#my knowledge on the show kinda dwindles after this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theatresweetheart · 4 years

Text

Of Stars and Royal Gardens

Summary: When the king of the Eastern Kingdom falls ill suddenly, the wedding that was supposed to unite the Eastern and Northern Kingdoms via the princes suddenly gets moved immediately.

Warnings: Talk of sickness, arranged marriages, anxious thoughts, feelings of worthlessness, mentioned death due to childbirth.

Pairings: Romantic Prinxiety, Familial Analogical, Platonic Logince.

Characters: Roman, Virgil, Logan, Emile, Remy, Deceit (not mentioned by name), Patton (mentioned in passing/flashback.)

Word Count: 6647 words.

A/n: I absolutely love writing fantasy and royalty. (Not to mention how putting the two together makes me swoon.) I’ve had this idea in my head for awhile and I wanted to flesh it out as best as I could, and I’m actually pretty happy with the outcome! I’ve been trying not to rush through scenes and actually write them and feel them out. Enjoy! I have moved the taglist to the bottom of the fic, this is how it will be from here on.

——————————

One could only handle travelling in a carriage for so long before they started to go mad.

Emerald green hills outside the window rose and fell like unceasing waves. The sky was once again fading into a dark red. Purple, dark blue and black began smearing the edges of the world and doused it in a warm pinkish hue. The skyline was breathtakingly stunning, he would admit that but he was more than ready to get out of this carriage and stretch his legs again.

The prince let his head rest against the cool glass, a gentle sigh escaping him as his eyes lazily traced the ups and downs of the landscape outside.

When rolling hills slowly turned into flatter farmlands, Virgil’s dwindling hope of never getting out of this carriage faded. It changed to something more tentative.

The Kingdom they were visiting was closer now, even as darkness fell over the lands and gave the waking world a clear view of the stars shining brightly above them. Looking like crushed diamonds smattered against a black canvas sky, twinkling without a care in the world and unknowingly giving the prince something far more relaxing to look at.

There were small cottages that dotted the farmland, their lanterns like fireflies. Some people were still out in their rows upon rows of crops, their lantern bobbing and swaying to their gait.

Seemed like being escorted to your future spouse had a few pros. The night sky and stunning scenery was it so far.

It was also a rather large relief when he realized that this tantalizing journey would be over soon. Travelling for three days in a confined space with his father could be painful. However, the idea that they were almost there also brought the fact that his wedding was just a day away now.

It set an uneasy feeling in his chest and his breath came a little more laboured. Not enough to be noticed by an outsider, but just enough to be uncomfortable for the prince himself.

“How are you faring?”‌ His father’s voice cut into his thoughts and Virgil turned to see sharp blue eyes meeting his own.

Virgil had a few options; he could lie and say that he was perfectly fine. Of course, that would not be taken at face value in the least. He had already told his father just how unhappy he was about this marriage, not to mention how unready he felt about the whole ordeal. Nor the fact that he didn’t even know the man he was being wedded to.

He knew his betrothed’s name.

That was literally it.

“It might be love at first sight, Your Highness,” a friend of his had said, the tailor stitching up the last seam on the prince’s outfit, pulling it taut enough that it showed his assets modestly. “And besides, he might not be as awful as you think he is. I’ve heard only good things about the prince of the Eastern Kingdom.”

Virgil had shaken his head, a fond look on his face. “Patton, please, enough with the formalities, we’re alone. You don’t have to call me “You’re Highness” or “My Prince” or whatever, it’s kinda weird. Besides, we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“That was before I‌ was the royal tailor,” Patton had said, grabbing a pair of scissors to his left before snipping the dark purple thread. Pointedly ignoring Virgil’s unimpressed looks. “But my point still stands. You never know what could come of this. You two could end up happy in your marriage! A happily ever after and all that.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

Virgil didn’t have much hope that he would end up falling for his soon-to-be-husband. He was going to be a king and that was shaking him to the core.

It was odd, being betrothed to a man he had never met. Nor did he know what he looked like. What if he wasn’t even all that attractive? Virgil didn’t like basing his interest on another’s looks, but it was hard not to.

Could he truly live the rest of his life content if he was married to a man he wasn’t physically attracted to?

Patton had always told him that finding someone handsome was part of the attraction. It was one of those whispered talks they had at night, after sneaking out of the castle and going to their secret spot up by the waterfall near the edge of the kingdom. They would sit there under the stars together, talking about their future.

Patton had always dreamed of a fairy tale ending. Meeting a handsome stranger and being swept off of his feet. The cliche of the white knight swooping in on a horse.

Virgil had been the opposite, not caring much for the romance of life. Much more content to live his life on his own, reading or painting. As the crowned prince however, he didn’t have much time for his own little personal activities and was more often than not found in self defense classes, or reading something necessary to understand how to take over and run the kingdom after his father passed the crown on.

Virgil’s father had never been too thrilled with the idea of him sneaking out at night once he figured it out, but the king had also never forbade it nor stopped him when he had been caught one night. Logan had always told him to be safe and to be back before morning.

It wasn’t that Virgil didn’t respect this father, he did! But this was a decision that he wished hadn’t been set in stone. A decision that could have been swayed for at least a few years further into the future.

Though, when the Eastern Kingdom’s king fell ill, there was a messenger sent to their kingdom.

A letter had been delivered that spoke to joining forces by having their sons marry and conjoin the kingdom. Giving his son, Prince Roman, someone to rule beside and keep in check. Pleading with them to rearrange the timing of the marriage and to come to the Eastern Kingdom as soon as humanly possible.

And Virgil, being Logan’s only heir, had had no choice in the matter. He still remembered the chat as though it was yesterday, and he could still the same emotions twitching under his fingertips. Itching at his throat.

“You must understand that uniting the kingdoms was always the plan, Virgil. Though, the marriage was not supposed to happen until you and his son were older.”

“I get that, but this isn’t fair. That I‌ get no choice in what happens to my life!”

“I will not tolerate this childish behaviour, this is for the better of your kingdom and your people.”

“I just want to make my own choices, is that a sin?”

“You will be able to make your own choices after you’re joined in marriage.”

Logan had told him from a very young age that he had been betrothed to the crowned prince of the Eastern Kingdom, but as a child Virgil hadn’t understood the weight of those words.

Now that it was happening, it was the only thing he could focus on.

The horses continued their trot along the stone path, unknowingly carrying the prince to what was soon to be his demise. Ruling a kingdom with a man he didn’t know was stressful enough in theory, but to actually have to put that into action? He was surely going to either lose his mind or his dignity. If he was lucky, perhaps both.

Virgil mumbled something incoherent. It made him feel just the slightest bit better to know that his father hadn’t caught what he’d said. “I could be better,” he said louder, turning his attention to stare achingly out the window again.

Logan let out a terse sigh. “I‌ understand that you are upset with this,” he said after a moment, and Virgil turned his head just enough to show that he was, indeed, actively listening. “But this is for the better of our people. The wedding was not supposed to be this soon, and I apologize that it came so suddenly.”

Virgil shrugged his shoulders. “It is what is is.”

There was a tense silence between the two royals and Logan soon realized he wouldn’t be getting anywhere with Virgil. So, he instead settled on a different topic of importance.

“I did meet Prince Roman once,” he said while rummaging through the bag to his side, before pulling out his book and flipping it open. If he said it nonchalantly, Virgil would be more intent to listen. It was a quirk of his son’s that Logan had picked up on very quickly. He fingered through the pages idly. “He was only seven, merely a child, mind you, but he was kind and respectful. A bit exuberant, but well meaning.”

Virgil snorted. “Why are you telling me this now?‌ I’m about to meet the guy.”

“True,” Logan replied, pushing his glasses up so they sat further up on the bridge of his nose. “Though, there is no harm in knowing. It will be easier to prepare yourself if you’re armed with knowledge.”

“Yeah, yeah, knowledge is power and all that.”

“You mock now, Virgil, but in time you will understand that yes, knowledge truly is power,” the king looked up briefly, meeting the prince’s eyes for half a second before Virgil quickly glanced away again. “Ruling a kingdom is not something you just do. It’s something that will take years of learning. And you will make mistakes, as all kings do. Especially young ones.”

Virgil scrunched his nose, pushing off of the window and crossing his arms. Staring pointedly down at the floor of the carriage. “If you’re trying to be reassuring, it’s not working.”

“I’m not trying to be reassuring,” Logan said, turning his attention back down to the book in his lap, “I’m trying to tell you that things will go wrong in your reign and you mustn’t panic. If you do, do not let your people see it. They will see it as a sign of weakness.”

Virgil’s nails tightened in his sleeves, and he worried his lower lip.

“Though, have peace. You will not be doing this alone.”

“Yeah, because ruling a kingdom that is not mine with a total stranger is better.”

“It is very possible that you two will get along.”

Logan did understand the frustration of being married to someone he didn’t know. That’s how he, himself, had been wedded to Virgil’s late mother, Evangeline, and how they had given Logan an heir.

Virgil’s mother had unfortunately died in childbirth.

The queen had been beloved, but both her and Logan had shared something that the rest of the kingdom needn’t know. They had both been attracted to men and women respectfully. They had done what was necessary, but neither had truly felt attracted to one another.

Evangeline and himself had been close friends, but never anything more.

Virgil rolled his eyes and sunk further down into the leather seats, when he suddenly felt the change between gravel roads to paved stone.

His eyes were drawn outside instantly. His heart both fluttered and sunk. He was granted with the view of huge stone walls rising high above the carriage, guarded with knights and archers. Torches lit up the wooden gate as it was lifted. The carriage rode through it with hardly a qualm, the crest on the side of it recognized. Not to mention the thing had golden crested accents and looked as if it would carry important people.

The city streets were lined with people, all standing in large chattering groups. Pointing, smiling, cheering. It made Virgil pull slightly away from the window. The shops were all still open and lights glittered and shone. Lanterns, lamps, torches.

Virgil nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his knee and he turned his attention back to his father, who was looking at him with a soft gaze. “You will be alright,” he told him, an affirming tone behind his voice, “you are more than capable of doing this.”

That set something in Virgil’s chest. Hard, immovable and a lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it stayed stuck where it was.

Oh god, I‌ hope you’re right.

They didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the trip up to the castle gates. Which were coated in gold and silver. Two armed knights stood outside the gates, their swords by their sides. There was some muffled talking between the coachman and the guard on the other side of the carriage. Then there was a shouted command and the huge gate doors began to open.

Peering out the window only gave him so much of a glance at the glory that awaited inside. The courtyard was filled with life. Trees and plants and flowerbeds, lanterns hung and lights from inside the castle glittered like starlight. There were ponds filled with crystal clear water and the carriage circled around a stunning white marble fountain.

Virgil was positive that the moment he found out where the royal garden was, that was where he was going to spend a bit of his night. He needed to unwind and spend some time with just himself and the night sky and the stars hanging so far above them.

The carriage finally stopped moving after what had seemed like ages and the coachman was hopping down from his perch. Before anything happened, Logan picked up his crown and settled it comfortably once more, checking himself once, making sure his appearance was more than presentable. He sent a pointed glance toward the prince.

Virgil sighed, but knowing that it was better to make a good first impression, he reached into his crown box and pulled his own out. His thumb ran over the ruby that sat in the stock middle before turning it around in his hands and putting it on.

Logan had stood up, hearing the coachman preparing to open the door and he quickly bent down to fix Virgil’s crown so it sat straight on his brow, before adjusting the clasps that connected his cape to his jacket. It seemed he was satisfied with that and just in time. The coachman opened the door and Logan led out, Virgil was quick to follow, making sure not to step on his father’s cape.

It was a brief thought and he had to bite his lip to keep the smirk from spreading.

“Your majesties,” a man dressed in a crisp suit came down the large flight of perfect stairs, his arms open and a smile on his features. “The Eastern Kingdom greets you with the humblest of welcomes.”

“It’s our pleasure,”‌ his father said to the side of him and Virgil straightened his shoulders, matching Logan’s perfect posture.

It was all for the public eye.

Such was the life of royalty.

Always watched by their people, almost as if they were waiting for their leaders to mess up and find a reason to revolt against them. Though, Virgil knew his father was well liked by much of the kingdom, there was always the worry of something happening, no matter how wonderful the ruler.

“Prince Virgil, your betrothed eagerly awaits you,” the man said, turning to Virgil with that same bright charismatic grin. It almost set something uneasier in his chest, though he let it pass for the moment. “Come, follow me.”

Virgil clenched his hands, attempting to still the nervous shaking and letting his father lead once more. He was quick to keep pace though. Up the marble stairs and leading through the winding hallways. He would have to memorize this new layout as it was almost completely different from their own castle. There were red tapestries on the walls, decorated with gold and silver, shining in the lamp light and the moonlight seeping in through the large windows.

They dipped around a few corners before the two large mahogany doors were being swung open and a brightly lit ballroom was revealed. There were tables, chairs and benches set up to the side. The room was staggeringly big. A huge glittering crystal chandelier hung above their heads and he was admittedly taken by it. Everything about this kingdom just seemed to be breathtakingly gorgeous.

His attention shifted as soon as he heard the same man’s voice from before beginning to introduce his father and himself.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness, I introduce to you King Logan and Prince Virgil of the Northern Kingdom.”

Virgil’s attention shifted toward the head of the room, seeing two thrones sitting dauntingly large compared to their occupants. In the middle throne, he saw a sickly looking man. Pale skin, dulling brown eyes behind glasses sitting perched on his thin nose, but his shoulders back and his head up as far as it could go. The king, Virgil had no doubt about that. He knew he had fallen ill, but to see the king in this state yet trying to hold his head high?‌ Well, he gave the man even more respect.

Then, sitting to the king’s right was the crowned prince. His husband-to-be.

Virgil’s heart jumped right into his throat, upon seeing chocolate brown eyes meeting his own. They were soft, full of warmth. He felt short of breath, watching as the candlelight glinted off the crown perched delicately upon styled brown hair, tucked behind his ears. All worries about being attracted to his betrothed immediately disappeared.

Prince Roman Amir was certainly something to look at. And he made Virgil’s poor heart flutter.

However, he retained a neutral stance as Roman was granted permission from his father to step forward. Virgil heard Logan clear his throat quietly, a pointed nudge without truly touching the prince.

Taking the hint, he stepped forward, heart hammering in his chest with every step he took closer to his betrothed. The closer they got, the more details he could see on him, not to mention just how much taller Roman was than himself. He carried himself with true pride and confidence and Virgil was just faking it.

The two met in the middle of the ballroom, meeting each other’s eyes for the first time up close and Virgil found himself watching Roman’s eyes. The gentle hazels seeming to flicker over his person. A part of him felt self conscious, but the other part of him just was so mesmerized by the golden brown swirls in the prince’s eyes.

Roman dipped into a respectful bow, dropping his gaze. “Prince Roman, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Virgil quickly mimicked the same action, knowing it was required of him. “Prince Virgil, the pleasure’s mine.”

Standing straight up, Virgil tucked his hands behind his back and he felt Logan come up behind him, laying a reassuring hand on his lower back before continuing his way past the two princes. The king on the throne rose to his feet, struggling slightly as he reached for his cane and hefted himself up.

Roman turned on his heel, after sending Virgil a gentle look before returning to his father’s side. “Father,” he chided, hooking a hand under the king’s arm and helping him stand further. “You know what the healer said, stay seated unless absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, yes, I‌ know,” the king smiled, patting Roman’s hand to show that he appreciated the sentiment. His smile grew wider upon seeing Logan closer to him, greeting him with a look that almost said it all. “Logan Sanders.”

“Emile Amir,” Logan greeted back, a smile that one could only spot if they knew what they were looking for appeared. “It has been a long time, my friend.”

“I‌ do believe the last time you were here, Roman couldn’t have been older than seven,” King Emile reached out a hand and Logan took it, the both sharing a grasp that said they were old friends. “How have these years been treating you?”

Logan chuckled. His laugh was rumbling, like a comforting thunderstorm. Virgil could remember falling asleep to that sound, or finding comfort in it when he would get spooked as a child and run to his father for protection. “As they say, it could be going worse.”

Emile laughed at that, though it quickly turned into a round of coughs. Roman’s features dropped slightly, though it was gone within a flash and was replaced with a look that was more concerned than sad.

Virgil stepped closer to the throne and Emile turned to face him, that soft smile returning after recovering from his fit. “And, if my eyes don’t deceive me. Virgil, the last time I‌ saw you, you were just a babe. Now look at you, a dashing young man.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he dipped his head into a respectful nod. He could feel Roman’s eyes on him, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Or, tried not to.

“Now,”‌ Emile said, his smile dropped slightly, turning into something a bit more serious as he eased himself back down into his throne. “I‌ know this situation is not exactly ideal.”‌ The king did not hide his glances toward his son and Virgil in turn, obviously talking about the wedding being moved so much sooner than originally planned. “But I appreciate your cooperation and valiance more than anything, Virgil. It is truly remarkable.”

Virgil offered a tight smile, though it was not unkind.

“We have done everything in our power to make sure that this transition is comfortable and painless,” the king continued. “As you know, tomorrow is the wedding and the coronation to follow the day after. I‌ will do everything to make sure that both days go flawlessly to ease the stress of the both of you.”

“Father, you mustn’t worry yourself so much,” Roman told him, taking Emile’s hand and holding it tightly. “I’m sure Prince Virgil and I‌ will be alright. And so what if some hiccups occur? No matter what, it will be fine. We will be fine.”

Emile smiled at his son, patting his hand in turn. “You will be a good king, Roman. Now, enough of such dreary talk. Come, you two must be exhausted. I‌ will have Remy show you both to your quarters.”

Seemingly at the mention of his name, a man with slick black hair appeared in the grand doorway, dressed in a sleek black jacket and dress pants, hands tucked behind his back.

“Ah, what impeccable timing. Remy, please escort our guests to their quarters.”

“Actually, Emile, if you wouldn’t mind,” Logan stepped in, “I‌ would like to spend a little while catching up with you before I turn in for the night.”

“Oh.” Emile’s entire demeanor seemed to change at that. It brightened somehow, more than before. “Why of course I‌ wouldn’t mind. Let us talk in the library. I‌ know how much you loved it when we were younger.”

“I‌ can assure you that that aspect of me has not changed.” Logan stepped forward, offering his arm as Emile reached for his cane.

Emile accepted Logan’s offered assistance and lifted himself up, leaning most of his weight on his cane. “Roman, you are released for the night. Get some rest, the both of you.” It was obvious Emile was talking to both Roman and Virgil. “It is a big day for you and you will want to be well rested.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Of course, father.”

Logan shared a look with Virgil, both saying something entirely silently but communicating it perfectly. His father wished him the best, since they might not see each other until just before the ceremony.

Virgil excused himself and turned to follow Remy out of the ballroom, the taller man taking swift steps. They walked in silence for a couple minutes, but he could tell Remy was glancing at him from time to time. Virgil instead let his attention linger on the walls and the stained glass windows high above them, trying to memorize the path as best as possible. The sooner he knew these halls, the better. That way he wouldn’t have to rely on someone else for assistance in his own castle.

However, he supposed soon enough that the bedchamber he was in now would no longer be his own. As a married pair, the princes—or perhaps kings would be the proper term? No, until after the coronation, don’t get ahead of yourself—would be sharing a bed.

The thought was staggering and he took in a shaky breath.

Virgil had never had to share a bed with anyone before. At least, no one that was supposed to be his romantic interest. He had shared a bed with his father when he was a child, after having a particularly bad dream maybe. But nothing of this magnitude.

“So,” Remy finally said, turning another corner and leading Virgil down yet another well lit hallway that looked exactly like the others, save this carpet had turned from a royal crimson to a darker red. “You’re the bride-to-be.”

