "You want work?" I thought for a moment. Did I want to go on that truck to who knows where for possible 'work' which could be less than desirable? Not really. Did I want to stay here and wait to be confronted and forced to go somewhere else? No. Creepy truck it was!

I nodded, and picked up me bag.

"You won't be needin' that," The man said, motioning to my satchel. I looked at the huts and sighed. Hopefully the children would know better than to rifle through my things. I walked to the nearest shack and placed my things just inside the 'door' which was no more than a sheet of ragged fabric. I took a quick inventory of my clothes, the pants and loose shirt concealing anything that might dissuade a job offer that involved intense physical labor. My boots would hopefully have enough support to keep my ankles from giving out if this 'work' involved being on my feet all day. It was harvest season after all, and the only land outside of the city that was not modified Hoovervilles was farmland from the looks of it.

I scrambled up the incline to the road, where the truck was waiting. I hopped up onto the bed of the truck where the Ishvalan man clapped a hand on my back.

"So, you're new 'round here I'm guessing," He said with a chuckle as the vehicle roared to life and began sputtering down the narrow path away from the city.

"Yes," I responded quietly, hoping not to sound foreign to the man. "What kind of work are we doing?" I asked softly as the truck slowed to a stop, more Ishvalans boarding the truck. Most were young men, strong and shirtless, but a few women boarded as well, their silver locks tied up in braids to be kept out of their faces.

"The Meyer Farm, nice folks, nothin' you need to worry about," He said, moving over as more people crowded the truck bed. "The work's hard though, sure you up for it? You look a little pale," I ducked my head, forgetting that I had no hat to hide my features, which must have been quite conspicuous even in the dim morning light.

"I can handle it," I responded firmly, though I did not meet his eyes. Perhaps I could handle it, perhaps I could not. My hip was quite sore from the long walk the other day, but the pain was manageable compared to the pain when I first received the injury.

The truck continued its stop and go until we reached the edge of the shantytown and the dry sandy earth faded into ranch land. The man spoke with the other riders in a language I did not recognize, at least from the series, which made me nervous. Perhaps I should have stayed with Gracia.

The vehicle thundered to a stop, shaking my worried from my mind as the people got off the truck and immediately set to work. We had stopped at a small farm house, the faded blue paint peeling to reveal the half rotted wood beneath. I followed the crowd, realizing more trucks full of people where off loading their cargo. I followed the man who had invited me, his broad shoulders cutting a pathway in the crowd for me to follow behind him.

I avoided meeting the prying eyes of the other workers, and focused on the man in front of me. He was young, in his mid twenties at most. But scars where raked across his left shoulder, a peppering of bullets that could have killed had they been a few inches lower. I swallowed involuntarily, looking away from the scar tissue. I kept forgetting that these people lived through a war.

Tailing the man, I collected several baskets, each about half a meter in diameter and in depth.

"What are we picking?" I finally asked as we boarded another truck.

"So he can speak!" Exclaimed one of other workers above the engine, an older man with a neatly combed ashen beard. I gave a nervous smile as they gave a small laugh of amusement at my meek demeanor. "It's sugar beet season son,"

"It's Harvest Day, the boss expects frost tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if we're picking greens today," The man I had followed responded, I listening intently. I had picked sugar beets when I worked on Mr. Solosky's farm back home, but I preferred picking greens. Parsley, basil, cilantro, dill, watercress - Solosky's was mainly a bean farm, but we had small fields of greens where most of the girls worked, simply because it was not as labor intense as corn and cucumber harvesting.

"Naw, there won't be frost, my knee isn't aching like it would if there be frost on the way," The older man replied, patting a knee that was barely held together with sinew and stringy muscle. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from asking why there was no automail to facilitate his walking, which must have been impeded by the war injury.

I looked over the edge of the truck, avoiding the current debate over the connection of body aches and weather predictions. The neat rows of vegetables and vine plants spanned much farther than I had ever worked. Where I normally picked 100 yard rows of tomatoes, there was at least a mile of squash and gourd plants. The other side of the road was lined with golden wheat fields that shivered in the wind.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I reminiscence my own time on a farm. Sure the days were long, the sun was hot, and tomato plant tar never came out, but it paid well, and it was a pretty good learning experience. I had to manage small ragtag teams of workers that varied day to day and coordinate with the boss on what and where and when tasks could be completed. Working the register at markets was the customer service facet of the job, laced with irrational demands and crying, impatient children.