Virgil laughed unexpectedly. He couldn’t help it. Of the first words he had thought Remy would say to him, that was very much not it. “I‌’m sorry, that was unprofessional.”

Remy had a smirk on his face, knowing he had gotten the nervous royal to crack that anxious facade to reveal something more childish and human-like. He was pleased with himself, that much Virgil could tell. “No reason to be apologetic babes, getting a laugh like that makes you seem more human.”

Virgil snorted, bringing his arms up to wrap around himself instead of staying tucked behind his back, it was a more natural position for him and he felt more comfortable this way. At least he felt more protected.

They stopped walking after they reached a large set of dark oak doors. “This here is your bedchamber for the night,” the adviser said, pushing the door open.

Virgil was welcomed with the sight of a lavish four poster bed. The room was decorated, but dimly lit. It was comfortable and felt rather homey. It was something that he had seen in his own castle, yet it felt so different. Virgil felt somewhat homesick looking at it. The tapestries on the walls depicting waterfalls and battlefields, flowerbeds on some and a mix of a crown and a sword.

Remy turned to leave once Virgil stepped inside, but the prince was quick to stop him. “Is it possible to know where the royal garden is, and how to actually get there?”

Remy turned on his heel, looking the prince up and down before tucking his hands into the front pockets of his black jacket. “Head a little further down this hallway and take the first door on your right. It’ll lead you to the outside balcony with a set of stairs that leads into the garden,” he then swiveled back around and moved to leave before pausing again, “but, gurl, you didn’t hear that from me.”

The adviser left with a wink and shut the doors. Virgil let out a half laugh, almost unbelieving of what had happened.

He then turned to face the rest of the room, noticing a large window and a comfortable seat just underneath it. To the other side of the bed, there was a large bookshelf with countless books of all colours.

Virgil un-clipped the cape from his shoulders before folding it and placing it on the chest just in front of the bed. He removed the jacket and vest underneath as well, setting those away in a neat pile and leaving him in just his white button up shirt. He rolled the sleeves up and let out a breath.

Passing the mirror on the boudoir he realized his crown was still there. He’d been wearing it so long he had forgotten it was even there.

Virgil reached up and lifted it off, taking a single glance at it before setting it down onto the dresser. He didn’t need to be so formal if his only company for the rest of the night was himself.

Glancing through the books on the shelf, Virgil came across one about myths and mythical creatures. As a child, his father would read him books like this. However, that shifted soon enough and Logan began to read him non-fiction books, scrolls about how to rule a kingdom, how to be a proper prince. It was a leisure to read something that didn’t focus too much in the real world.

Taking the book off the shelf, he fingered through a few of the opening pages before deeming it worthy enough of a late night read.‌ At least to hold his attention until everyone went to bed so he could take his time to wander through the royal garden without the fear of being caught or seen. Or interrupted.

He grabbed the candle sitting on the dresser before bringing it over to the window seat and settling it down on the ledge. He propped the window open just enough to taste the fresh night air outside, but not enough to let it snuff the candle. He pulled his legs up onto the cushion and leaned his back against the wall, propping the book up on his knees.

Out of this entire situation, this had to be the most peaceful and relaxed he had felt after this whole endeavor had begun.

Even with the wedding looming over his shoulder, Virgil could take these last few chances to be by himself.

A few hours had passed by the time he had nearly finished the book and he heard servants outside his door beginning to snuff out most of the lights, save for leaving one or two. It was a routine he was used to back home, and would normally wait until everyone else retired for the night before sneaking out and grabbing Patton, before they ran off to the waterfall in the dead of the evening.

After waiting an extra ten or so minutes, Virgil closed the book and placed it back onto the shelf where it belonged.

He opened one of the doors and peered out into the hallway. Just as he had suspected, most of the lights had been snuffed and only a few remained flickering. Most of the hallway was illuminated with a warm moonlit glow.

Slipping out into the hallway, he shut the door as silently as he possibly could before making his way down the hallway. The same way Remy had told him earlier that evening.

First door on your right.

When he turned to the right a little ways down, there was another corridor, but at the very end of it were two more large mahogany doors with inscriptions and pictures engraved into it. Virgil made sure to walk on the carpet and not the stone, not wanting his shoes to make any noise against the polished flooring.

His hands roved over the inscriptions, his fingertips finding the small detailed divots. He tugged on the metal handle before the door opened. He slid through the opening he had created and shut it silently behind him.

When Virgil turned, he was welcomed with the sight of a garden beyond compare. He was currently standing on a balcony made of polished white marble, but when he leaned over the railing, he could see emerald green that went on for what seemed like ages. Stone walls with flowering vines crawling up the sides, matching ponds on both sides of the stairs that descended. Statues that spouted water into the fountains surrounded by flowerbeds and bushes with roses. Trees, arches, a gazebo in the centre of the magnificence.

The stars glittering so high above brought it altogether. If this was how dazzling it looked at night, then the daylight it must be even more breathtaking. Or, hell, during twilight.

Virgil was so taken by the view in front of him, he had failed to hear the sounds of the door opening behind him before it was too late.

“You sneak out into the garden at night too?”

The sudden voice from behind the prince made him jolt, snapped out of his trance and flinching away to turn and see Roman standing almost directly to the side of him. He was missing practically everything Virgil was. The crown, the cape, the over decorated jacket.

He looked just like an average boy.

“Uh, yeah,” he admitted after a moment, turning back to lean against the railing after calming his poor heart from the scare, “couldn’t resist really. I‌ needed some fresh air to clear my head about everything.”

Roman chuckled. The sound was warm and comforting and it made Virgil’s heart skip a beat, as cheese-y and sappy as that was. The other prince came to stand beside him, their shoulders nearly touching as they both watched the peaceful garden in its most natural form. The soft rush of water, the chirping of crickets, the gentle sound of the pond water lapping from the gentle breeze overhead.

“I‌ don’t blame you,” Roman told him in a soft voice, side glancing Virgil from his leaned position. “I’ve found a safe place in the garden. The sounds, the sights. Night is when everything is at its most peaceful.”

It had an air of absolute serenity.

Hearing that his fiance felt the same way about such a place was almost like a weight off of his chest. One that he didn’t even know had been there in the first place. Virgil let the ghost of a smile appear on his lips, feeling content in this moment. Even with the chaos that was about to ensue tomorrow, he felt at ease with his partner.

Though, when Roman’s words registered, Virgil realized he had said his safe place, so did that mean he was encroaching on something that almost felt sacred?

“I‌ don’t want to intrude if you want to be alone–”‌ Virgil said, moving to push away from the banister when his hand was grabbed, stopping him immediately in his tracks. Brown eyes flickering up to meet Roman’s.

“Please don’t go.” It was a soft plead and Virgil let out a breath, seeing the vulnerability behind that gaze. Roman was completely genuine in not wanting him to leave. “I really would like your company. Besides, you were here before me. Truly, it is I that is intruding on you.”

Virgil broke out of his thoughts again, his face flushing when he realized Roman hadn’t let go his hand. It was so soft, and warm to the touch. He really didn’t want Roman to let his hand go. But right at this moment, Virgil didn’t have the confidence to interlace their fingers either, so he just stood there.

He smiled a little more sincerely, relaxing the slightest bit. “Nonsense,”‌ he said after another moment of collecting his scattered thoughts, “it’s your garden after all.”

The two stood there for another moment more, just drinking the other in. Memorizing what they could of each other in the moonlight. Virgil could see the way the moonlight shone off Roman’s eyes, making them glitter in the most cliche way. But it was something so…so real.

Maybe Patton was right, maybe there really was such a thing as true love.

“Come on,” Roman broke the silence, “I want to show you something.”

With a gentle tug on his hand, Virgil was following Roman down the marble stairs and onto the stone path of the garden.‌‌

And they hadn’t let each other go.

“You’re not leading me all the way out here to kill me, just so you can get out of the marriage are you?” Virgil teased.

This time Roman’s laugh was louder, more boisterous, more unabashed and unashamed. That beaming smile was turned back on Virgil and he swore his heart nearly stopped. It filled him with warmth and butterflies and everything that Patton had always told him love would make him feel. It was cliche and sappy and disgusting.

And he liked it.

“No, no,” Roman’s laugh tapered off, showing something still amused but serious. “I swear to you it’s nothing like that.”

Roman led him through a few arches covered in vines and greenery and the sweet fragrance of flowers surrounded the both of them.‌ Soon enough, though, Virgil could hear the rushing of water and before he knew it, Roman was pushing some dangling vines and long grass out of the way and they were ducking down into a cavern.

The cave itself was short, Virgil could see a faint light over Roman’s shoulder and the rushing water got louder. They were pressed rather close together as there wasn’t enough space for the both of them to be side by side.

After another minute, Virgil was able to stand up straight and he saw a waterfall, stretching high above them. When he looked all the way up, the moon hung just over the top of it, giving it an angelic glow and he stepped forward on instinct, mouth agape.

“This technically isn’t apart of the royal garden,”‌ Roman told him quietly off to the side, not wanting to ruin the moment, “but I‌ found it when I‌ was a teenager. It’s one of my favourite spots in the entire kingdom, really.”

“I‌ can see why.” Virgil’s hand unconsciously tightened on Roman’s, just wanting to drink in the moment. He could feel emotions budding in the back of his throat. “I‌ have a waterfall like this back home, but it’s nothing compared to this.”

As much as Virgil loved his and Patton’s secret spot back home, it paled in comparison to what he was looking at now.

Roman finally intertwined their fingers and Virgil looked up to him. “You’re the first person I’ve ever showed this place,” he told him, moving to stand directly in front of him, reaching down and taking Virgil’s other hand in his own.

That information shocked him. He was the first person this wonderland had been shown to? Ever?‌ Virgil was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say?‌ He was honoured?‌ Touched? “I– I‌ don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Roman’s voice had dropped significantly and Virgil’s face went scarlet. He could feel the tips of his ears getting warmer and heat creeping up the back of his neck. He could only thank the lord is was too dark for Roman to see just how flustered he was making him.

(However, it was such a cliche line that if Virgil had heard it out of context, he would have laughed and moved on.)

“I‌ know this whole situation is really strange for the both of us, Virgil,” Roman continued, softer. “And I‌ completely understand that. But I honestly think we can do this.”

Virgil’s mouth went dry and he licked his lips to try and went them again. He had just an urge to just surge up and press his mouth against Roman’s. It would be wildly inappropriate (ignoring the fact that they were going to literally be married tomorrow) and Virgil was pretty sure he would combust if he actually did it.

His eyes dropped from Roman’s, and glanced down to their interlaced hands. It was such an intimate moment and they had barely known each other three hours. Had barely interacted more than twice.‌

And yet, it felt real.

He knew what he was about to say was something he truly felt. It was weird and strange and the last thing he had expected, nevertheless speak such a cliche and romantic sentence without cringing.

Virgil looked back up, meeting his betrothed’s once again. Roman looked so hopeful, a delicate light flashing behind those breathtakingly brown eyes. He smiled and squeezed Roman’s hands. “I think so too.”

Maybe there truly was a silly thing known as love at first sight.

——————————

Taglist: @isle-of-gold

212 notes · View notes

ask-toa-hahli · 4 years

Text

Noctilio

Part 2: The Visit

Hahli was getting rather anxious as the morning hours wore on, worrying that her waiting and patience would all be in vain. Would this work, would she even bother coming? By noon it was all beginning to all build up on her, that is until she spotted a blue winged being just arriving in front of the village.

“Gavla!” The water Toa shouted as she rushed over to greet the Matoran, but forced herself into a slower pace as she approached, not wanting to come off as overwhelming. “Welcome to Ga-Koro, I’m so glad you came over.”

“Hmph, well it’s not like I had anything better to do today.” Gavla remarked with little enthusiasm.

“Still, it’s good to have you here,” Hahli replied pleasantly. “I really think that you’ll-”

HHHSSSSSSSS

A sharp hiss abruptly interrupted the Toa. The young Boggarak growled from the water user’s shoulder at the Av-Matoran. With another vocal hiss, the spider then turned away and crawled behind the Toa’s back, retreating to the welcoming shade between her wing-fins.

“Um, that was just Iara, you don’t have to mind her.” Hahli tried to pick herself back up as Gavla just continued to stare with little impression. To her own chagrin, she had forgotten that the Visorak had practically glued onto her for the day. “She really won’t bother you at all. It’s nothing against you, little one is just sensitive and just isn’t fond of feeling light elements…”

“Yeah, well I don’t like them either.” Gavla somewhat muttered under her breath, Hahli had to keep herself from frowning.

The Toa decided to return to the original subject. “I know you just got here, but what do you think so far?”

Gavla kicked a tuft of sand. “It’s sandy.”

“Well, we are on a beach.”

The Matoran squinted as she turned her head to look around. “It’s bright.”

“Like I said, we’re on a beach.”

Without missing a beat Gavla added. “It’s loud.”

“That’s just the sound of the waves, many find it rather calming.” Hahli said, keeping her composure.

“Well I don’t,” Gavla said as she crossed her arms.