This work seemed different though. It seemed as if today would be filled with more monotonous, repetitive picking and less human interactions, which I was completely fine with. I still was not quite ready to throw myself back into the lives of complete strangers, not yet at least.

The truck rumbled to a stop, and I lifted my head to see an endless sea of green rows. The man whom I would be tailing for the day, I am going to start calling him...Roger, because I know it would be rude to ask an Ishvalan their name for their religious reason and whatnot, beckoned me to follow him. I eagerly kept pace with him as he led me to a row of plants that had the faintest scent of beeswax and freshly cut grass - watercress.

Roger plucked some from the moist earth, the morning dew not yet evaporated.

"Pick it just like this," He said, demonstrating the roots still clotted with earth. He then threw it into the basket, and met my eyes for a moment. "Can you do that?" I nodded and set to work, using both hands to grab handfuls of the herb at a time. Roger walked away, satisfied with my pace and began on his own row.

I was wrapped in nostalgia as I worked, the rhythm to the labor setting in as time drew on and the sun grew hotter. I was falling behind, and it began to irk me as Roger passed me despite starting long after I had begun. For a little while I drove myself harder, trying to work fast enough to keep up with the others, but quickly gave up and returned to my previous pace. I was going to burn myself out trying to work any faster than I already was.

My mind wandered in the simmering heat, the sun seemingly too hot for the chill I had felt just hours ago. I worried about being paid, but could not really care for the money. So long as the Ishvalans didn't kick me out of the little camp, I could make due with sleeping under the strange stars.

Wiping some sweat from my brow without looking up, I thought about the children I had stumbled upon. A worry gnawed inside me that they had gone through my belongings, ripped up my Certificate of Honorary Whatnot, and had spent what little money I had on candy. I was swift to dismiss the thought. I could have some faith in them. Until they proved me wrong.

The sun was high in the sky when I finally noticed why I was so much slower than the other workers. Where I picked all six independent rows of Watercress, they went down one side of their row, collecting only half so as to get the rest on the return trip. I looked down the row, seeing that a small gathering was taking place with the truck. All of the workers had completed their half a row.

I assumed they were resting, the shade from the many trees that bordered the field. I licked my lips, realizing how thirsty I was, but quickly went back to the task at hand. I could drink when I finished, and it would take too much time to walk all the way down there just to drink. And so I kept working, my hands black with fertile earth and blistering from the rough handles of the basket.

Memories of Mr. Solosky's farm returned as I found my rhythm again and got back to work.

I could feel the weight of my jeans as I weaved my way through patches of weeds taller than I was to find the last few rows of wax beans, heavy with fruit and hidden from man and beast alike. Anya, Mr. Soloksy's daughter, in her ankle length skirt and flattering t-shirt hard at work in the wash station with piles of sweet potatoes in the sinks. Vitaly and Vladimir would always joke about who would win my sister's heart, only to be shocked by Mary's disinterest in men, and marriage in general. I found myself smiling at the memory of my meek, shy older sibling coming to Harvest Day bonfire with her first, and admittedly only ever, girlfriend.

It took some time for Roger's voice to register, the hum of my own heartbeat and breathing lulling my into a trance-like state of dogged work.

"Kid, 'ey, you all right?" I looked up, sweat beading on my eyelashes making it difficult to focus on the identity of the speaker. I rubbed my face with my elbow, the sleeve of the blouse coarse against my skin. I met Roger's worried red eyes and nodded confidently. He gave an unconvinced smile and handed me a canteen that looked as if it had fallen out of a WWII movie. "We all gotta drink, don't over work yourself,"

I took the canteen and drank, the water cold and refreshing. I'm not sure if everyone can relate, but I took those long, deep, gulping mouthfuls of water you take when you're in a hurry or have just eaten a ghost pepper sandwich. Smiling sheepishly, I handed the now empty canteen back to the man. Looking around, I realized that an entire crowd of workers were standing behind him. Some watched the exchange intently, others sat in the green grass and talked amongst themselves. I had finished my row entirely.