Hahli took a deep breath. “How about… we go in and I show you around.”

~~~~~~~~~

She took the Av-Matoran up and down the floating walkways, pointing out different huts, explaining things that were going on and introducing her to several residents. So far despite the efforts, Gavla was still showing little interest in everything there. It was certainly getting frustrating, but Hahli wanted to maintain her optimism. Besides… It’s not like I have any other better ideas...

When they were by the boats, Gavla wasn’t even paying attention as Kotu was explaining needing different fishing techniques for different types of fish. It seemed like nothing would fascinate the girl. Running out of ideas off the top of her head, Hahli worriedly looked around trying to swiftly find something else that could be engaging. Maybe if she introduced someone else?

Quickly, she chose the next Matoran that she could easily spot. “Gavla, have I introduced you yet to- to um…. Vhisola!?”

The Toa dragged her guest up to the Ga-Matoran, who just so happened to be standing by the side of a hut sharpening a hatchet blade.

“Vhisola, this here is Gavla-”

“Uh huh, you already told us about her last night, so I already assumed that’s who she was.” Vhisola rebuffed, she gazed up from her work and casually scanned over the Matoran presented before her. “So, wings, huh?”

Gavla’s bat-wings twitched before folding back. “Yeah, so what?” The Av-Matoran briskly responded in a defensive manner.

“Well, why the wings?” Vhisola put bluntly.

“Vhisola,” Hahli intercepted. “You know very well how they got like that.”

“Yeah Hahli, I know ‘how’ like everyone does, but that’s not what I was asking.” Vhisola rolled her eyes. “I’m asking what’s the point of them.”

“What do you mean, what’s the point?” Gavla asked suspiciously.

“I mean, what does it have to do with having minor shadow energy?” She went on explaining. “All Matoran abilities are related to their element type, Ga-Matoran can hold their breath longer underwater and excel at swimming and such. So what exactly does having vulnerable wings to fly have to do with relation to the shadow element?”

“Vhisola!” Hahli snapped. “This is not appropriate right now!”

“It’s a legitimate question, Hahli,” Vhisola said as she continued sharpening her blade. “Some of us like being curious and knowledgeable.”

Gavla appeared to struggle with the question Vhisola had thrown out, her bat wings gave an aggressive flap. “I- I don’t know why… But what’s so special about being able to sit in water and swim a little better anyways?” The Av-Matoran threw back.

“Excuse me, the Ga-Matoran abilities are very important. It helps us connect and interact with our element, and you don’t even seem to know how your form functions with your past element.” Vhisola ended her chided lecture on a self satisfied note.

“Vhisola!” Hahli interjected through nearly gritted teeth.

Vhisola stopped sharpening her tool’s blade and glared back at Hahli. “Oh come on Hahli. It’s not everyday that a physically unique Matoran comes in, of course I want to know how it works.”

The winged Matoran just stared at Vhisola taken aback, a surprised expression behind her mask. “Unique…” she breathed out quietly.

Hahli was entirely regretting bringing these two into close proximity. She physically put herself between them, attempting to keep things from escalating further. “Vhisola… don’t you have something better you could be doing right now with your… Mata Nui, why do you even have that right now?” She added in response to the hatchet the Matoran was still holding

“Because Hahli,” Vhisola replied. “If you bothered to notice, we have an excess of bamboo and it needs to get chopped down.”

“Wait, you guys still get to chop things up here?” Gavla piped in.

The water Toa was surprised when the other Matoran spoke up, and was even more surprised to hear a pique of interest in her voice for the first time.

“Well yeah, of course we do,” Vhisola said. “What can you not or something?”

“No, not since we started living in New Atero.” Gavla stated. “At least not publicly.”

“Now that’s just restrictive,” the Ga-Matoran put plainly.

As unorthodox as this was starting to become, Hahli decided to at least try and go with it.

“Gavla, would you be interested in helping Vhisola with her chore?” She asked Gavla gently, though she gave a stern look at the water Matoran in turn.

Vhisola shrugged. “I guess I could show her how it’s properly done, but she needs her own hatchet.”

The former shadow Matoran raised her claws. “I think I’m good there.”

“Hmph, well, we’ll see how they hold up,” Vhisola lightly scoffed, though it really didn’t sound antagonistic.

“I guess we will,” Gavla replied mildly as she began to follow the other blue being who was now leading to a bamboo grove that had not been managed for a while.

Hahli watched the two closely as they walked away, her wing-fins began to tense. “If you have any trouble or you need something feel free to come get me,” she called out quickly, but the Matoran kept their pace, appearing to chat with one another and not once looking back at the Toa.

Slowly, Hahli’s wing-fins started to relax and after a little longer she began to feel comfortable enough to get to move on to attending to other things.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Near the end of the day, Hahli gave her goodbyes to Gavla and told her that she hoped to see her again tomorrow. The response she got back was an uninterested “We’ll see,” but she remained rather hopeful as the Matoran left for home that they would be returning the next day.

Later as the night was drawing in and the Ga-Matoran were busy cleaning up, finishing their tasks in the dwindling light and beginning to light lanterns. Hahli was caught up in the middle of assisting Pelagia and Kai, lifting and holding up the side of a boat on the dock so the two could make repairs where they normally couldn’t reach. She wanted them to be wrapping their job up soon. Already she could feel Iara crawling all over her armor, getting antsy and hungry.

“Hey Hahli!”

The Toa looked over to see which Matoran was addressing her. “What is it, Vhisola?”

Vhisola walked up to her, not seeming to care that the Toa was already in the middle of something. “So, about Gavla…”

“What about her?” There was a slight inflection of warning in her question. After the earlier near confrontation from today, Hahli was not in the mood for any of Vhisola’s complaints.

The Matoran was not concerned at all with the Toa’s tone. “Look I know you said she has a lot of problems-”

“I never said that-”

“Either way, she kinda said some things while she was here,” Vhisola went on.

Hahli let out a deep sigh, nearly resting her head against the boat side she was still holding.The Toa was already regretting introducing those two. “Can this wait? We can take this to my hut and- ”

“This is important.” Vhisola retorted with a correctional attitude, she continued before Hahli could protest again.

“We were talking about our old villages initially at first, talked about other stuff, eventually we got to the subject of who we admired.” The Ga-Matoran explained, she beamed a little with what she said next. “Naturally, I mentioned Nokama.”

It took some self control from Hahli to not groan, already she was making guesses at what sort of remark Vhisola would construed as disparaging or insulting over this. She wasn’t sure how much more patience she’d have left here. “So what did she say then?”

“That’s the thing, after I told mine, Gavla said who she admired…” Vhisola paused briefly. “...Which just so happened to be a Makuta…”

The water Toa nearly dropped the boat. “What?”

“And yes before you ask, that is exactly what she said.” Vhisola stated clearly enough.

Both Pelagia and Kai halted their work, a few other Ga-Matoran who had been walking by had stopped and looked over, some having overheard and others having sensed that something was disrupted.

The attention made Hahli feel more unnerved by the reveal. She recalled what Kirop told her about Gavla making disturbing remarks… but she had never guessed that involved actually idolizing… Images of that handmade monstrous figure that sat on Gavla’s nightstand right next to the bed crept into her head, making her suddenly feel cold and gross...

Hahli tried to say something at the moment. “That’s- That’s…”

“Yeah, it’s kinda messed up.” Vhisola willingly filled in.

“Mata Nui, please tell me that you didn’t say that to Gavla’s face?” The Toa hoped things weren’t made any worse.

“Of course I didn’t,” Vhisola said.“I just told her it was weird.”

“For Mata Nui’s sake, Vhisola.” Hahli flared.

“What? It was the mildest way to put it, she even mentioned that was the best thing anybody has said about it so far.” Vhisola defended.

A loose crowd was beginning to form around the area, murmurs and whispers were being spread through everyone, and Hahli didn’t need to hear them to know exactly who they were about. Her entire plan to help was now on the brink of backfiring completely on the first day

“Look,” Hahli said aloud, making sure everyone could hear her. “I know how… unsettling this all sounds and it’s definitely something to be uncomfortable about. But Gavla has also been through some terrible things and has had a rough time getting through them, she’s definitely hurting and really needs some sort of help. So if we could just give a chance that she desperately needs…”

The Ga-Matoran were silent

“Hahli’s completely right.” Kai moved over from her position where she had been working on the boat and stood up. “We need to at least give her a chance and try to help. I don’t think any of us can continue to say we’re upholding the virtues, especially the virtue of unity, if we decide that we should give up on a Matoran so easily.”

Several of the Ga-Matoran nodded in agreement, others talked with each other among themselves but seemed to come to the same agreement. A few left remained wary, but were willing enough to see how things went with the Av-Matoran first. The gathered Matoran then began to slowly disperse, returning to their normal tasks at hand.

“Thank you so much, Kai,” Hahli said gratefully. Relief washing over the Toa. “I really wasn’t sure how that was going to go.”

“Not a problem, Hahli.” Kai replied casually, “I just didn’t think it would be really fair to Gavla if we threw her away so easily.”

“No, it absolutely wouldn’t,” the Toa said as she shot a look at Vhisola.

The Komau wearer just shrugged. “I figured you’d be more upset if I didn’t mention it.”

Hahli was about to say something to reprimand Vhisola, when Kai spoke up again.

“Hey, if you want you can send Gavla my way anytime, I won’t mind if she hangs around while I work. I can take her boating as well if she’d like.”

“-Oh that would be great,” Hahli exclaimed, delighted by this sudden development. “That would be very helpful, if we could just get her to feel safe and comfortable here I think she’ll start to relax and be well… less abrasive and maybe open herself up to people.”

Pelagia had finished the last repair and got up, finally allowing Hahli to gently place the boat back down, while Vhisola rolled her eyes and walked off, but the Toa didn’t care as much about the Matoran’s behavior anymore.

“I mean it, I can’t thank you enough,” Hahli told Kai.

Kai smiled. “Like I told you Hahli, not a problem.”

Toa and Matoran then exchanged their goodnights and departed towards their huts, much as the rest of the village settled in for the evening. The sun finished its descent and with it the clear waters surrounding the Koro plunged into murky darkness.

#connected one-shots #noctilio #gavla #ga-koro #Ga-Matoran #av-matoran #Vhisola #kai #bionicle #bonkles #second of three #vamprah

8 notes · View notes

skvaderarts · 4 years

Text

Chapter Ten: Amalgamation

You can check out the Masterlist Here for more links to places to read!

SORRY I’M LATE AGAIN. I KNOW, I SUCK!

Chapter Ten: Amalgamation

-~-

Notes: I genuinely can’t believe we’ve made it to chapter ten. It’s been nearly six years since I’ve written a fic this long, and the number of people who consistently come back twice every week to read what I’ve been working on is genuinely astonishing. Somehow after several years of no ideas and a dwindling interest in creating new content, we’ve arrived at 40k words and 1k readers! I can’t believe that we’re here. I’d like to thank HunterJamie, RubixaSeraph, SkylarMorgan1899, and Mallovarwen for commenting again with very enjoyable and helpful feedback, and thank first-time commentator Random Reader nothing special for their wonderful comment. It really warmed my heart. Thank you to everyone for their patience with my late releases this week. I’ve just been terrible at getting things done lately. Now, on to the chapter!

By all accounts, this was going to be the worst storm to hit the region in their current lifetime. The spokesperson on the portable radio that sat in the living room spoke of pitch-black clouds that hummed with dangerously high amounts of energy, abnormally large and concerningly frequent lightning strikes that almost seemed to be aiming towards objects on the planet’s surface, and torrential rains carried by winds just over fifty miles per hour. The streets had turned into rivers and the rivers were bursting at the seams while intermittent power failures plagued every building for miles to come. Reports of fires and car accidents came pouring into the station in droves as meteorologists combed through every piece of data they had, trying to form some sort of hypnosis as to where this freak act of nature had suddenly come from. Their analysis of the weather that day had been completely different. The prognosis was mass hysteria and paranoia across the board. And that was before the possibility of demons had been brought into the picture.

If this had been just a few months before the Redgrave City Disaster, the general public would have been quick to dismiss the notion that something supernatural might be going on, but things had decidedly taken a turn for the worst since then. People jumped at shadows, fearing and feeling the presence of denizens of oblivion at every turn. There was a fanatical talk show host at the end over every dial turn, and twice as many made for TV religious figureheads peddling disaster and armageddon into the open ears and closed minds of their eager listeners. The atmosphere was ripe with dread and superstition, and that was to say nothing about the rumors going around about some shadowy cabal that seemed to be investigating things around town, making a consorted effort to get the locals of the town of Enamel to divulge anything they knew about something dubious that most of the citizens couldn’t make sense of. Reports were scarce and inconsistent as to what this shadowy group wanted, but records of them were coming in from every corner of the region. It was unclear if they should be considered a threat to the general public since they had yet to harm anyone, but authorities were advising people to exercise caution.

Nero stepped into the room and found Kyrie listening to the broadcast, her normally serene demeanor showing slight signs of worry. He leaned over the back of the couch and wrapped his arms around her, eliciting a startled sound and an embarrassed smile from the young brunette woman. She gripped his hands for a moment, hugging his arm gently with the side of her face as closing her eyes and let out a melancholy sigh. The young devil hunter couldn’t help but notice her change in demeanor.

“You shouldn’t listen to that, Kyrie. It’s just going to make you worry.” Nero said using the top of his head to nuzzle her hair. He didn’t like to see her like this, as infrequent as it may be.

The normally chipper woman pulled away timidly and stood up, glancing in the direction of the stairs. The children were in their bedroom playing at the moment and she was glad for it. Not so much because she didn’t want to keep up with them (although she did need a break if she was being honest) but because she didn’t need them hearing this. After all the things that they had been through in their short lives; surviving the Savior incident, being displaced and rehomed, and then nearly losing Nero such a short while ago, the last thing she wanted to do was frighten them again.

“Your right, I should probably turn that off,” She said as she turned her attention to the hallway, her eyes seemingly fixated on something behind her domestic partner,” There isn’t anything I can do about the weather, and the power keeps going in and out anyway. I should save the battery in case there’s an emergency. it’s just… all this talk about a cult... ”

Nero put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close, understanding now why she seemed so disconcerted. They had all lost so much during the attack a few years back. She didn’t need to explain to him why she would be worried about something like that. After all, it seemed like most residents of Fortuna were questioning key facets of their lives these days. The formerly devout community didn't show up to prayer as often as they once did if they showed up at all. Their faith had been totally and undeniably undermined. There were open debates about the merits and legitimacy of the Order of the Sword and its actions everywhere they went and no small number of turned heads whenever Nero or any other member of the Holy Knights went. It seemed that the entire city was united in shame and grief.

“Hey… don’t worry about it. You know I’m not going to let anything happen to any of you…” Nero hugged her and released her, allowing her to regain her.

Kyrie fixed her clothing and hair, taking a deep breath before exhaling and shaking herself as if doing so would somehow snap her out of her current state. She sighed and nodded, turning her head in the direction of the staircase again. The children had suddenly gotten significantly louder. After a moment, she stepped towards the stairs, turning back towards him as she went.

“Thank you, Nero… I… I don’t want you to worry. I know,” She smiled tenderly as she headed up the stairs, pointing at something behind him,” I’ll go check on the children. I think someone wants to talk to you.

With that, she disappeared up the stairs. Nero’s brow furrowed in perplexment as he turned around to see that V was in the room with him. Wrapped in the grey blanket that Kyrie had left him and leaning against the doorway to the room for support, he now looked more alert and healthy than he just had an hour or so ago. He had presumably heard and seen their entire conversation, but had chosen not to interject. Nero looked at him quietly for a moment before turning and going to sit on the couch.

He flopped down on the soft cushion and exhaled audibly, not sure how he felt at the moment. Although he hadn’t come to any sort of conclusion regarding this mysterious group that had been plaguing the area, he was willing to entertain the idea that something weird was going on. The odds of this otherworldly inclement weather starting the very same day that they brought V back from the great beyond was far too covenant to be a coincidence. True, it had been a foggy day, but the storm had started to roll in mere minutes after his resurrection and had intensified about a half-hour after they made port. And the intensity of the storm was questionable as well. It just seemed… aggressive, as though it served some other purpose and they were just missing something.

As Nero sat thinking, V approached the window nearest to him. It looked out over the street and down the block, showing a wonderful view of the distant shoreline during more ideal weather. He slowly walked over to it, staying decidedly close to the wall despite the fact that there was plenty of room for him to walk. When he reached his destination, he leaned back against the wall and pulled the mostly sheer curtains aside to get a better view of the outside world. He gazed outside quietly, half-turned away from Nero. Despite the deafening boom of thunder and the blistering speeds the wind was traveling at as it rattled the building slightly, V still found the sight of rain dripping off the overhead exterior window seal and then running down the window soothing.

“... Something isn’t right,” V said, not so much asking as he was stating a fact,” This storm is… unnatural, to say the least.”

Nero nodded two or three times as V turned to face him slightly more than he had been before. The taller man was most certainly fairing better now that Nero got a better look at him. He looked less pale now and closer to his normal skin tone, which was admittedly still pretty pale, and his balance seemed to be more steady. The shivering and clamminess that had plagued him seemed to be gone, and he was coherent.

“Yea, I kinda guessed that,” Nero said with a sarcastic tinge to his voice,” It started right after we brought you back. How’d you guess that something was going on?”

V turned his attention away from the window and turned to look at his brother again. He stepped forward and slid between the armchair and the side table that sat across from the couch and came to a stop in front of the couch. After taking a moment to regain his balance, he sat down on the other end of the couch and turned his attention back to his younger brother. “I can’t say. It’s just something I know.”

It was a sentiment they both shared for the same reasons, but there wasn’t a coherent explanation as to why this was between the two of them. The younger of the two deduced that maybe this was somehow connected to the spell they had performed earlier that day, but he couldn’t be sure. He was willing to believe that Magnolia was far more knowledgeable about these sorts of things than he was. Hell, everyone in his family probably knew more about this than he did. All this talk of realms of reality, contracts, and familiars went right over his head, despite the fact that he was not opposed to learning about any of it.

In an attempt to break the now marginally uncomfortable silence that was forming between them, Nero stood up and walked over to the fireplace across from the couch. He lit the gas fire, relishing in the fact that their home had one and that it wasn’t wood burning considering the age of the place. The cozy warmth started to spread throughout the available space in the room as Nero sat back down on the couch and stretched his arms out, trying to make himself more comfortable and seem more amicable. V wrapped himself in the blanket and curled up into the corner of the couch, giving a casual glance toward the window before shifting his focus towards the warm fire. Anyone with eyes could see that he felt more comfortable now that it was on.

“You turned on the fireplace,” V said casually as he adjusted himself under the blanket in order to be closer to the inviting warmth produced by the flickering flame. Nero nodded, taking a moment to realize that the very obvious statement was more of a question than anything else.

“Yea, well you were under a blanket so I figured…” Nero trailed off, scratching the back of his neck in discomfort. He was just now realizing that he hadn’t quite reached the stage with V where he felt comfortable explaining things like this, and he didn’t know for the life of him why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable. There was just something about V that unnerved him and made him unable to communicate the most basic things. He had never worked well with quiet people, but this was something else entirely. Hopefully, he would get better at communicating with him as time passed.

V looked at him thoughtfully, that devilish smirk that Nero was all too familiar with making an appearance for the first time since V’s untimely death. Nero gave him an incredulous look, unsure of what to do or say about his reaction. He wasn’t entirely sure why he looked so pleased with himself and that somehow made him even more uncomfortable.

Several sets of footsteps could be heard from behind them as they both turned to see Kyrie descending the stairs with the children in tow. She was carrying the once that V recognized; the littlest child named Carlo who had introduced himself earlier that day. But the other two boys who looked like they were probably biologically related to one another were unfamiliar to him, and he to them. Upon seeing him, the tallest child stopped and yanked the middle child to a stop, pointing at him with an excited look on his face. As Kyrie sat Carlo down in one of the living room chairs, the other children filed into the living room, their giant excited eyes fixed on V.

Nero stood up to go help Kyrie in the kitchen. Just as he did, the tallest child tugged on his shirt and pointed at V. “Hey, who’s that,” He inquired with interest and excitement evident in his voice,” You both have that cool white hair! Are you family?”