It took a great amount of effort to keep from throwing my arms in the air and flopping down in the tall grass and taking a victory nap. Instead, I shuffled the heavy basket onto the grass and carefully lowered myself to the ground, knowing the hypnosis of work would fade away, leaving pain and aches behind. At least Roger seemed amused. He, with one hand, easily hefted the near full basket onto the bed of the truck, which had acquired a few barrels of water since I last saw it.

"Well, take a rest for now, you deserve it kid," I took his words to heart, but merely nodded and watched the other workers.

Men and women mingled, but none were treated with disrespect. If anything, the people seemed to have some sort of reverence for each other. The older one was, the more respect they commanded, the deeper the nods, the longer the conversation. It was pretty darn strange to me for some reason, which made watching them as I relaxed for a few moments even stranger.

Most of them did not sit down, only the elders took such a privilege. Those who stood did not stand still, they shifted their weight from foot to foot, as if they were still in the fields working to the rhythm of some unsung song. Their respect seemed so unnatural compared to what I had seen in my own world, making me feel somewhat guilty for my place in the grass. But I couldn't have gotten up if I wanted to.

My hip throbbed as though a separate heart had been transplanted there, hot blood rushing through my veins. I must affirm that it was not close to as painful as when I first received it, but Lord almighty did it hurt. I took a moment to pray it was not infected before watching the people again.

Suddenly, they began walking back to their half finished rows. Perhaps the sun had shifted a little or the air had cooled a degree or two to notify them that they all should get back to work, but I could not detect it. Roger walked up to me, and offered me a hand.

"Back to work, brother," He said softly, I doing my best to hide my faltering steps from him. "You can help the Brother," Roger pointed at the old man with the crooked knee, who struggled to stand. I had to resist lifting an eyebrow. The Brother made it sound as if...I answered my own question, realizing most of the monks would have been killed in Ishval, and the probability that this man was the only monk who worked here would make sense.

Roger gave a stiff clap on my shoulder, urging me to go help the man. I glanced back to see he had already traveled back to his own half finished row and had resumed work. I walked over and held out a hand to the Brother, who looked up at me with eyes that sparkled with laughter.

"Child, I have not lost myself quite yet," The man shakily stood, and I felt anxious at the sight of his trembling hands. I could almost see him collapsing into a pile of ash, his fragility disclosed as he regained the strength to take a step. However, once he gained some momentum, the Brother and I shuffled along at a brisk pace to the end of the half picked row.

It took me a moment, but I found the task of carrying the basket to be sufficient in aiding our almost agonizingly slow pace. We trailed behind all other workers, not because we were doing twice as much more, but because it took twice as much time for the stiff, shaking hands of the elder to gather up the greens. It was quite annoying to be honest.

I think those few hours, of just wanting to move a little faster for the sake of finshing the task and getting on to the next really tried my patience. I realize that he was old, and frail, and his age was to be respected, but I came from a world of high speed internet and online shopping. I felt a little entitles to immediate reward, in other words, an empty row behind us. But there was nothing I could do but hold the basket and walking behind him, watching the workers become more and more distant.

I held the basket in my arms, its weight growing with every plant the man added, but I could not complain. Clouds had overcome the sky, blocking the sun from sight. They brought with them a cool, dry wind that smelled of distant apple orchards. This was much more comfortable to work in compared to the blazing heat, but that itch of impatience still compelled me to constantly judge the distance between us and the next hill crest that would let me view the end of the row.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon as we finished, the other workers patiently loading their baskets onto the cargo wagon and standing quietly by the truck. With the final plant of the row plucked from its dusty niche, I hefted the basket around the man and headed for the cargo wagon, which was drawn by a thin mule behind the truck. I nestled it among the countless others, which were carefully balanced in a neat pyramid.

I trudged back to the truck, where the Brother and the workers had already clambered onto its bed. I yawned as Roger helped me up, his hands covered with dirt and slick with sweat. He chuckled at my sleepiness.

"Long day?" I nodded, my back and feet sore and my still healing wound now aching with pain. He gave a half smile and ruffled my hair, the action gaining him a cross look from myself. That right was still reserved for Gracia, and now my hair was dirty and I had nowhere to shower.