For reasons that he couldn’t quite place, his entire brain snagged like a rusted clock gear with a rope stuck in it at that question. Yes. Obviously, that was the answer. But for some unknown reason, he just couldn’t make that come out of his mouth. Maybe he just hadn’t truly grasped that concept yet. It was an irrefutable fact by this point, but somehow he just still couldn’t believe it in a way.

After a moment, Nero reached down and fluffed the inquisitive child’s head, nodding to him. “Yea. Were related.”

Before the wide-eyed child could ask him to elaborate, V chimed in from his comfortable position on the couch under his blanket by the fire. “It would appear that I’m his older brother.”

The little child giggled as Nero stared at V in surprise. He wasn’t expecting him to pick up on his burgeoning mental breakdown and come to his rescue. The middle child groaned, shaking his head. “Julio is my older brother! So you're both bigger than me!”

Julio placed his hands up to the sides of his head and wiggled them, taunting his little brother playfully. “Yea! Kyle and Carlo are my little brothers! I’m almost seven!”

V nodded quietly, honestly mildly entertained by the children’s antics. There was something about watching them tease and poke fun at one another that he found genuinely humorous. While his brothers terrorized each other, Carlo climbed down out of his seat and up onto the couch, sitting down surprisingly close to V. Considering the fact that he was around three, it wasn’t too shocking that he hadn’t figured out the concept of personal space yet. But that didn’t stop V from scooting back slightly to give himself more room, pulling his legs into himself closer. The little child didn’t take the hint and instead opted to climb over his legs and plop himself square in V’s lap, wrapping his arms as far around him as they would go to give him a hug.

“I love you, Nero’s brother! You're nice.” He giggled as he continued to squeeze, not really managing to do anything impactful to V’s ability to breathe. Well, at least not with his arms.

The taller man with the white hair stared at him, his eyes considerably wider than they normally were. V pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his breath catching in absolute shock. The tiny child’s head was buried in his shirt, so he couldn’t see the look of absolute disbelief on the object of his affections face. No, he hadn’t just heard that. There was no way. He must’ve misheard him. After all, Carlo had just met him! But he had. And he was the first person to say that to him in… well…

… Oh...

Kyrie was in the dining room placing down the plates, so she couldn’t see what had transpired, but Nero did. And for the first time ever, he could actually tell what V was thinking because it was written all over his face. He’d never seen him look so startled in the entire time he knew him, but that wasn’t the only thing. He seemed… Almost hurt by the comment, clearly indicating that it had some sort of profound effect on him. And despite the fact that he didn’t know even the slightest thing about V’s personal life (if he even had one) he had an idea why the child’s words might have affected him so deeply. He’s had a rough time growing up. Little things like that meant the world, especially when the person saying them truly meant them. And Carlo wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t lie about something like that.

V sat up and wrapped his left arm around him gently, giving him a careful squeeze before letting him go and hesitantly running his fingers through his hair. He rested his head atop of Carlo’s head for a moment, giving him one last gentle squeeze, eliciting a giggle from the little boy before releasing him. He gave him a thoughtful but melancholy look before accompanying it with one last head pat. He honestly didn’t know what to do with himself. Reciprocating affection wasn’t something he had much experience with.

“... Thank you, Carlo...” V swallowed, trying to repress the emotions he refused to let speak for him,” That is very… kind of you.”

Carlo may have not picked up on V’s tone, but Nero had. The little boy had struck a nerve of some sort, and Nero was genuinely concerned as to how dark of a turn V’s emotional state had taken. He seemed deeply troubled by the comment.

As Carlo hopped down from his lap and ran into the dining room after his brothers, V sat breathlessly on the couch, clearly trying to compose himself. He ran his hands down his face and formed a cup, covering his face up to his nose with them. He leaned forward on his knees, shuttering slightly, and exhaled a shaky breath. Nero watched him quietly, unsure of what to do or say. He took a step forward and put his hand on the back of the couch, acutely aware that touching him right now might not go over the way he intended. V stole a glance at him, silently acknowledging his gesture but now speaking or moving.

“... V…” Nero said quietly as if speaking loudly would do him some form of harm,” You okay?”

He didn’t answer, at least verbally. He looked at him quietly and lowered his hands, exhaling and blinking rapidly as if he had something caught in his eye. After a moment, he nodded once and glanced in the direction of the entryway. Kyrie stood there with a curious look on her face but didn’t ask, clueing into the cat that this might not be a good time. “... I just wanted to say that dinner is ready,” she said as she looked at V, smiling sympathetically despite having no idea what had reduced him to this state,” I made extra in case you were hungry. Feel free to join us.”

She stepped back into the kitchen when she finished speaking. Nero turned back to V and inched his hand just close enough to where his fingertips touched the back of his shoulder but he didn’t grab him. He seemed to have composed himself for the most part. Nero leaned over to get a better look at him and they made eye contact. V shrugged away, uncomfortable. He wasn’t fond of direct eye contact any more than he was of them staring at him.

Nero glanced in the direction of the dining room and then back to his brother, now more settled on what he wanted to say. “You know, I’m pretty sure we have an extra chair around her. You wanna come with me?”

V looked over at him, a thoughtful look on his face. A light smirk that didn’t reach his eyes spread across his face and he nodded. “Yes. I think I would like that.”

-~-

I am so beyond done with myself over how late this chapter is. Like, I’m actually angry. But at least I got the chapters for next week done early so that I don’t have to worry about this happening again. So sorry guys. I suck, but I hope the chapter was good, at least! I’d love to hear your comments. I’ve updated the masterlist on Tumblr since it seems I’ll be having plenty more time to write due to the pandemic.

4 notes · View notes

lpdwillwrite4coffee · 4 years

Text

BLOODY SUNRISE CHAPTER SEVEN

Two days.

Two days of heading east. Of trudging through forest and abandoned crop fields. Of discovering suburbs or towns only to find them razed or overrun with Geeks. And more fences.

Each time they came across a chain link barrier, Booker got quieter, almost brooding. Whatever quip he’d been about to hurl at her died on his tongue and he’d slow his pace, fresh disappointment and sorrow washing over him.

He never said why though. But Caitlin could guess.

Their options were running out. Their path was being chosen for them, forced to go the even longer way around. And their supplies were dwindling.

They finished the last of their water on the morning of the third day. Booker immediately pulled out his map and crouched down to read.

“Any viable sources for drinking water are south west from here. And…” He squinted up, gauging the sun’s position. “If we keep going this direction, we’re gonna land smack dab in the middle of a hot zone.”

Caitlin sighed. “What?”

“Atlanta is a day’s walk that way,” he said, gesturing. “If we keep trying to go around, we’re gonna end up in some trouble.”

She wanted to yell and pull her hair. Instead she just exhaled roughly and planted her hands on her hips.

“I spent a week getting away from Atlanta only to wind up back there.”

Booker stood, refolding his map. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I thought there’d be a way to go up and around, but…”

“Okay, so now what?” She couldn’t focus on the time lost. Only on moving forward.

Locking eyes with her, Booker said, “We go south. Fill up our water supply, then we head west.”

Caitlin nodded. It was all she could do. “Alright.”

She felt him watching her as she swung her pack over her shoulder and started walking.

After a few moments, Booker was on her heels. “I know what you must be thinkin’.”

“Oh?”

“You’re thinkin’ I’m an idiot for gettin’ us lost. For leadin’ us towards a hot zone.”

She cocked her head to look at him. “You’re a mind reader now?”

“I really did think there was a way—”

“Booker.”

“—I just thought if we stuck to the forest, we’d have better luck at avoiding any—”

“Booker.”

“But we’ll figure it out, we’ll—”

“JACK.” She stopped, spinning on her heel to face him. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t think you got us lost. You made a judgement call and it didn’t work out. So stop projecting your insecurities. It’s extremely unattractive.”

She started walking again but could feel him watching her still.

After a moment of silence, he called, “Did you just call me attractive?”

“Should’ve left him for the Geeks,” she muttered, marching onward.

***

Late afternoon sun cast the surrounding land in a golden glow. Caitlin squinted in the light, shielding her eyes.

“Hold up,” Booker said, slowing his pace. “You see that?”

It took her a second, but then she spotted the wire wrapped around a few saplings. It was a perimeter marking, with pieces of metal dangling from it. A homemade alarm.

“People,” she whispered. There wasn’t a house in sight, but it must be closer than they knew if they were that close to their warning system.

“Maybe…” He swung his rifle off his shoulder and held it at his side. “Stay close, Meadows.”

They maneuvered under the wire, stepping lightly and keeping their eyes open wide. After another ten minutes they found a second row of wire and cans, this time with stakes in the ground, pointing up and out to impale any Geeks that managed to make it that far.

“Booker, I—”

“Jeremiah!!” A woman yelled, and Caitlin heard the distinct click of gunmetal. “Trespassers!!”

“Shit,” Booker hissed, making a move for his rifle.

“Hold it,” a man called. “Don’t you move, son!”

Caitlin’s heart was in her throat. Her legs shook with the need to run.

Lifting her hands, she scanned the thin tree line for faces. Several yards away, she spotted the woman aiming a hunting rifle at them.

“Booker, they’re armed,” she whispered.

“Yeah, kinda figured that one.”

Heavy foot falls alerted them moments before the man stomped through the brush. Tall, barrel chested with a round belly, he wore a white button down and suspenders. Not exactly what Caitlin had been expecting.

“You bit?” He yelled, adjusting his grip on his shotgun. “Scratched?”

“No sir,” Booker called back, holding out his hand and gun to show he didn’t mean trouble. “Neither of us. We were passin’ through.”

“Ain’t you seen the perimeter?”

So subtly she nearly missed it, Booker shifted his weight, putting himself just a few more inches between Caitlin and the man.

“Yes sir, we did. Made us a little optimistic there might be people ‘round.”

Booker’s accent thickened as he spoke, and Caitlin silently appreciated his knowledge of code switching. Sound like you’re a neighbor, get treated as a neighbor.

“There more of ya?”

Booker shook his head. “No sir, jus’ us. And we don’t mean y’all any harm.”

The woman stepped through the tree line then, her long greying hair in a braid over her shoulder, white dress and apron fluttering in the breeze. Her gaze shifted to the man—her husband, Caitlin guessed.

“Jeremiah…”

“Constance, be smart.”

Booker didn’t move. They were clearly having a conversation made purely of subtext neither of them understood.

The man took a step forward. “Y’all God-fearin’ people?”

Caitlin bristled at the question, but Booker didn’t even blink.

“Psalm 121, verses 7 and 8,” Booker called.

At that, the man started to lower his shotgun. “The Lord keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go, both now and forever.” He grinned. “Welcome Brother, you have been delivered.”

Staring at the back of Booker’s head, she made a dozen mental notes to ask about that particular exchange.

The woman lowered her weapon and out of the brush stepped several more people—all aged twenty to nine, and armed. Most of them were boys, but one girl about ten years old in a floral dress held a teddy bear in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Did you see them before?” She whispered to Booker.

“Yep. You?”

“No.”

In total, the family was about ten strong.

The pit in Caitlin’s stomach grew.

“Sorry about the less than hospitable greeting,” Jeremiah called, striding over. “We’ve learned it’s better to be gruff first and apologize later.”

“No offense taken,” Booker said.

The men shook hands, but Caitlin took a step back, eyeing Jeremiah warily.

Maybe she just hadn’t been around people in so long, especially people different than herself, but… something felt off. The memories of the first family to take her in rolled over and over in her mind. The openness, the kindness, the general feeling of ‘we’re all in this shitty situation together’… It was a stark contrast to Jeremiah’s gatekeeper attitude.

“I’m Booker, this is Caitlin.”

Jeremiah reached for her hand and she took it on impulse.

“Nice to meet you, young lady,” he said, squeezing her hand just a little too hard.

“You too.” It was a lie. Her legs still trembled, begging her to bolt away and drag Booker with her. She stayed planted.

“The house is just up this way. Ya caught us while we was doin’ chores.”

Caitlin didn’t move until Booker did. She stuck close as they followed the family up to their cabin.

As they walked, Jeremiah talked with Booker like he was an old friend—the result of having the same creed, she guessed.

She listened in as Jeremiah explained the cabin was his daddy’s and kept just for vacation and hunting trips, but when the world went to hell, he’d brought his family there to stay safe and away from the roaming ‘biters’ as he called them. He quoted scripture so many times Caitlin lost count, all about how it was the end of days and that Christ was soon coming again.

It wasn’t the Bible talk that made her nervous. It was the unsettling glint in his eye. Like he’d just decided he was running for Mayor, too friendly, too chatty, too happy to have them stay with them. All while his wife was silent, his children keeping their distance from them.

From him.

The house was larger than Caitlin anticipated, and well protected it looked like.

Secluded. Far away from any main roads. No neighbors.

She tried to shake the disturbed feeling, but it clung to her.

As they made it up the front porch steps, Constance spoke for the first time since they’d accosted them.

“We’re making stew for dinner. Y’all are welcome to get cleaned up. Maybe wash your clothes.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Caitlin said. “But I’m not sure how long we’re staying.”

“Well you’ll stay the night of course,” Constance said, a desperate tremor in her voice. “Y’all look tired and in need of some good food. We’re happy to have you.”

It felt final. As if the decision had already been made. Caitlin fought not to grimace.

Booker had been led to the other side of the main room by Jeremiah, and while the distance was maybe only a few feet, it felt too far for her comfort. With a polite smile, she wandered over to Booker’s side. The men were in the middle of discussing how the cabin had managed to maintain hot water and electricity with the right amount of propane and generators.

“Excuse me, can I borrow him back for a moment?” She asked, already reaching for Booker’s arm.

“’Course, darlin’.”

She’d grown accustomed to Booker’s voice saying that word and hearing a stranger call her that made her spine go rigid.

The family all milled around—younger children running off to play and the older boys hovering, looking like they were trying to puff up like their father.

Booker followed her back onto the porch, careful not to let the storm door slam.

“I don’t—”

“Shh shh,” he cut her off, pulling her to the other end of the porch away from the open windows. “Whisper.”

She nodded and crossed her arms. “I don’t like this.”

“I know that wasn’t the friendliest of greetings.”

“It’s not… Booker, something’s… off.”

He furrowed his brow, dark eyes locking with hers. “Whaddya mean?”

Caitlin bit the inside of her bottom lip, unsure if she should open a wound she’d only just managed to close in hopes of getting him to understand.

“This guy… his family…” She shook her head. “Booker, I don’t want to stay here.”

He sighed, leaning against the porch rail. “I know that back there shook ya up—”

“It’s not—”

“But Cae, they’re offerin’ us food. Water. Shelter. A hot shower—something I definitely haven’t had in…” He sniffed himself. “A very long time.”

Caitlin ground her molars.

“It’s almost dark,” Booker continued. “We’re out of food, and we’re at least another half day’s trek to anywhere that might have supplies.”

Her legs began to shake again, muscles screaming to run, run, run.

“We’ve managed on our own this far,” she countered, staring up at him. “We don’t need them.”

Booker watched her a moment and then took her by the hand, pulling her further away from listening ears.

“Talk to me.” He turned to face her, watchful gaze on the door to the house. “Just this mornin’ you were sayin’ how we needed supplies, we needed a safe place to make camp and rest up for a bit—”

“I know, I know what I said,” she interrupted, annoyed that her own argument was being used against her.

“Okay, then what’s changed?” He waited but when she didn’t speak up immediately, he added, “Meadows, I wanna understand, okay. I’m here, I’m listenin’. You’re sayin’ you wanna leave, turn down their hospitality, I gotta know why.”

Caitlin swallowed, throat abnormally tight. “He reminds me of my stepdad.”

Booker blinked, waiting for her to continue.

“Overly nice to company, while his family is stock still and quiet, terrified of making a wrong move they know they’ll pay for later.” She folded her arms over her stomach. “And his wife? She’s too insistent on having us stay, probably because she knows he’ll be on his best behavior while we’re around.”

“I didn’t see any bruises…”

“Oh, Booker, come on,” she snapped, about to turn away from him.

“No, I just… I don’t wanna make assumptions about a man we don’t know.”

Pegging him with a glare, she said, “I know him. I know men like him. He’s good at fooling people into thinking ‘no, not him, he could never.’”

Booker inhaled, glancing at the darkening sky. “Cae, I know you’re scared… and bein’ around people again is nerve wrackin’ for me too. It’s hard to trust anyone anymore. But turnin’ our backs on shelter and food this close to nightfall… I dunno...”

A sharp pang of betrayal was quickly followed by a sour feeling in her stomach. Maybe he was right… she’d been distrustful of Booker when they first met, and he was a good man. Just because someone was like her stepfather didn’t mean history was repeating itself.

And the prospect of a hot shower and warm meal was alluring.

“Okay,” she relented. “You’re right, we need a safe place to rest. It’ll be fine.”

Booker wrapped his hand around her arm, gently squeezing in reassurance. “One night, two tops, and then we’re on our way again.”

She nodded, forcing down the lump in her throat.

The porch door swung open and Constance stepped out. “Supper’s ready. Y’all hungry?”

***

After nearly inhaling their venison stew and rolls, Constance showed them to the bathroom upstairs and laid out some toiletries for them. She told them to pile their dirty clothes outside the door and she’d throw them in the wash.

Caitlin watched the woman, searching for signs she’d been right before… or wrong. It all felt smudged and blurry, like wiping a hand over something written in chalk.

Booker insisted Caitlin shower first, keeping subtle watch by the door.

It was an action that had her eyes pricking with unshed tears. He might not agree with her about Jeremiah or his family, but he wasn’t about to leave her vulnerable and alone.

After three weeks of rinsing off in creeks, sponging off with stolen paper towels and rags, and keeping her hair in a tight ponytail, stepping under the warm spray was almost orgasmic.

She moaned like it was anyway.

“Do I wanna know what you’re doin’ in there?” Booker called through the door, smirk audible.

“You wish,” she responded, lathering up her hair.

She could hear his chuckle even over the water’s spray.

If she wasn’t afraid of using all the hot water, she’d have stayed in the shower for an hour. But once she was clean, rinsed, and cleaned again for good measure, she turned the water off and wrapped herself in a towel. It was a little thin, but the air was warm enough she wasn’t concerned with catching a chill.

Finger combing her hair, she opened the bathroom door to let Booker know she was done. He stared up at her from where he was sat on the floor, and immediately averted his gaze.

“Your turn,” she said, one hand keeping her towel closed at her chest.

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Alright.”

Caitlin grinned to herself. “Oh look, there are those red ears again.”

Booker stood up in a hurry. “Just tryna be polite, Meadows.”

“Where are our packs?” She asked before he could close the door.

“Tucked ‘em away in that room over there.”

“Thanks,” she said, padding down the hall in her bare feet.

Quickly digging out her only other set of clothes—bra, panties, grey tee shirt, and jeans—she got dressed facing the door, holding her breath so she could hear someone coming up the stairs.

No one did.

When she was dressed, she yanked her shoes back on and sat on the end of the hope chest at the foot of the twin bed, waiting for Booker.

After a few minutes, the door opened.

“Jesus, Cae.” Booker pulled up short, one hand keeping his towel around his hips. “Why ain’t you downstairs?”

“I was waiting for you,” she said, sitting upright.

She expected him to tease her, but instead he just nodded and shut the door behind him.

Her gaze tracked the movement, momentarily stunned by how much of Booker was on display. Rivulets of water followed the curve of his muscular back, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel. His Marine Corps tattoo wasn’t the only ink he’d collected—a family crest covered his right shoulder blade, and a black and white lion’s head was high up on his left bicep.

He had the tanned complexion of someone who worked outside shirtless more often than not. Had the physique to match too.

As he turned, Caitlin forced her stare to the floor, hands fidgeting in her lap.

Grabbing clothes from his pack, Booker stood at the foot of the bed to lay them out.

He grinned. “Now who’s blushin’?”

Rolling her eyes, Caitlin stood up. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

“’M hurt, Meadows. Don’t tell me I’ve let myself go.”

“Jackass,” she muttered, striding out into the hall and shutting the door.

“Beg your pardon?”

Jeremiah was stopped on the stairs, eyeing her.

“Oh, uh…” She glanced over her shoulder. “It was… nothing. Sorry.”

He didn’t comment, just continued up the stairs until he was only a couple feet from her on the landing.

“Y’all gettin’ settled alright?”

She tried to seem relaxed but knew it wasn’t working. “Yes, thank you.”

“Shower’s nice, ain’t it?” Jeremiah took a couple steps closer. “I praise the Lord every day we had the foresight to put in extra generators a few years back. And those propane tanks too. ‘Course, we never imagined what we’d be usin’ this place for…”

“I’m not sure anyone knew to expect this.” Her gaze darted behind him, wondering if she would be better off excusing herself or if waiting at the door with Booker in ear shot was safest.

“The day of reckoning is upon us,” Jeremiah continued. “The good book gave us all the signs. Least that’s what I told my congregation anyway.”

Caitlin squinted up at him. “You’re a pastor?”

“Yes’m. Holy Bible Church, about five miles down the main road.”

Something sickly curled in her gut. A pastor that took his family and ran, hiding out in the woods, armed to the teeth with weapons… It didn’t feel very godly to her.

Just then the door behind her opened and Booker walked out.

“Sir,” he greeted Jeremiah. “Thank you again for lettin’ us get cleaned up.”

“Oh, o’course,” Jeremiah said. “Now, y’all save room for dessert?”

Caitlin blinked. “Huh?”

“Constance made a pie. C’mon ‘n’ have some.”

He started back down the stairs and Booker brushed by her, touching her elbow gently.

“Y’alright?”

She nodded, decidedly ignoring the churning in her gut.

***

Dessert with the family was only mildly uncomfortable. Caitlin felt like they were being watched, but not just as outsiders. It was like they were being tested, observed for anything Jeremiah deemed unsavory.

When they finished, Caitlin started to take their plates to the kitchen, but Constance jumped up, taking them instead.

“Let me,” she murmured, quickly rushing into the other room.

As Caitlin settled back in her seat, Jeremiah leaned forward, pegging her and Booker with a stare.

“Now, I’m happy to have y’all here,” he started, and Caitlin’s heart rate double timed. “But there are some house rules we follow as the good Lord has bestowed them on us.”

The more he tried to sound devout, the worse he came across.

“We’re a Christian family, and as such we don’t believe in committing sins of the flesh. Things like premarital relations are against God’s teachings. So, I’m afraid y’all will have to sleep in separate rooms.”

Booker started to chuckle, opening his mouth to speak, but Caitlin jumped in.

“Oh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said, voice as sweet as she could muster. “We are married.”

Booker cocked his head, careful to keep his expression neutral.

Jeremiah’s stare narrowed. “Y’all ain’t wearing weddin’ bands.”

Wrapping her arm around Booker’s in an affectionate gesture, she leaned into him. “That’s actually my fault. See, it’s actually coming up on our one-year anniversary, and I’d taken our rings in to the jeweler to get them cleaned and… Well, I was gonna get something engraved on sweetie’s here—” She squeezed Booker’s arm, hoping he understood.

Go along with this.

Back me up.

Please.

“—But the day I was supposed to pick them up… The virus outbreak happened.” She held Jeremiah’s gaze, unwavering. “Didn’t even occur to me to try to get our rings. Especially since they’re just material possessions. And a marriage is more than that, right?”

Jeremiah hummed, but he didn’t look completely convinced. “Tell me about your weddin’, Booker.”

Shit.

Booker’s stare met Caitlin’s for a split second before turning to the man, grinning.

“Oh man, did she hate our weddin’,” Booker started, hand covering hers and giving a gentle pat and squeeze. “We both wanted somethin’ simple, real easy, ya know? I’d’ve been happy goin’ to the li’l chapel by the base, but her mom was not havin’ it.”

He squeezed her hand again, thumb rubbing a circle on her palm.

Follow my lead.

I’ve got your back.

We’ll be fine.

“Mom wanted all the family there,” Caitlin supplied with a smile.

Booker nodded. “Both our mamas wanted half of Texas there,” he said with a laugh. “And then nobody liked the food we picked.”

“I thought a taco bar would be a good idea.”

“But my mama wanted sit down style, real classy to impress her friends. And then her daddy—”

“Oh gosh.”

“Her daddy refused to walk her down the aisle if she wasn’t wearin’ pure white.”

Caitlin feigned a giggle. “I’m fair skinned, pure white looks awful on me.”

“I still think you looked gorgeous,” Booker said, looking to her.

“You have to say that, you married me.”

Booker squeezed her hand again, reassuring her.

“Anyway, when it was all said and done, the day itself was a disaster.” He tilted his head towards her once more. “But every day since then has been a blessin’. And it ain’t really ‘bout the day, it’s ‘bout the marriage, right?”

Jeremiah took the bait, believed them totally by the look in his eyes. “That’s right, son. A marriage bond is a blessed thing, ain’t that right Constance?”

Returning from the kitchen with a pitcher of iced tea, Constance nodded jerkily. “Sure is.”

Booker’s thumb pressed against Caitlin’s palm, and it instantly grounded her. The twisting in her gut, the dark edges of panic, all seemed to fade if only for a moment.

“Then the boys can bunk up and they can take the spare,” Constance offered, pouring tea for Jeremiah first. Looking over at them, she said, “It’s not much, but it’s comfy.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” Caitlin assured her. Her empathy for the woman was growing by the hour.

While convinced, Jeremiah still didn’t look exactly happy. “Guess that’s settled then.”

His tone was one she knew too well, and the dread returned, threatening to choke her.

She didn’t even realize she’d been clutching Booker’s arm with a vice grip until he caught her eye.

***

A mattress. A real mattress.

They were getting to sleep on a real bed, with sheets and pillows and a floral quilted bedspread.

Caitlin wanted to pinch herself.

“See?” Booker whispered, shutting the door. “Silver lining.”

“It’s a little small… We’re gonna get extra cozy.”

Booker faltered from where he was grabbing a pillow off the bed. “I was… just gonna…” He motioned to the floor.

Caitlin wanted to smack him. “I’m not gonna deprive you of sleeping in a real bed, Booker. You’re just as exhausted as I am. Besides, what if they walk in and see you on the floor?”

“We pretend we had a fight and you kicked me outta bed?”

“And you really think they’ll buy that?”

“Prob’ly not.”

“Exactly. So be an adult and pretend to be my husband already.”

She turned down the covers and started to climb in when Booker made a noise.

“You’re sleepin’ in a bed with your shoes on?”

Caitlin leveled her stare on him. “I have slept with my shoes on every night since this hell began. And I’ve never been woken up in the middle of the night and had to run. So…”

He nodded. “Ahh, so it’s a Murphy’s Law kinda situation.”

“Yup,” she said, settling in on her side of the twin bed.

“Want me to do the same?”

She grinned. “I should tell you no, so I’ll have a thirty second head start, just in case.”

Booker shook his head at her and climbed in, still in his boots. “One of these days, you’re gunna feel real bad ‘bout these jokes if somethin’ happens to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll pour one out for you and move on.”

Shifting to get comfortable against the pillows, he said, “I prefer Johnny Walker Blue, if the occasion ever comes.”

“Noted.”

The bed really was small for two people, but Caitlin was so bone-deep tired, she was already dozing off halfway through rolling onto her side. She vaguely remembered mumbling ‘goodnight’ to Booker before she was out.

***

Run! Run! Run!

Caitlin awoke with a violent jerk, gasping for air.

“Shh, shh, hey,” Booker’s voice was right in her ear. “It’s alright, you’re safe, Cae.”

Sucking air into her lungs, she tried to sit up, but something kept her pinned. “Jack?”

“Y’started kickin’ in your sleep,” he murmured. “I was worried you’d roll outta bed, so…”

She slowly understood, could feel in the dark what he meant. Her back was pressed firmly against Booker’s chest, his thick arm around her waist. His hand was balled into a fist against the mattress, she guessed as his way of assuring her he wasn’t coping a feel.

“Y’want some water, or--?”

She shook her head. “No, no, I’m…” She took a deep breath. “I’m alright. Thank you.”

He started to lift his arm off her when she grabbed his wrist and kept him where he was.

“Just in case,” she murmured, letting her head settle back on the pillows.

She felt him nod and adjust his position a little, attempting to give her space.

It wasn’t necessary. They might’ve lied about being married, but they’d gained a level of intimacy in their time together. To call each other friends felt weirdly hollow, but there wasn’t another, more accurate word for them.

Friends. They were friends.

Easing into the mattress, Caitlin closed her eyes and tried to remember the sounds from the trees. The birds. The crickets.

And then Booker started humming “Jolene” by Dolly Parton, and she almost cried.

They weren’t friends. They were something else, something more careful, something fiercer. Viscerally interdependent. A blood oath made by children in a backyard fort—Innocent and vicious with the same swipe of a blade.

“Thank you,” Caitlin croaked, pressing her face into her pillow.

Booker’s response was a soft pull of his arm, securing her, and a smooth transition to the next verse.

#Bloody Sunrise #free novels for pandemic times #free fiction #my writing #ZA romance #zombie apocalypse romance

1 note · View note

gimmesumsuga · 6 years

Text

Concealed Weapon (M)

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Word count: 10K (approx)

Warnings: Smut. Smutty smut smut. Unsafe handling of weapons. Dirty talk. Unprotected sex. Bondage. Rough sex. Multiple orgasms. Oral sex (male receiving).

Summary: Jungkook turns out not to be quite who you thought he was, and your reaction takes you both by surprise.

Happy belated Birthday @yminie ! I hope you survive! <3 <3

This is kinda PWP, which is why I chose to keep the super cheesy porno title I first came up with haha (plus, I couldn’t actually think of anything better - so sue me). Also, this is the first moodboard I’ve ever made, so please don’t repost or use without credit.

“Home by seven my ass…” you mutter darkly under your breath as your hands dwell somewhere beneath a layer of lemon-scented suds, a scouring pad clenched in fist.

You'd intended leave the dishes until after having eaten tonight, but seeing as your dinner companion is still yet to show after more than half an hour of you being sat at the table like an idiot, waiting, you figured you'd make a start. Anger is great for removing stubborn baked on bread crumbs from an oven tray, apparently; by the time you're done pretending its surface is your husband's face and stashed it on the drying rack you've never seen it look cleaner.

You wish you could pretend this was the first time he's come home later than intended. It's an occupational hazard you guess; as one of the heads of IT tech support for all of the healthcare providers in the local province it's up to him to make sure every system is running seamlessly no matter the time of day. If a piece of software goes down it's not just the clinicians who suffer - it's the patient's blood results or x-ray reports they can't gain access to who suffer as well.

So maybe you shouldn't be so mad - maybe you should be glad to have a husband so hard-working and committed to his job that he's willing to stay late more often than not. As you pick at little pieces of the beef you'd so painstakingly roasted, long since gone cold, this is what you so avidly try to convince yourself of, but it doesn't really make you feel any better. It doesn't change the reality of you being stood all alone at your kitchen counter with tears threatening in your eyes, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

The sound of keys turning in the front door lock has your ears pricking to attention and your back straightening as you abandon your leftovers in favour of watching the entranceway to the hall. The smouldering embers of annoyance that'd been threatening to dwindle away into sadness come roaring back into life with his impending arrival, and as soon as you hear your husband cross the threshold you're hollering his name, nostrils flared.

“Jeon Jungkook!” His heavy exhale reaches your ears even from several metres away; tired and weary. You know he’ll be worn out after work, and he’s more than likely been dreading having this fight with you all the way home, but your famously short temper won’t let you show him an inch of mercy. Not yet, anyway. “What the hell kinda time do you call this?!”

It’s odd - usually Jungkook would be rushing in by now, a pink tinge to his cheeks and an apology on his lips - but tonight he appears to be taking his time. There’s the sound of his keys clinking against one another as they’re placed on the side and then the heavy tread of his boots coming down the hall that follows, so slow and steady that it only serves to infuriate you all the more. Let him drag this out if he wants; all he’s doing is prolonging the length of the cold shoulder he’ll be receiving later on.

“You could’ve at least called,” you carry on, rounding the kitchen island with one hand on your hip, waiting for him to emerge, “I wouldn’t have bothered busting my ass if I’d have known you - oh my god!”

Hands flying upward to cover your gasping mouth, your wide eyes run rapidly up and down the sorry state of a man who enters your kitchen with his busted lip slanted into a wry smile. It’s not very often you’re at a loss for words and yet here you are, speechless, all anger eradicated by the sight of your husband’s naturally handsome face so marred with cuts and bruises.

“Sorry baby,” he apologises as he comes to a standstill in front of you, voice soft. There’s blood on the usually pristine white collar of his shirt - Jungkook always prides himself in keeping his clothes crisp and sharp - and as your body begins to tremble he touches the pad of his thumb against where his smile has re-opened the split at the corner of his full bottom lip, dabbing it with his tongue.

“What happened?!” You throw yourself into the arms that Jungkook manages to open just in time to receive you, and when he ‘oofs’ in discomfort as you hit his chest you cringe, peeling yourself back just enough to look up at him past your eyelashes. They’re wet, glistening with tears, and your husband smiles affectionately down at you as he wipes them away with his fingertips. You hadn’t even realised you were crying though it doesn’t exactly surprise to find that you are; who wouldn’t when confronted with the sight of a loved one so battered and bruised?

“Some assholes got the jump on me on the way home,” he shrugs, behaving far more casually than you would ever expect of someone who’s apparently just been mugged, “Took my wallet… my phone. It could’ve been worse.”

“It could’ve been worse?!” you repeat incredulously, stepping back but allowing him to keep the gentle grip he has on both of your hands, large palms wrapped around your tiny, angry fists.

“I’m home in one piece, aren’t I?”

“Barely!” You really should stop shrieking sometime soon; it’s not as though it’ll do any good. It won’t fix the torn sleeve of his expensive suit jacket, nor halt the deepening in colour of the bruise that lays across his cheekbone, and Jungkook keeps on cringing as though you’re assaulting his eardrums every time your voice climbs another octave.

“Sorry,” you apologise embarrassedly, withdrawing a hand from one of his and using it to stem any further tears from falling and leaving smudges of mascara behind, “Sorry. Are you-” You sigh, brushing your palm over the lapel of his jacket to wipe away the white specs of dust sprinkled across it. “-Are you ok?”

“I’ll live,” he assures you, once more taking a hold of your hand to raise it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss onto your palm. You know he will, yet that knowledge doesn’t stop you frowning at every single mark your eyes pass over; the gash across his eyebrow from which blood has ran and dried, now crusted and flaking away, or the purple bruising of broken blood vessels that decorates the sharp angle of his jaw.

And these are only the injuries you can actually see. Judging by the way Jungkook tenses when you wrap your arms around him you can only presume there must be more under the rumpled cotton of his shirt.

“Fucking assholes,” you mutter as you press your cheek to his chest, planting a kiss along the way. Jungkook is so soft, so kind, so absolutely good - right down to his bones - how could anyone ever want to hurt him? Ok, so maybe before you saw the state he was in you might’ve wanted to give him a swift kick in the shins, but now? Now the only blood you’re out for belongs to whomever it was who thought they could get away with hurting the love of your life.

Jungkook’s palm slips downward from the back of your neck into the curve at the bottom of your spine, his soft lips pressing to the top of your head.

“You called the police, right?” Jungkook cocks one dark eyebrow at you when you look up, amused.

“And how exactly would I have gone about doing that?” he teases, a playful twinkle in his eye. Your mouth opens as though to argue but then promptly closes again when you realise how valid a point he’s made.

“Well, you should now,” you persist, slipping out of his embrace to cross over into your living room and grab a hold of the phone that sits atop of your coffee table, brandishing it at Jungkook when he walks through the doorway after you, shrugging off his jacket. He throws it onto the back of the sofa and lets you press the handset into his hand before discarding that a moment later, too, sighing.

“There’s really no point,” he tells you with a shake of his head, his dishevelled bangs sticking up at odd angles when he runs his hand through them. His knuckles are grazed too, you notice, and you feel a grim sense of satisfaction come over you on realising that he must’ve at least gotten one good punch in during whatever fumble occured. You hope it hurt. “I barely saw anything; one guy grabbed me from behind and the other had.some kind of ski mask on or something.”

“But what if there was CCTV?” you persist, stepping towards him but stopping when you see a look of annoyance fleet over Jungkook’s face. He looks away from you, his eyebrows furrowing as he places his fists on his hips, shifting his weight.

“Look-” He meets your eyes, and when he sees the way you’re worrying your bottom lip it’s as though he makes a conscious effort to soften his expression. “-All I want right now - more than anything - is a long, hot shower.” Jungkook closes the gap between the two of you, so close that your chests are almost touching, yet his hands remain at his sides as he looks down at you. “I want to shower, I want to eat. I want to snuggle up with the woman I love-” Jungkook returns the little smile that appears on your face, his head tilting slightly to the side, “-And forget all about it.”

How is it that after two long years of matrimony Jungkook can still have such an effect on your heart rate by his proximity alone? Just by standing in front of you - close enough to catch the lingering scent of his aftershave that you know so well - he has you feeling a little weak at the knees; a little breathless as you look up into the darkest chocolate of his eyes.

“Is that ok?” he checks when you neglect to reply, lifting a hand to brush gently against your cheek, voice soft.

“I suppose so,” you force out, recovering enough to let a little bit of snark enter your tone. Jungkook’s already smiling lips part as it grows, flashing his adorably imperfect row of front teeth, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Go on, you stink.” Grinning playfully, you twist your head enough to noisily kiss his palm where it’d been resting on your cheek before stepping away and walking past him. “Don’t blame me if your dinner tastes like microwave.”

You don’t expect the hand that suddenly grabs a hold of yours, nor for Jungkook to suddenly pull you back into his arms and seize a hold of your lips with his own, squeaking your surprise into the kiss and making your husband chuckle at how quickly and effortlessly you melt into his embrace. He kisses you as though it’d been the only thought to occupy his mind all day, one hand in the small of your back and the other still clutching yours, the thick band of metal encircling his ring finger brushing your skin as they lock together, holding tight.

A rolling press of his tongue to your lips is enough for you to grant him access to your mouth, wet muscle meeting in the middle before he chases after it when you pull back, inviting him in. Jungkook groans throatily when you gently tug on his bottom lip with your teeth, forgetting all about the split to the pillow soft flesh until the next time his mouth presses to yours and you feel it there, the drying blood making it feel slightly tacky against your own.

Running his tongue against the inside of his teeth, Jungkook relinquishes you from his grasp, smirking at the way you wobble a little on losing the support of his firm body pressed to yours.

“Tastes pretty good to me.” He grins wolfishly, making sure to cock one eyebrow at you before turning on his heels and heading for your bedroom, leaving you to recover with a flushed red face and one hand pressed to the new-found ache in your lower abdomen.

“God damn it Jungkook,” you murmur to yourself as you will your body to stop acting like some pre-teen girl when confronted with the attentions of the captain of the football team. It’s just embarrassing, especially when less than five minutes ago you were supposedly hopping mad. So much for that.

You’re just putting Jungkook’s dinner into the microwave and punching in the time for it to cook when all over a sudden another sound catches your attention over the shrill beep of the buttons which you press. It’s an unfamiliar tune but still recognisable enough for you to realise that it must be coming from a cell phone, and it’s with a frown of confusion that you abandon Jungkook’s meal to venture back into the living room, looking around.

It’s definitely not yours - you have a very bad habit of leaving it on silent 24/7 and repeatedly missing your husband’s calls - but then whose else’s could it be? The muggers had taken his, he’d said, and yet as you approach the ruined suit jacket that he’d so carelessly flung over the back of the sofa the ringing is most definitely getting louder.

It cuts off before you can figure out its exact location but you carry on patting down his jacket anyway, certain that whatever was ringing must be tucked away somewhere inside, and when you reach into the soft inner breast pocket your fingers close around the solid rectangular form of a cell phone that you don’t seem to recognise once its laid flat in your palm, staring up at you.

What is going on? You’ve never seen Jungkook carrying this sort of phone before; for one thing it’s far too low-tech for anything he’d usually be caught dead with. It doesn’t even seem to have a proper camera on it, for heaven’s sake.

Why would he lie? Why would he have some secret, ancient phone stashed away? You can’t help but jump to the worst conclusion as it goes off again, the screen illuminating to show one missed call and the text message that has just come through, and as you attempt to figure out how to unlock it your heart begins to race with anxiety, eyes darting nervously towards the corridor down which your bedroom lies.

Is he having some sort of affair? This is the question that remains at the forefront of your mind as you try various different combinations of numbers to try and guess his six digit passcode, not even pausing to think of how much an invasion of his privacy your husband might see this as. You’d never dream of going through his phone usually, but this isn’t his - not really. Perhaps it should reassure you that the code that finally works is the same digits as your birthday, yet the nauseating rolling of your stomach only continues as you open up his messages to find one singular text waiting under the initials of ‘NJ’ and nothing more.

Fingers shaking, you open the message and read.

“You better get your shit together, JK. Another fuck up like tonight and they’ll be pulling you out of the river next time. Don’t let me down.”

Pulling him out of the what? What the hell does that mean?

Fumbling, you lock the phone and scramble to slip it back into the pocket you retrieved it from with hands that are trembling even more severely than before, convinced that you’ve already seen too much.

What the hell has Jungkook gotten himself mixed up in?

Whatever it is it sounds really, really bad - the illegal kind of bad - and suddenly you’re no longer so sure that the injuries Jungkook sustained earlier tonight were really the product of two simple muggers. No, this sounds far more sinister, but as damning as this evidence is you’ve no idea how to even begin to comprehend that the man that you love - as silly and sweet and goofy as he is - might ever be involved with someone who could send a message so threatening as that. You’ve met Jungkook’s friends; they’re all as daft as he is!

Cool metal awaits the brush of your fingers when you slot his phone back into its rightful place, and despite how you may tell yourself not to pry any further you’re unable to shake the curiosity that has you fishing out what appears to be a very small bunch of keys from within the silky black pocket.

It only takes a split second of peering down at them spread out along your palm for your to make the connection to the lock with which you know they must belong. Hurried footsteps and shallow breaths lead you directly to Jungkook’s ‘gaming room’ and the desk on which his custom built PC tower sits neatly alongside a 27-inch screen.

The screen remains black and the CPU’s many cooling fans silent, though you know they won’t remain so for very long. It’s a mutual agreement of yours and your husbands to allow each other an hour or so a night to indulge in whichever solo hobbies you deem necessary for maintaining your sanity before settling down to spend the rest of the evening together, whether that be curled in front of the tv or tangled up in bed.