The realization then dawned on me - I had no shower. Roger must have observed my face contort with terror at the thought. I was no germophobe, but I needed to shower at least every other day to keep my tangled mane from becoming a feral mass of matted hair. The idea left a sour feeling in my stomach. Perhaps I couldn't move away from Gracia quite yet.

The truck stopped at the farmhouse, and we all sort of staggered off the vehicle best we could and headed to the following mule drawn cart to offload the greens to the safety of the storage sheds. I somehow managed to drag a basket of what appeared to be Romaine lettuce to the shed, a meager contribution compared to the two or three baskets most of the workers carried at a time.

I could not have cared less at that moment. You probably can related to the bone tiredness of pure exhaustion that had glazed over my eyes and sunk into my bones as I sat there being useless while the other workers gathered around the farmhouse porch. Somewhere in my mind I had an inkling that they were being paid, and that I would not get my share if I didn't crawl over there, but the aching of my joints and the throb in my side kept me still.

I had money, and so long as I was welcome in the Ishvalan slums I would not need to spend any of it anytime soon. Well, if my money was still there when I got back. After what seemed like forever the crowd of people shuffled back to their respective mode of transport, Roger climbing up onto the truck and helping the Brother up before coming to sit beside me.

"You didn't get your money," I nodded, the swirling reds and violets of the sunset mesmerizing. "I would have brought it to you, but Mr. Meyers doesn't even know you work for him, not yet," I nodded again.

"Not all of us rely on money for pleasure, child," The old man spoke up, watching Roger with half lidded eyes, "To be close to Ishvala by working with the earth is all some need to find true happiness," Roger bowed his head, a student corrected by the teacher.

"But all of us need money to buy food," I said quietly, looking at the Brother to see his response. The Ishvalan religion had always intrigued me in its ambiguity. The only points made clear about its teachings were that names were considered sacred, and alchemy was strictly forbidden as it was arrogant and perverse in its nature.

"And should not our brothers provide for us?" The Brother asked in response. I was too tired to process the words then, but in retrospective this question was probably a bit of a test for me after I challenged his words.

"One cannot depend on others to provide for you, you must toil for your wheat, and share the excess it with others, that they may plant fields of their own, until all are satisfied," I said, trying to put together a cohesive sentence from the foggy catacombs of church catechisms and Sunday homilies.

"And why don't you share all of your wheat with others?" I gave him a hard stare. We were all tired, it was getting dark, the truck had only one headlight and he wanted to go all Socratic Method right this second?

"I don't know," I said with a sigh, "Probably 'cause you gotta make some bread to eat so that you don't drop dead," This roused a small laugh in the Brother.

"True, my child, quite true," The truck thundered to a stop, I for the first time realizing I was at the camp where the children sat around the fire. I shakily climbed down off the truck, squinting up at the dark figures still left.

"I'll see you guys, have a good night," I bade with another yawn, skidding down the embankment. The children around the fire parted for me, my unopened bag holding a place for me.

It unnerved me a little, the circle of kids sitting around a fire just waiting for me to get off the truck and join them, like some dark cult awaiting the sacrificial lamb. The small boy who now wore my jacket scooted closer to me, eyes alight with curiosity. One of the older children, a young girl who must have been nearing her teens finally spoke up.

"We didn't go through your things, sir," Her voice trembled slightly, but her red eyed stare met me with unexpected intensity. "But where are you from?" The other children began to speak up, questions rising cacophony.

"Where did you come from?"

"How did you afford this coat?"

"Why are you here?"

"Who are you?" That last question hung in the air a moment longer than the other, the child who spoke it recognizing the taboo of its answer. I could only look out tiredly, sleep calling me. I could not help but answer all of them, the routine of my introduction coming reflexively in my exhausted state.

"I'm from Drachma but I have an honorary citizenship, I had a job in the city that paid well, but I lost it, I'm here to work on the farm, and my name is Irish," I said, laying down in the sandy earth. My bag was under my neck, the support easing my aching spine.

I could hear the new questions arise, but the words escaping me. A deep voice commanded silence, and all fell quiet. As curious as I was to its source, I dared not sit up. My hip felt as though the bones were chafing away at each other, and any movement only worsened the damage.

I stared up at the dark sky, the stars blurring as I fought to look up at the beauty for a few moments longer. For a second I thought I glimpsed a familiar belt of stars, but they disappeared as I drifted into unconsciousness.

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