It’s the thought of such times that causes you to hesitate with the key already halfway into the lock, down on bended knee. What happens if you find something in there that you’d rather not see? What if whatever it is puts an end to this lovely little life you’ve built?

You bite your lip, frowning hard at the trembling pincer grip in which you hold the key. Part of you wants to turn back and try to erase all memory of this from your mind but you know that that’d be an impossibility. If you don’t look now you’ll always be wondering, worrying - wracked with suspicion every time your husband leaves your side. No, best to confront it now and deal with the cards that you’re dealt as soon as they reach your hand.

Whatever it is, whatever you’ve faced, you and Jungkook have always gotten through it before.

You take a deep breath as though to brace yourself as you slide in the key the rest of the way and turn it smartly to the right. Opening up the drawer the first thing you see is a neat stack of plastic folders in a variety of colours, and when you take a peek inside the uppermost one it’s full of papers detailing acronyms and figures of which you have no understanding. They’re confusing but look innocent enough, and as you start to remove one folder after the other you dare to feel a little more hopeful than you did before.

You’ve probably gotten yourself all worked up over nothing; there’s got to be a reasonable explanation for that phone and the text that followed, a reason for Jungkook to have all these papers locked away from sight. You shake your head at yourself as you appear to be coming to the bottom of the pile; you should’ve known better than to doubt him. What exactly were you expecting? Pictures of some secret family? Drugs? Maybe even some -

Brass knuckles?

Your stomach drops so violently it feels almost as though it’s fallen out when you see the golden device sat at the bottom of the drawer, the curved metal specially shaped to encase the wearers knuckles and allow them to deliver more lethal a blow to the victim of their choosing.

These can’t belong to Jungkook, surely? Not your gentle husband? He won’t even kill a spider, nevermind don something like… like those. With a sense of morbid curiosity you reach out and lift them from the drawer, turning them over and shivering at how weighty such a weapon feels rested in your palm, and it’s only then that you realise that there’s a matching set laid there too - one for each hand.

“Jesus christ,” you mutter under your breath, and as you lift that one out too you become aware of a fault in otherwise smooth wooden bottom of the drawer. Placing the brass knuckles aside, your relentlessly curious nature has you poking, prodding and jiggling at what appears to be some kind of false bottom. You finally manage to open it up by pressing it downward and then sliding the thin wooden barrier backward and underneath the other half of the panel, gasping involuntarily when you see what lies beneath.

A gun.

A real gun; matte metal grey and chillingly cold to the touch when you run your fingertips gingerly along its barrel, purposefully avoiding the trigger. It strikes you as odd how threatening an inanimate object can look even when lacking someone to wield it, and it’s with a swallow of trepidation that you very gently lift the pistol from its secret compartment to hold it in two hands.

Has Jungkook really ever used something like this?

Unwanted images begin to plague your racing mind as you inspect the makings of it, turning it about in your grip. You see Jungkook stood with gun in hand, his arm outstretched to press the barrel to the temple of some faceless man with whom he regards without a trace of mercy, his expression unfeeling and cold, and the image of it sends a chill right down your spine. This can’t be your husband; not this cruel figure that your imagination has so conjured up.

There must be something else. Some other reason for him to have this - some other reason for him to have kept it all hidden. If you ask him… if you confront him, surely he’ll have -

One strong hand closes firmly around both your wrists, so rough and so sudden you'd very nearly have let the gun fall to the floor if it weren't already being wrenched away from you, out of the reach of your inexperienced hands. You look up sharply at the unexpected touch, your mouth falling open with the sharp inhale you take, and it's Jungkook's face you see staring back down at you, expression as hard and stern as you'd pictured it to be with a gun in hand.

“Jungko-" you start but he cuts you off, tightening his grip around your wrists. It's testament to how large his hands are that his fingers quite comfortably encircle both, pinning them together.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he questions angrily, brows furrowing even further, shower wet hair dangling in front of his eyes. Your husband must've just this moment stepped out of the bathroom; not even yet dressed, a towel knotted low around his hips and droplets of water clinging to the sculpted planes of his chest.

Purple bruising along his ribs aside, it'd be all too easy let yourself become completely distracted by Jungkook's mouth-watering appearance if it weren't for the gun that hangs by his side. It’s pointed firmly at the floor, steady in his hand, and you’re relieved to see that his index finger is resting well away from the trigger.

You grope for some sort of response, your pulse thudding deafeningly in your ears at having been caught in the act, and when you fail to even try to defend yourself Jungkook huffs an exhale, infuriated.

“I should've known you'd come snooping around in here one day.” Keeping your wrists firmly locked, Jungkook pulls open the top drawer to his desk and rummages for something, gun still in hand. “Too damn curious for your own good,” he adds, grumbling under his breath, and you're just about to start protesting at how unjust it is right now for him to be mad at you when the sight of him pulling a long black strip of plastic from the drawer totally derails your train of thought.

“What are you doing?” you ask, a fringe of panic lacing your voice as he places the gun down on the table with a satisfying ‘thunk’ of wood against metal and then loops what you now recognise as a cable tie around the underside of your wrists, just above where his other hand is squeezing them together.

“Trying to make sure you don't go running off before you hear me out,” he informs you matter-of-factly, and it's with alarming swiftness that Jungkook manages to secure your wrists together, the strip of plastic pulled not quite so tight as to cut into your flesh but enough to remind you that it's there, unyielding against your skin. “Besides, you clearly need some help keeping your hands to yourself.”

He releases your hands and they fall, fixed, to knock against your thighs as you look up at him in trepidation. Jungkook stares right back, unblinking, and you wish you weren't knelt so vulnerably like this on your knees, though his expression - although visibly annoyed - looks neither threatening or unkind.

Before now it's always been a bit of a running joke amongst your mutual friends that you're the one who wears the trousers in your marriage. You're marginally older than Jungkook and have always been a bit more ballsy; a bit more outspoken in circumstances in which your husband would be more inclined to let things go and keep the peace. Even-tempered, patient and perhaps a little bit of a perfectionist, Jungkook has always happily followed your lead - until now.

“I never wanted you involved in any of this,” he tells you wearily, momentarily releasing you from his gaze to turn and take the gun from the table with a shake of his head.

“Involved in any of what?!” You suddenly seem to find your tongue again, vulnerable or not, and as you speak the volume of your voice seems to climb, near hysterical. “The hell are you doing with a gun, Jungkook?! Who's NJ?!” Jungkook pauses at your outburst, apparently changing his mind about putting the gun away and choosing to slam the drawer shut instead, rounding on you with a scowl.

“It's nothing that concerns you.” Incensed, you glower right back up at him, pretending not to notice the way a vein in his neck bulges when he clenches his jaw.

“It is if it means you're coming home all battered and bruised,” you insist vehemently, bunching your fingers into angry little fists whilst you're still able to feel them, “You were supposed to be working late! Where were you?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away but he does laugh, smirking as he reaches out and grabs you by the arm to pull your feet. Defiant, you tilt your chin up. You won't be intimidated; whether he's been keeping secrets or not Jungkook is still your husband, and you know he'd never hurt you.

“So fiesty,” Jungkook admires, smiling growing as he tilts his head, looking down at you from his greater height, “Even when you're so obviously at a disadvantage.”

You wish you were oblivious to the heat you can feel radiating off of Jungkook's naked chest as you stand toe to toe but your body if refusing to play ignorant, heart pounding rapidly against the inside of your ribcage and your mouth bone dry.

“I was at work.”

“Yeah, ok,” you scoff disbelievingly, rolling your eyes toward to the ceiling until Jungkook grabs a hold firm of your chin and pulls your attention back to him with a sharp snap of your name.

“Did you really think a little desk job could've bought us this house?” Jungkook asks, his thumb and forefinger still holding you in place, dark eyes flicking between your own, “That rock on your finger?” You jump as the cold metal of Jungkook’s gun taps against your ring finger, flinching and drawing your clasped hands up to your chest with a deep flush filling your cheeks.

Why are there butterflies swirling frantically within your stomach at the cocky little flick of your husband's eyebrow as he releases your chin? You're supposed to feel angry - betrayed - not like... this. Not like your insides are slowly filling with molten heat; desire pooling heavy in your pelvis.

“Th-then what is it?” Your voice is halting, catching in your throat, and when Jungkook releases you to press two fingers to your sternum and walk you backwards with a wicked gleam in his eyes you're swallowing nervously, yelping in surprise when you're suddenly pushed into the soft leather gaming chair in which your husband spends so many of his evenings. Unable to brace your landing with your hands your fall is somewhat ungainly; the floaty fabric of your skirt settling somewhere halfway up your thighs to expose more skin to Jungkook’s slowly roving eyes.

He leans forward over you, bracing his weight on the arms of the chair that enclose you on either side, and when he speaks he’s so close that you can smell the peppermint of his breath as it blows upon your face.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks quietly, and you nod. He’s right, you really are too curious for your own good.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, Jungkook straightens up and runs a hand through his damp hair, bicep flexing.

“I work for an organisation called BTS.” BTS… that’s one of the acronyms you remember seeing amongst the paperwork you’d just been scouring through, printed neatly alongside a multitude of dollar signs and zeroes. “Namjoon - NJ - is it’s leader.”

Slowly, you nod. Organised crime, then, you’re guessing; that’s the business to which your husband belongs. How could he have managed to keep this from you for so long? You’ve known each other since your late teens and yet this is the first time he’s ever come home looking like this - the first sign you’ve ever had. Maybe he’s not in so deep as you think. Maybe it’s not as bad as all that. Maybe he’s just their... their accountant or something…

“What do you actually… do?” you persist, though you’re not entirely sure you want to know. Jungkook’s lip curls into a smirk once more as he glances down to the gun that hangs at his side, and before your widening eyes he lifts it till it’s pointed straight at you, mechanism clicking as he disengages the safety, index finger hovering over the trigger.

You heart rate skyrockets the moment it’s turned on you, eyes fixed fixed on the open, gaping mouth of the barrel staring back. It feels as though the organ is in your throat and choking you, thumping hard, blood rushing and roaring in your ears until your husband next speaks, deadly soft.

“What do you think?”

There can be no doubt any longer. Up until this point you’ve been trying to convince yourself that perhaps you’re wrong, perhaps this is all some mistake or you’re just overreacting - over-reaching to draw the most dramatic of conclusions - but no. Every presumption you’ve jumped to appears to be coming true, and now you can't seem to stop wondering about just how many lives Jungkook must have ended with the gun that’s now so steadily aimed at you.

You should be livid at having been lied to for so long, and you should probably be afraid, too, given the circumstances in which you’ve found yourself - and yet you’re not. Maybe in the deep recesses of your mind you have those thoughts, maybe, but not right now; right now the singular, most overwhelming feeling you’re aware of is desire. Desire, lust, want, and need.

You've never seen him look like this before; so powerful, so in control. The dominant aura Jungkook’s exuding has you feeling all hot and bothered under the thin fabric of your clothes, and when he tilts his chin downward to inspect the flush across your chest you can't help but clench your thighs together to quell the aching where they meet, spurred on by his watchful, almond eyes.

“Why lie to me?” Your voice comes out slightly breathless, husky, though if Jungkook notices it he doesn't say so. He holds the gun in place for a second or two longer before letting it drop again to his side with a shake of his head. There's another click as the safety goes back on and a loud, shuddering exhale that passes your lips as he finally puts the thing down.

“It was the only way I could try to keep you safe,” he answers a moment later, the angry expression he's been wearing softening slightly as he turns back to you, one hand still poised upon the desk, “What do you think they'd do if they got their hands on you, if it meant they were able to get to me?" Jungkook gestures to his own face as an example, furrowing his eyebrows. “This is nothing.”

Swallowing, your eyes travel from mark to mark, injury to injury; the gash to the bridge of his nose down to the black cherry bruising of the hip bone peeking out above his towel. Every inch of him, battered or not, is still just as pleasing to your eye - still just as tempting to touch if only you were able - and so busy are you inspecting his finely honed physique that you're barely even aware of the silence that's settled between the two of you until Jungkook lets out a heavy exhale, mistaking your preoccupation for something else.

“It's ok… if you want me to leave.” You look up, blindsided by the pained expression your husband is wearing now - the worry lines evident in his brow. “I'll understand.” He reaches into the drawer again to pull out a switchblade this time, flicking free a small, silver knife as he approaches you and draws your hands away from your chest, cradling them in one of his own. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“- Don't!” you exclaim quickly when he slips the blade between the cable tie and the flesh of your wrist, meaning to cut you free, and at your shout Jungkook comes to a sudden halt, his gaze lifting to look up into your eyes where he's bent over you, leaning close. “I don't want you to leave.” Your throat feels tight with nerves as you bring your conjoined hands, knife and all, towards the base of Jungkook's throat to brush your fingertips along the smooth skin there, digits trembling.

He's still a little damp after his shower - his gorgeous, caramel skin soft and smooth to touch - and you lick your lips with the want to lap up the little dew drops that remain clinging onto his broad chest.

Your husband utters your name under his breath, confused by the hunger in your restless eyes as they trail over the length of him.

“Don't go,” you tell him thickly, and unbeknown to you your pupils expand at the moment you look up and meet his gaze. “Don't let me free.” You bite your bottom lip as Jungkook withdraws the knife, and slowly he begins to understand what it is that has you watching so eagerly as he flips the blade away. “Not yet.”

He observes the way you press your thighs together as he stands to full height, a smile pulling at his lips when he comes to realise the full extent of how aroused you are; the heaviness of your eyelids as you gaze lustfully up at him, the shuddering rise and fall of your chest. This is not the reaction that he'd expected, yet he wonders how he hadn't noticed it before.

“It almost seems like you're enjoying this,” Jungkook muses, beginning to pace around the chair in which you're sat. Your hands are clammy clasped together against your chest, but the sudden, subtle shift to the look in Jungkook's eyes has you tingling all over with excitement in anticipation of what you're hoping is yet to come.

You turn your head so as to not lose his gorgeous visage from your sight as he circles you, swivelling the chair until Jungkook grabs a hold of the back of it to jerk it to a halt, barking,

“Eyes straight ahead.”

Back straight and your eyes wide open, you stare at the wall opposite as instructed whilst your heart gallops at the feel of him stood behind you. Goosebumps rise across your shoulders as Jungkook leans in, not touching you save the brush of soft lips to the curve of your ear.

“Do you like it when I'm bad, baby?” he questions teasingly, blunt teeth nipping at your earlobe, “You like a little bit of danger?”

“M-maybe,” you allow yourself to admit, though there's no maybe about it. Beneath your skirt your underwear is starting to feel warm and damp, and the brief passing of Jungkook's hand around your throat as he nuzzles into your hair, inhaling, does nothing to dampen the growing flames of arousal which are unfurling deep in your insides.

“You've been a naughty girl, poking your nose in where it doesn't belong,” Jungkook scolds as he releases you, tongue tutting against his teeth at the little whimper you fail to withhold. You open up your eyes that'd flopped closed and pick up your head from where it'd fallen back just in time to see your husband come to a stop right before you, and though the heat within his gaze is familiar enough from all the many, many times such as these that've come to pass before, you've never seen him look quite like this.

So dark. So seductive.

“I think you ought to make it up to me.” Jungkook's eyes flick southward and yours follow, down to where the front of his towel is draping awkwardly over the semi-erection concealed beneath. When he begins to untuck the knot that's tied around his hips - his eyes locked on yours - your mouth is quick to water for whatever it may be that he has in store, and as his towel drops to the floor, crumpled messily at his feet, your core starts to drip equally as warm and wet.

You swear you're not a shallow woman, but only an idiot would think to deny how easy your husband is on the eyes. Tall and broad, Jungkook's lithe torso tapers from muscular shoulders into the inexplicably narrow waist you so love to wrap your arms around, and all of him is golden, flawlessly smooth save the dark thatch of neatly trimmed hair nestled around the base of that which currently holds your rapt attention. His cock, half-hard and currently held by one Jungkook's well-practised hands is already leaking the clear, serous fluid that belies his arousal as it's stroked, the muscles of his thighs flexing as he approaches where you're sat.

“Open up that pretty mouth, baby,” Jungkook purrs, pointing it towards your lips, “Show me what a good girl you can be.”

You'd never anticipated before tonight that you would ever be so receptive to the idea of your husband being the one to call the shots between the sheets. Sure, it's something you’ve daydreamed about every now and then, maybe, but with how quiet and obliging Jungkook has always been in the bedroom before now - so solely focused on your pleasure rather than his own - you'd convinced yourself it would likely never happen.

Now that it is, and now that Jungkook's cocking one of his thick, dark eyebrows down at you in expectation, it feels like a dream come true. Eagerly, you shuffle forward on his chair, tied wrists rested on your lap, and obligingly open your mouth nice and wide, sticking out your tongue for good measure.

“That's it,” he mumbles quietly, no longer watching you but focusing instead on guiding his cock into your open, waiting mouth and licking his lips as the pink, weeping tip brushes your tongue. The weight of it is so satisfying, the musky taste one you know and love, and it's with a groan of delight that you finally seal your lips around him and begin to suckle sweetly at its sensitive head, pleased when you hear Jungkook's answering moan.

“Suck baby.” His encouragements are soft but as just as insistent as the firm hand that makes its way into your hair whilst you busy yourself tracing his frenulum with the tip of your tongue, your eyes flopping closed. He neither pulls nor tugs, simply caresses your scalp as you diligently set to work easing him deeper into your mouth - perhaps digging his blunt nails into the roots on the odd occasion that he looks down and is overcome by the sight of your lips stretched so tightly around his girth.

“Come on, pretty girl, I know you can take some more,” Jungkook hums, a little breathless, and you feel your cheeks fill with warmth at the way he addresses you so fondly, “You're so good at sucking my cock. My perfect little slut.” You feel a hand on your aching jaw, supporting it as you slide your mouth back and forth along his length, sucking and slurping as you go.

You're determined to take him all, determined to show your husband what a good, dutiful wife you can be - snooping aside - and after a few more strokes and a conscious effort to relax your throat, you're face first amongst his pubic hair and resisting the urge to gag when his cock twitches on your tongue.

You hear Jungkook groan with satisfaction above you, and when you peel open your eyes to gaze up you're delighted to see nothing but the sharp angle of his jaw from below, his head lolling back as he savours the feeling of being stuffed so far down your throat.

“You’re doing so well,” he says breathlessly as his chin tips forward again, meeting your watering eyes he looks down, “Knew you could be a good girl for me.” Still holding onto your jaw, Jungkook rocks his hips back to withdraw his length almost all the way to the tip before sliding it all the way inside, slow and steady, resting there sheathed fully inside before doing it again and again, gradually gaining speed. “Gonna let me fuck your mouth, aren't you, baby?”

Mouth full and saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth, you nod, and Jungkook flashes you a cocky, satisfied smile.

As your husband uses and abuses the hollow vacuum of your eager mouth in the minutes that follow, your desire for him only continues to grow. Save the brief seconds in which you're forced to close your eyes when you gag, you spend every other moment you can greedily watching the man come apart; every twitch of his toned stomach and every tick of his jaw making your dipping core begin to pulse with need.

So fierce is the ache between your legs that your helpless hands soon grow restless in your lap. They search out the hem of your skirt and slide underneath it, clumsily attempting to provide yourself some much needed relief as best you can with your wrists pinned together as they are. It’s difficult, but by spreading your legs as wide as you can you just about rub the heel of your hands between them, wantonly moaning around Jungkook’s cock at every slightest bit of friction you manage to press against your lace-covered clit.

The rocking of your husband’s hips slows on registering the needful pitch of your moans, turning soft and shallow, willing to let catch your breath, at least, if not yet quite ready to fully withdraw himself from the warm, wet utopia that lies behind your lips.

“You know,” he muses as he lets the slick, swollen head of his cock sit stationary at the entrance of your mouth, watching with a heavy heaving chest as your tongue laves it all around, tracing every ridge and mapping out every vein before swiping up along his frenulum to dip shallowly inside his slit. “If you ask nicely enough, I might just give you a hand.” Opening up your eyes, you see Jungkook’s dark ones glance down past where you’re joined to the desperate shifting of your bound hands against your mound.

“I might even let you have this big, fat cock, if you say please.”

Your core contracts, hard, as if to express its enthusiasm at the prospect, and it’s with a wet slurp and wide, hopeful eyes that you you slip your mouth off of his length to beseech with neither shame nor eloquence,

“Please, god, touch me, fuck me. Whatever you want - anything.” You’re breathless, panting with want, and you know Jungkook’s relishing in just how desperate you appear - you can tell by the slanted smile that spreads across his handsome face - but you’re so far gone at this point that you really don’t care about any dignity that you may have lost. He can be an asshole if he wants, as long as he’s balls deep inside of you.

“I think you can do a little better than that, baby,” he presses, holding your eye contact as he sinks into a deep squat before you, golden thighs so thick that they look almost fit to burst, “I’ve heard an awful lot of begging in my time; it’ll take a lot to convince me.”

God, that really shouldn’t turn you on.

Jungkook hooks his thumbs under the sides of your underwear and you rock onto your tiptoes where your feet are planted on the floor in order to lift your hips and enable him to drag them off, pulling you towards him in the process, and it’s there, slouched deep in the leather of his chair, that you begin to beg and plead for mercy.

He smiles all the way through your whimpers and whines, relishing in the way you shudder with every light brush of his fingertips as he slowly peels you from your clothes - careful not to touch you too much. Your skirt goes first and then your little white ankle socks, his teeth nipping a bite into the meat of your calf as he rolls them off, and then because the cable tie encircling your wrists make it impossible to remove Jungkook improvises, hitching your vest top up above your breasts and then grabbing a hold of your hands, placing them on top of your head.

You’re still whimpering his name when Jungkook stands back to admire the view, taking his time to slowly stroke one large, vascular hand back and forth along his cock that’s weeping excitement at the sight of you. Your hips twist restlessly against the leather, your buttocks wet with the copious arousal that’s leaked from your core, and it’s an act of impulsion that has you boldly picking up your feet from the floor and placing a heel on the end of each arm rest to put yourself on full display, praying it might tempt him into giving in.

“Desperation looks so damn good on you,” Jungkook grits out, his fist tightening around his cock as he pumps it roughly, his attention focused directly on your glistening folds, “Fucking beautiful.”

“Please Jungkook,” you mewl, your needy little hole visibly clenching for him to see, wetness running down between your buttocks and making every inch of your filth slickened skin seem to shine, “I need you, please.”

You’re not sure exactly what it is that finally makes your husband snap. All you know is that one second he’s stood above you, hand wrapped his cock, and then the next he’s all over you, fingers dug deep into the meat of your thighs and his tongue behind your teeth. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since your discovery, and this is like none you’ve shared before, even in your most passionate of moments.

Jungkook dominates in every sense of the word, his teeth sinking into your already well-chewed bottom lip and tongue diving deep, reckless with the weight of his body as he presses himself on top of you, the girth of his cock slipping against your core.

“Oh god,” you gasp into his open mouth as you feel him angle his hips just so, so eager to take you that there’s no preparation, no stretch of his fingers to ready you before he starts to push inside, groaning low as you let out a strangled cry in half-hearted protest, “Jungko-ah!”

Inch by inch, he eases himself inside, his forehead pressed to yours as your walls convulse around the intrusion, like your body is trying in vain to drag him further in faster than Jungkook will allow. He’s dragging this out to enjoy every wail that you release into his mouth, every jump of your hips each time he sinks further in.

“Know you love that burn, baby,” Jungkook grunts out, teeth clenched and jaw tight, “Love my fat cock stretching you out just right.” With your hands bound as they are and your body trapped under Jungkook’s own, you have little choice but to wrap your thighs around his narrow waist and gratefully receive all he has to give you, whimpering with pleasure when he finally bottoms out, the head of his cock nestled snug against your cervix.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Slowly, he pulls all the way out. “Fuck.” The second thrust is much easier than the first and the third just right, and each and every time Jungkook sinks into you it's to an accompaniment of wet, squelching sounds that border on obscene.

“J-jungkook,” you stammer, driven mad by the excruciatingly slow pace he’s adopted and the leisurely way he rolls his hips against you. Before every thrust he pulls all the way out before plunging back inside, and every time he slips out it leaves you with an ache so fierce deep down in your core that it almost makes you cry, throat burning with the effort it takes to hold back the tears.

“You want it harder, baby?” Jungkook smirks into the crook of your neck where he’d been busy trailing kiss after kiss to your extra-sensitive skin when he feels your heels dig into his meaty buttocks, fighting to keep him inside. Your throat has always been your weakness, and clearly your husband means to exploit by the way he lavishes it with such attention, tongue and lips and teeth working in tandem to make your wriggle around on the end of his cock all the more.

He pulls away just enough to fix you in a dark, heated stare, stilling inside of you before uttering huskily,

“Want me to show you how rough I can get?”

Air stolen out from your lungs, all you can do is nod your acquiescence and the fingers resting atop of your head twist together as you palm begin to sweat, suddenly nervous, wondering what it is you’re letting yourself in for, but Jungkook doesn’t give you time to second guess.

As soon as your head is bobbing he’s abruptly lifting you up and out of his chair, still buried deep within, grabbing handfuls on your ass to hold you in place as you sling your arms around his neck and clench your thighs around him tight, afraid that you might fall.

Jungkook has no intention of letting that happen. Grunting with the effort, he begins to bouncing you rapidly on his cock in mid-air, and the exertion of it breaking him out into a sweat only seconds after he begins, dripping between the frown that creases his brow. Underneath you his powerful thighs are straining to breaking point and yet he still doesn’t stop, not until you’re practically sobbing at how heavenly it feels to have him slam against your g-spot again and again, your face buried at the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

You feel him side-step and then all of a sudden you’re falling backward and your back is crashing down onto the desk, Jungkook grabbing at both of your thighs to push them back and bury himself even deeper into you, utterly unconcerned with the sound of his gun falling to the floor at his feet. He has far sweeter noises to listen to; the endless moans of pleasure that are pouring forth from your wide open mouth, back arching, head tilted back.

“You make the prettiest sounds when you’re taking my cock, baby,” Jungkook informs you through his laboured breaths, “You take it so well.”

With great effort you manage to open your eyes to the sound of his voice, body jolting with every one of his thrusts, and the visage that awaits you has your orgasm you could already feel approaching lurching ever nearer. Jungkook towering over you, his musculature covered in a sheen of sweat and a hungry look in the eyes that follow the path his hand trials downward from your stomach to reach between your legs for the rough pads of his fingertips to locate your clit and pinch it, hard.

“O-oh shit,” you curse at the feel of your high fast approaching; a delicious tightening of every one of your muscles that Jungkook is able to feel from the inside, your passages squeezing even harder than before, impossibly tight. Your whole pelvis feels as though it’s liquefying into a molten heat that spreads further out into your veins with every thrust of his hips and circle of his fingers, alighting every one of your nerves along the way until a wave of white hot pleasure engulfs you from your head to your toes.

“Cum nice and hard for me, baby,” Jungkook encourages even as you convulse underneath him, crying out his name, your stomach muscles tensing in perfect time with your core, “There’s a good girl.”

Your orgasm is so fierce, so long-lasting, that it takes all Jungkook has to hold back and not finish there and then - to pour himself into you as he so longs to. Instead, he forces himself to pull out before the temptation proves too much, and even as in the haze that accompanies your coming down you’re still aware of his sudden absence within you. You look up - chin tilted forward - confusion flashing across your fucked out expression.

Jungkook’s sinks back into his computer chair, spreading his legs open wide, and it’s with a curl of his finger that he beckons you to come take your place on his lap. On wobbling legs you manage to stand, your gaze fixed on the thick cock that awaits you, stood tall against his stomach and shining with the fluid that’d gushed forth with your orgasm.

Jungkook hums lowly as he watches you climb onto his lap, admiring the way your body moves to settle your thighs either side of his own, a hand on your hip to keep you steady. His chestnut brown hair is a mess from having dried in disarray yet it only serves to make him look all more irresistible, and you find It amazing that even having cum so hard just a matter of minutes ago you’re still craving him more and more; your appetite for him insatiable.

Leaning yourself forward, breasts against his chest, you begin to rub your core up and down his length, rolling your hips and softly whining every time it almost slips inside. Without your hands you can’t quite angle everything right, and after a minute or so of senseless grinding against him your husband helpfully grasps his cock between thumb and forefinger to nestle the head amongst your folds, just as eager as you are to put an end to your mutual frustration.

“Fuck, that’s right,” he groans as you sink down onto him, his pretty eyes closing as his chin tilts up, head rolling back, “Bounce on me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock.” Bracing your forearms against his chest, hands clasped together at the base of his throat, you begin to move. You’ve no intention of taking things slow or drawing this out - you’re both long past that - and the tempo with which you slam yourself down onto his lap, over and over again, is relentless from the offset.

Your thighs burn with the effort it takes to keep going, but it’s worth it; worth it for the pleasure that throbs inside with every smack of his cock against your cervix, every drag of your clit against his pubic bone and every broken moan that falls from Jungkook’s lips. When you start to circle your hips on each stroke up and down his head tips forward again, eyes opening and making you quiver with the intensity with which they look you up and down, greedily taking you in.

“You like riding me, huh?” he asks you, voice strained and his fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips when you nod, boneless, dragging you down onto him even harder. “Ngh - feels so good. Love watching these titties bounce.” Jungkook grabs a handful of your breast to feel it undulate in his palm with your every movement before plucking at your nipple sharply enough to make you gasp, rolling the bud between his fingers and licking his lips like he’d rather it were inside his mouth.

“J-Jungkook,” you mewl, unlinking your fingers to paw helplessly at his skin as you rock back and forth, pace refusing to falter even with your growing exhaustion. It feels to good to stop to stop now - not until you’ve cum again and made him cum with you. “W-wanna cum, please, oh god.”

“Come on then, pretty girl,” Jungkook smiles, leaning his head back against the chair and letting it tilt slightly to the side so as to better admire the view of his cock plunging into your depths over and over again, “No-one’s stopping you.”

“Oh fu-uuck!” You’re close - so close - so very almost there, your head thrown back and sweat beading down your chest with the effort it’s taking to get yourself there without any help from the man beneath you who’s content just to watch you using his body in order to get off, save the extra push and pull of his hands on your hips.

“Come on baby,” he persists, and you can tell from the timbre of Jungkook’s voice and the further hardening of his cock within you that he’s getting close too, “Don’t stop now. You look so good, so perfect for me, fuck, babe, you’re gonna make me cum so hard.” Somehow, you find it within you to start moving even faster, letting out a strangled moan in amongst the sounds of skin slapping and the squelching that accompanies every your every motion thanks to the juices that have seeped onto onto his lap and thighs.

“That’s what you want, right?” His words may be starting to slur - to pour out from his mouth so fast that you’re not even sure that they really make sense - but they’re driving you wild. Jungkook has never been this vocal in bed before you’re starting to think that you might have to insist on it from now on; he’s too good not to. “Want your s-sweet little pussy stuffed full of my cum.”

“Mmff, yes, yes, please, yes,” you chant, unaware that you’re even speaking aloud. Your please are directed more to your own body than to your husband, anyway, egging on the pleasure you can feel growing within until you break for the second time, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip so hard you draw blood. Your movements slow dramatically - a slow undulation of your pelvis rather than the frantic grind that had led you here - but Jungkook is quick to pick up where you left off.

Whilst the walls of your pussy are still clenching around him he grabs onto your ass and begins to thrust up into you from underneath, ruthless, and oversensitivity has you crying out his name and letting your head flop forward to rest on his shoulder as he takes control. Like a ragdoll he lifts you up and down, hips and ass and thighs working hard to reach his end, expending so much energy that he can no longer speak to save the quiet, breathy,

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” that fall endlessly from his lips.

It’s with a faltering cry of your name that Jungkook finally cums, his face pressed into your hair to muffle the moans that follow. You feel every muscle he owns tensing underneath you, as rock solid as his cock has become inside, and then he’s twitching and pulsing and spilling himself inside of you in ecstasy; white hot ribbons of cum squirting out so thick and fast and so much that you can feel it start to seep out even while he’s stuffed so deep.

His breath is hot against your scalp as he tries to catch it, your heaving chests sticky with sweat where they’re pressed together.

“I love you,” Jungkook sighs into your hair after a minute has passed, a hand running through it, and when he sits up you feel him brushing it gently back from your face to look down at where you remain in the crook of his neck, completely exhausted. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“It’s ok,” you murmur, eyelids fluttering open to be greeted by your husband smiling softly down at you, eyes creasing at the corners, “I’m still mad… and there’s a lot we need to talk about.” It takes a great effort to sit yourself upright again but with Jungkook’s help you accomplish it, smiling sleepily back at him. “But I still love you, even if you’re not quite who I thought you were.”

“Good to know.” Cradling your cheek, Jungkook leans forward and presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your mouth and another peck thereafter, touching noses.

It’s reassuring to have him act so sweetly with you now; gently lifting you off of his length to settle you crossways over his lap, uncaring about the mess that swiftly leaks out of you onto his thighs. He’s extra careful, too, as he cuts you lose from your binds, and after he sets his knife aside Jungkook spends a good few minutes dutifully massaging and kissing at the red marks that are left behind, the soft brown of his eyes full of love as he lavishes you with affection.

No matter who he is - or what he might be - Jungkook is still the man you fell in love with so many years ago. He’s still the same man who falls asleep every night at your side and who kisses you awake every morning; who brings you breakfast in bed and makes you laugh until you cry. It’ll take a lot of time, and a lot of talking, but somehow you’ll get through this. No matter what, you couldn’t bare to part.

You’re not sure what that says about you - but one problem at a time.

“So,” you begin as Jungkook is carrying you across the living room in his arms, your fingers playing in the back of his hair where it’s starting to grow just a little too long, “There’s definitely nothing else you need to tell me?”

“Nothing,” he confirms with a decisive nod, “Promise.”

“Hm.” Dangling your legs over the crook of his elbow, you cluck your tongue thoughtfully. “That’s a shame… I kinda liked the cable ties.” Your husband pauses on the bathroom tile, looking down at you with raised eyebrows and an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“... I’m sure I can think of something.”

#bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook/reader #jungkook x reader #Jeon Jungkook #jeongguk x reader #jeongguk/reader #Kookie #Jungkook imagines #Jungkook scenarios #bts mafia au #bts reader insert

13K notes · View notes

craniumculverin · 5 years

Text

while planning ripper!au story stuff, i accidentally made an oc, rosalind, out of a wife character i made for one of @donc-desole‘s ocs - wes, who got in as a tertiary character in the ripper!au cus his bf percy has such a prominent role. problem is, i ended up making a totally separate and unrelated story of how my oc and des’ oc(s) got together. what can i say, i just love these guys!

i know i’m not gonna get to writing it anytime soon, so i figured i’d share a few (unedited) rough drafts. hopefully my behind-the-scenes bullet point writing is as coherent to others as it is to me.

Wesley & Rosalind's First Meeting (also Harry’s there)

• at a social gathering thrown by some bigwig that invited everyone who could be considered noteworthy, aka old family and a lotta money - non-english and new-money need not show up

• it’s all stuffy judgey people, many of whom are old af or stuck up

• wes is hella uncomfortable and has no acquaintances to help him out - he’s looked down upon due to his family’s dwindling fortune/debts

• rosa is hella bored, no one wants to dance and everyone’s rude - she’s looked down upon for her family maybe not being entirely english, despite having a respectable fortune

• the two of them end up hanging around the periphery, drinking/eating too much, being uncomfortable and awkward

• wes keeps trying to join in conversations and the like cus he’s gotta maintain/make connections, but is hella nervous and ends up backing out again and again until he’s near rosa

• they end up sitting near each other as more dancing starts - the quartet is subpar and wes is sure half of the players are drunk, rosa notices too and makes an “unlady-like” comment, immediately correcting herself/apologizing

• wes has had just enough to drink to not mind the social misstep and even carry on the criticism, relieved to speak on a topic he remotely cares about for once that night

• they quickly move from the negativity to sharing their likes and dislikes of the modern music scene, sharing a few similar viewpoints, before moving to other topics - when they start hating on the other guests/how they’ve been treated, they move to a more private area outside

• rosa is proper but very open and insightful, and her manner of interacting with wes seems to draw him out of his awkward nervousness somewhat - despite her being a woman even, like what

• they have an enjoyable conversation ranging a multitude of topics, partly out of just being glad to finally be doing well socially - at one point rosa asks if he’d like to dance but he quickly declines, to which rosa is respectful and doesn’t ask again

• it begins to get dark and the few other guests outside head indoors, they’re all but alone - wes eventually notices and realizes how inappropriate it is, gets hella nervous again and says something about it

• rosa scoffs at the idea - what, is he going to do something to her? she to him? she trusts him and knows herself and her abilities, who cares if the people already unfairly judging them judges them more? why lose what precious little decent company they’ve found tonight simply because others might think something ill of them? etc., she goes off basically

• wes is silent cus one, he’s kinda dumbstruck and two, she’s right and he’s had enough to drink to let himself admit it, at least to himself

• rosa realizes she spoke out too much and backpedals, apologizes for her actions, wes is HELLA nervous and doesn’t know how to respond but eventually manages to say it’s alright

• they share an awkward silence cus neither knows how to proceed without likely making it even worse, when thank God for harry - he shows up in full dress uniform despite not being invited and supposedly still out of the country

• harry calls out to wes from just inside, plate of food in hand as he finds his friend and rosa - wes is insta-done and rosa isn’t sure what to think but acts appropriately - everyone inside is casting glares and muttering among themselves

• wes and harry greet and interact as they do, mostly about wtf is harry doing there, harry wasn’t invited how dare the host, how has the host not thrown him out, he’s made everyone mad, etc.

• rosa sees that they ARE in fact friends and watches with amusement - harry eventually stops to apologize and introduce himself to rosa and flirt a little, before raising his brows at wes, who is VERY done at this point

• rosa and harry share pleasantries and much to wes’s anguish start talking about him - harry being typical harry, rosa gently but firmly stating otherwise, that wes has been a wonderful conversationalist, is knowledgeable, acceptably verbose, etc., etc. - harry eventually raises his brows at wes even higher like, “oh~?”

• wes is ready to strangle harry and his face says as much - he stops the talking short to steer harry back inside while his friend bickers, rosa not far behind stifling her laughter, which only makes wes blush more

• by now the old host knows harry’s come unannounced, harry sees him and is instantly ready to harangue the man for the offense of not being invited - wes is suddenly very much aware of how badly this could go and wants to get he and harry out of there asap before any damage can be done

• wes hurriedly says his goodbyes and gratitudes for the evening to rosa, who does the same albeit not as sloppily, and says she’d love to speak with him again sometime - this takes wes so completely by surprise that he just stops and stares at her for a moment, mouth agape - and then harry starts shouting

• wes tries to wrangle an irate harry out of the party, but harry doesn’t budge until he’s said his surprisingly eloquent fill about ridiculous prejudices and a bunch of other righteously furious stuff I can't think of atm - once he’s done he marches out without waiting for wes, who’s as taken aback by harry’s words as the host

• wes glances to where rosa was before quietly excusing himself - rosa had made herself scarce so as not to cause further embarrassment on wes’s part should he see her witnessing all of this

• wes signals his coachman before trying to catch up to a startlingly cheery harry who’s still munching on party food, rosa waits for her own carriage to leave the party, observing the fallout from harry’s outburst

• scene change (kinda) - wes catches up and starts questioning harry - what the hell was he thinking? he's ruined his status for sure! etc., etc. - harry finishes his food before stopping short to give him a less than acceptable answer

• near the end of his reasoning he starts walking again and casually changes the topic to "wes' little friend", during which he frisbee-style flings the snack plate off somewhere - wes is speechless and has to jog to catch up, deciding to start on berating him for using rosa as a distraction instead of proper chinaware etiquette

• harry seems to only half-listen as wes tells him off for making assumptions, blah blah, etc., which only makes wes angrier - he stops walking to stomp his foot and shout something that finally gets through to harry

• he apologizes to get wes to calm down, sincerely says he's simply happy to see his friend comfortably interacting with a lady for a change - wes is thrown off for a sec by the sincerity but gets indignant about harry thinking he's not USUALLY comfortable talking to women, and starts in on that

• by now wes' coach is within view (driver having heard the shouting) and harry realizes wes is a little drunk - he shepherds wes into his ride as he continues to complain, getting in after him after asking the driver if he could be dropped off on the way to wes' place

• drunk and upset wes, of course, is outraged he'd commandeer his coachman like that, says of course he can't, but eventually decides he doesn't want harry over for the night and demands he be dropped off - harry dramatically and oh-so graciously thanks him, which wes takes as sincere

• they ride off, wes continuing to complain about harry to harry, who at this point isn't listening at all

• end

#original content #oc #original characters #donc-desole ocs #rosalind timperley #wesley peche #harold hawthorne

8 notes · View notes

ihaveanimagine · 7 years

Note

You pick the skelebros, please include classic. They find out that their s/o is a writer, and writes amazing stories, full fledged books, but never shows anyone because she thinks they’re shit. She writes mostly romance, and a lot of it is monster x human, and then she also writes fantasy, but usually portrays the humans as the villain, not the monsters. She has one book, that is actually about everything that has happened since they fell into the underground, in extreme detail. Everything.

(I did UT, MT and Gaster!Sans and Papyrus)

Undertale!Sans

Sans found out about your work through Alphys who hadrecently fallen in love with your newest novel involving a “Shape ofWater” vibe and showed it to Sans who instantly recognized the Author’sname. Wanting to reveal he knows of your books in the cheekiest way possible,Sans asks Alphys for the cheesiest romance novel you made, and she hands himthis book called “The Tale of the Underground”.

Sans kinda just snorts at the title, inwardly squealing athow cute the title was and began to read it. He was surprised that this wasBASICALLY your diary dictating your thoughts as you travelled the Undergroundand…ooooohh boy, haha, Sans pulled at the collar on his shirt.

Ho boy was this detailed.

Marking the page, Sans went home and awaited your arrival.The second you walked in the door with a distracted “Hey, Babe!” Sansopened the book and read aloud: “…after sans had licked the red spaghetti sauceoff his teeth, i suddenly had the hugest urge to kiss his teeth until my lipswere numb.“

Silence was the only response he received.

“that offerstill stand, dear?”

Undertale!Papyrus

This sweet cinnamon roll was simply dusting (the dirt kind,not the dead monster kind) the house when he came across an unfinished booksitting on your desk wide open. Papyrus wasn’t one to snoop, he honestly didn’tmean to, but he saw the words “Papyrus” and “Gorgeous” nextto each other and allowed himself to read several one chapter.

Wowie!! Whoever this author is must have VERY good sourcesbecause it sounds like his wonderful S/O wrote this from entirely their persep-OH!! IT WAS!! Papyrus felt a wave of embarrassment and fluster overflow hisemotions. H-HE REALLY SHOULDN’T CONTINUE, BUT…HIS S/O OBVIOUSLY PUT A LOT OFWORK INTO THIS BOOK A-AND HE SHOULD BE ABLE TO GIVE AN ADEQUATE CRITIQUE!!

So he read everything up until the part you stopped writing(which he spent a good 10 minutes mourning over) before rushing back to hischores, waiting for you to get home later tonight.

Once you walked in the door Papyrus scooped you in his arms,twirled you around and planted a big fat kiss to your lips before allowing youto speak.

“Wh-what’s withthe greeting?” You asked, face completely red from blushing, “N-notthat I mind!” Papyrus simply grinned and kissed you again before helpingyou brush off the snow from your clothes.

“OH, NOTHING INPARRICULAR, I JUST WANTED TO HELP OUT MY ADORING SWEETHEART!”

“Aww, that’s awfully sweet of you!”

“WELL OF COURSE!! ALTHOUGH MAY I ASK A QUICK QUESTION?”

“Shoot.”

“HOW EXACTLY AM I A ‘PRECIOUS NOODLEBONES SKELE-BEAN THATCAN MAKE GLOOMY DAYS GO EXTINCT BY SOUNDING LIKE A BABY RATTLE SNAKE WHENEVERMY BONES RATTLE WHEN I’M HAPPY’?”

You just knew thatsentence was going to come back and haunt you….

Mafiatale!Sans (Colt)

He’s supposed to be grabbing a book on “how to wash bloodstains out of white clothes” when he sees your name scrawled across a bookin the “bestseller” section of the bookstore. At first he thinks it’s acoincidence, but then he picks up the book and thumbs through it, when this employee bounces along andasks if he’s interested in the series.

Series???? This should be good. Naturally, he says “yeah, but I dunno where tostart” which allows the employee to gush about how much she loves your work and how it has almost exclusivelyhuman/monster pairings that more often than not revealed the darker side ofhumanity through satirical situations and comedic monster characters.

Colt had to snort a little at that, not that he wasjudging (he was probably the reason you began the monster/human pairingsanyway) but he knew how much you wanted to repeatedly smack the whole ofhumanity with a baseball bat until it gained some sense and hey, the pen ismightier than the sword, right?

So after Colt accidentallybought one of the shorter book series, and a book labelled “Trip Down Under” heleft the store (completely forgetting his original goal) and began devouringthe books whenever you weren’t with him.

Once he got to “Trip Down Under” he nearly had a heart attack.Before this book, he thought your other ones were marvelously written, balancingpure, unadulterated snark with mushy romance (a trait that he was proud toadmit only he was the recipient of irl)but this one was………an extremelydetailed step-by-step walkthrough of your entire trip in the Underground.

Granted, there were different names and places andenvironments used, but this was creepy!!!He specifically remembered having this exactsame conversation with you at 1am about whether or not condiments were anacceptable flavor spice for pet foods that the protag and her romantic interestwere having.

So, what does he do? After his post-mission meeting withDon Asgore ends and he heads home and proceeds to do your normal routine of smothering each otherin relieved affection before placing his hand on your back and the other onyour head, dipping you backwards.

With a feral grin, he leaned in and whispered to you: “Am Iliving up to your expectations as your bone-ified,straight-shooting, suave-talking punster of a soulmate?”

You suddenly regretted every life choice you’ve ever made.

Mafiatale!Papyrus (Sniper)

This guy was most likely gossiping with Bayonet (Undyne)when she offhandedly mentioned this romance novel series she was reading thatwas set in a fantasy world that had a boss fight similar to the one she experienced when you had gone through Waterfall. Shethought it was just a coincidence, after all, the fight became common knowledge after a while but Sniper’s experience taught him nothingwas a coincidence.

So he went and Googled everything he could about thisauthor.

He found online versions of your books, and read the book that Bayonet said she was reading, and BOY WAS HE SURPRISED. You certainly were detailed in your adventures, but you changed enough facts and names and places so it seemed that every important Family Secret you experienced were all different.

Being the little prankster he was, Sniper wanted to give you a scare. But, in order to do that, he had to pretend he had just heard about your book, and went and Google’d a picture of you.

WOWZA, DOES THIS PERSON LOOK FAMILIAR!!! HEY, S/O! COME LOOK AT THISPERSON!! YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU HAD A TWIN!!!

You briefly considered lying to him when you felt embarrassment and a bit of fear well up inside you, but that idea wasquickly erased. “Sniper, darling….that’s….that’s me!”

Sniper looked back and forth between you andyour online picture before turning to you with a flirtatious smile: “OH GOOD, FOR A MINUTE I THOUGHT SOMEONE HADSTOLEN MY RECIPE FOR FONDUE! WINK!”

“OH MY GOSH, SNIPER!!!!”

Gaster!Sans (G)

You and G were out on a casual date in the town, arms linked, pulling you close together as you wandered aimlessly, idly chatting abouteverything and anything. Your romantic peace was interrupted by a pair of girlswho spotted you entering the park and ran over to greet you.

They immediately began squealing about your latest bookcalled “Echoes of Home” which set you off into an internal panic, G WASN’TSUPPOSED TO FIND OUT ABOUT THIS BOOK, OH STARS YOU WERE GOING TO DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT!!!

Without any regard for your dwindling dignity, the girlscontinued to fangirl about “Echoes of Home” Going on and on and on about howmuch they fell so hard for the “teeth-grindinglyhot-headed, self-righteous, aloof little jerk of a hunk”.

At one point in the conversation one girl looked over at Gwho had been relatively silent and said with an awe-struck face “Is this him???”She almost screamed with glee. Sensing this was your way out, your shushedloudly and began dragging G away with a quick wink to the girls who giggled andwaved goodbye (you were sure one was about to faint from swooning so hard).

Once you were both out of earshot G threw you a curious look“what was that about?” He asked, your face erupted into color and tried tobrush it off as nothing.

The matter was dropped until you walked past a bookstore with “Echoes of Home”displayed proudly on the window, showcasing the edition of the book with a picture of the main characters in each other’s embrace. “ain’t nuthin, huh?” He asked with anincreasing smirk, you frantically tried to pry G away, but CURSE HIS STRENGTH he was too hard to move!!

“huh, this guy on the cover looks like a weird version ofme. total coincidence, am i right?”

“YEP, ABSOLUTELY, LET’S GO NOW!!”

“ah, darlin’ I’m messing with ya. I’ve known about your bookwriting career for a while.”

“You wHAT!?”

“yeah, your fangirls are rabid.”

Cue an embarrassment-induced faint.

Gaster!Papyrus (Aster)

Aster was out on a grocery runwhen he came across an elderly woman struggling with her bags and decided tohelp her. While he was stuffing the bags inside her car, the old woman hadmentioned that he reminded her of the main protagonist in this book: Tall,suave, drop-dead gorgeous, and the personification of chivalry.

Since there wasn’t aplethora of writers in the Underground, Aster made an inquiry as to who thewriter was, the old woman couldn’t remember for the life of her, but she didgive him the book’s title and recommended he read them as soon as possible.

And so he did.

The book was a romance novel filledwith cheesy fantasies that were definitely made for the hopeless romantics.Scenarios of tall but gentlemanly heroes with a passion for science or artoften guided or encouraged a lost, starry-eyed female to follow her dreams andscrew with the system if it tried to stop her.

After several novels, hefinally read the one the old lady had recommended him, and, oh dear, is that-!!???It is!!!!

This book was a, uh, detailed edition of your travels in theUnderground.

He knows this because he’s the one who taught you thatspecific chemical formula of the carbohydrate strings which would allow foroptimum flavor!!!

And- hey wait, he rememberedthis part!! This was when he took you out on your first official date with him!!He was always so scared he over did it on the pulling out all your chairs,taking your coat, having no physical contact beyond hand holding or arm linkingbut this narrative showed that you-you….oh….didyou really think that?????

Aster felt his face explode incolor and he had to put the book he felt so flustered.

Later, when you came homethat day from a sleepover with Alphys and Undyne, Aster met you at the door likenormal, took your coat, kissed your cheek and asked you how your day was. Onceyou both got the pleasantries out of the way, Pap circled his arms around youand bent down.

“Do I really make you swoonjust by existing, my darling star?”

#gaster papyrus #gaster sans #mafiatale #undertale #mafiatale sans #mafiatale papyrus #undertale sans #undertale papyrus

44 notes · View notes

damiennazario · 7 years

Text

The Bartender

Pairing: Jake x Female MC

Summary: A reimagining of Rules of Engagement (or Endless Summer AU, whichever you’d like to call it) in which our snarky, not-bland MC (Emilia) is not overshadowed by her siblings or affected by melodrama incurred by her dead grandmother, and meets her also-snarky less than ideal future groom in a less than ideal way. And, yes, it’s Jake.

Genre/Warnings: Contains explicit language/references.

Words: 1,991

Note: I know #jakeweek is over, but I just remembered writing this about two months ago and wanted to share it with you all, even though it’s not finished! With that said, I’d really appreciate feedback as to whether or not I should complete this, as it would be a multi-chaptered story.

Today was supposed to mark the beginning of the rest of Emilia’s life.

She and her perfectly loving fiance were to embark on an all-expenses-paid cruise around the Caribbean and parts of Europe as part of her late grandmother's last wishes. At the end of the summer, they'd fulfill her grandmother's ultimate wish as detailed in her will and exchange vows to receive a $50 million inheritance. What more could you possibly ask for than getting paid that much to marry the love of your life?

Now, though? No amount of money could compensate walking down the aisle for that piece of shit, because she finds him balls-deep in some woman when she lets herself into their stateroom, eager to share what she's just heard from her grandmother's lawyer. Needless to say, she flips her shit, tells him what the fuck for, and sends his sorry ass packing while letting his lover go unscathed, of course, because the poor girl probably didn't know what she was getting into.

After she's funneled all her energy into cursing him out and what was once their stateroom is now empty, she's left to sit outside of it and sink against the side of the doorway, burying her face in her hands and sobbing her eyes out. There's only so much you can take and so much you can curse at until you're blue in the face before you just.. break.

She thought Aaron was it for her. They'd moved a little quickly, sure, but he was so good to her and always treated her like nothing less than a princess. He'd seemed so sincere when he used to tell her how much he loved her, how much he cherished her. Now she knows it was all nothing but a lie. All of that went away for something so needless.

She could never forgive him, under any circumstances. Cheaters and the idea of cheating always made her sick to her stomach because she's seen what it's done to people, so it goes without saying that she can't fulfill her beloved grandmother's wishes. But Emilia thinks that if she were still here, she'd never want to see her granddaughter subject to doing something as abhorrent as marrying him anyway - even if she divorced him immediately - for the sake of money, no matter how much.

So now what is she to do?

Thankfully, her grandmother was both vague and precise in her wording on the will, and even though Emilia works as a fledgling lawyer herself, her knowledge of the law isn't necessary to detect the loopholes. She had clearly detailed her wish for her granddaughter to exchange vows at a wedding that would be arranged for her at the end of her voyage, but never specified who she'd be getting married to.

But, there arises another problem. Who exactly is she going to convince to marry her.. in the span of less than three months?

"Barkeep," Emilia calls, unceremoniously slamming her hands on the poolside bar as she takes a seat on a stool, startling other patrons, "I need something strong." Stressed as she is, she doesn't forget her manners. "Please," she adds.

"Comin’ right up, Princess," says the bartender from the opposite end of the bar, standing with his back to her. He appears to be drying a glass with a towel. It takes him a few seconds to whirl around to face her.

His shoulder-length ashy brown hair blows gently in the wind as he turns. His eyes, blue as the rolling sea, seem to flash with mischief as he sizes her up. "You look like you need it. What's your story?" he asks her, glasses clinking lightly under the bar as he makes his selection for her.

Emilia frowns. What the fuck does that mean, you look like you need it? Does she really look that fucked up, or does he just have no filter? Aren't bartenders supposed to be patient, charming and charismatic? If so, then who hired this tool?

"I.. don't want to talk about it." she says tightly in a desperate attempt to sound diplomatic, despite how much this guy is already pushing his limit.

"You sure?" He squints his eyes slightly and pokes his tongue out from between his teeth, uncorking a bottle of.. whatever. He then grins. "I'm a good listener, you know. It’s part of my job description."

"No. I'm not here for small talk. I just want a drink." She can almost feel her patience rapidly dwindling. Her hands ball into fists on their place atop the counter. Thinking back on her anger management days, she tries to focus on her breathing, on the splashing of the pool behind her. It’s no track on a mindfulness ambient playlist by any means, but the erratic rushing of water and the squeals of children seem to ground her, quelling her rising ire.

In, out. In, out.

She’s only a few breaths in when the nosy bartender’s voice shakes her out of her reverie, and her annoyance returns full-force.

"You say that now, but,” he pauses to dump what looks like a crapton of tequila into a hurricane glass of orange juice, “with a couple shots in you, you'll be telling me your whole life story. Hell, I'll even bet you on it."

Intrigued by this wager, she eyes him pointedly. As long as he leaves her alone after, it couldn't hurt, right? “Okay, hotshot, since you’re so damn sure of yourself, I'll bite. What are the stakes?” she deadpans.

“If I win, you let me take you to see the sights when the ship docks in Costa Rica. I know the place like the back of my hand, and,” he trails off, watching the grenadine trickle into the drink until it’s sitting at the bottom of the glass, “Let’s just say that I’ve always wanted to show off my tour guide skills. If I lose.. you get the satisfaction of knowing you won, and you never get to see hide nor hair of me ever again.”

Emilia ponders this over for a moment. Letting him win would be more for her own benefit than anything, as he’d be saving her money on hiring an actual tour guide, but that’s probably what he wants, after all. He wants so badly to know her business for reasons she can’t make sense of, other than the fact that he’s really fucking nosy. Or, alternatively, him being her tour guide is meant to be some sort of punishment because it’s him of all people? But he seems so arrogant that he can’t possibly think of his own presence as a burden.

The bartender interprets her blissful silence as hesitation, wedging a pineapple slice onto the rim of the glass before sliding it to her with a flourish. "I'll even switch shifts with somebody. I’m serious as a heart attack when it comes to bets, princess."

“Fine. You’re on.” She glances down at her cocktail as if it’s offended her. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a tequila sunrise,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because, to be fair, it is the most obvious thing in the world. He plops a maraschino cherry impaled by a tiny blue umbrella into the glass, watches it land on top of an ice cube, and slides it closer to her with a smirk. “Just in case you couldn’t recognize it.” His voice holds the bite of sarcasm that, as usual, grates at Emilia’s patience.

She rolls her eyes. “I know it’s a tequila sunrise, smartass. I'm saying that it’s juice. It’s not strong at all.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, princess, but this ain’t a Hollywood movie. I’m not a mind-reading bartender who knows exactly what a character wants when they ask for something strong.”

Touche. She pulls the umbrella out of the cherry and twirls the stem around between her thumb and index finger. “Isn’t that also supposed to be in your job description?”

Despite himself, the bartender lets out an amused huff of air from his nose and cracks a smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not. But you strike me as a Tequila Sunrise kinda gal, so I went with that. Unless," he leans both his elbows atop the bar, moving in closer to her, "you actually wanna tell me what exactly it is that you want so I can better cater to your tastes?”

Her eyes are shooting daggers into his, but they seem to deflect them so effortlessly, dancing with amusement and condescension despite her obvious annoyance. There’s a palpable spark between the two of them, but not the kind that gives you butterflies in your stomach. It’s more so a spark of tension between two butting heads - the meeting of a tornado and a volcano, an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Otherwise, Emilia is silent. The bartender’s smirk deepens. "That's what I thought. So why don't you do me a favor and try it? Then you can talk all the shit you want about it.” He then jerks a thumb behind him. “In the meantime, though, I gotta keep the mojitos flowing back there, or else they’ll think I’m playin’ favorites.”

“Aren’t you?” Emilia teases, gingerly pulling the cherry free from its stem with her teeth and chewing it. The bartender’s eyes contradict his body’s eagerness to finally go off and do his job and stop bothering her, wandering down to her mouth to watch her do this as if it’s the most intriguing thing he’ll ever see. In a way, it’s flattering.

“Very funny,” he chuckles dryly, even though his smile is genuine. With that, he throws a towel over his shoulder and makes his way to the opposite end of the bar toward a gaggle of rowdy young blondes whose eyes light up upon his return. He seems to be pretty popular around here, at least to drunk ladies; it’s quite surprising that they haven’t wrenched him away from Emilia yet after how long he’s been grilling her. But she was by no means holding him hostage here.

When she’s absolutely sure that his smug little eyes are elsewhere so he can’t even see her in his peripherals, she takes an experimental sip of her drink. The citrus tang of the orange juice, coupled with the simultaneous sweetness and tartness of the grenadine and the biting palate of the tequila all leave a refreshing taste on her tongue. It’s certainly much stronger than most tequila sunrises she’s drank in the past, which led to her earlier assumption that it was going to taste like juice. She’s enjoying it enough to sip some more, but does so slowly, so the glass won’t be completely empty by the time the bartender comes back; that way, it’d be easier for him to win the bet if she enjoyed the drink a tad too much and ended up spilling her guts.

But, God, it’s so good, and it’s so hot out today that her body’s crying for more. Perhaps it wouldn't be too disastrous if she finished this one glass, and this one glass only.

It would seem that the crafty bartender has laced the cocktail with some addictive poison, so to speak, however, because by the time he makes it back, she’s blurting out demands for another.

He grins with his usual amount of haughtiness, but she’s too parched to get peeved by it. Also, it would seem that his smile is sending shivers down her spine. She doesn’t quite understand why. It could be the wind picking up out of nowhere, or it could be the way the sun’s hitting him or it’s the tequila hitting her; she can’t really tell.

He dutifully responds to her request with a cheesy salute, and a “Sure thing, princess.” As she watches his retreating back, off to work on her second glass, she finds that she can barely suppress the smirk spreading across her face.

#jake x mc #jake mckenzie #jakeweek #endless summer #es #playchoices

39 notes · View notes

yaldev · 5 years

Text

Meeting with the Oracle

(GUEST ARTIST: @FurnaceIncarnate on Instagram!)

A five-day trip for a five-minute chat. Done for anyone else it would be madness, but for the Oracle, it’s preparedness.

It was a stroke of good luck that the urge to take action coincided with the passing trade caravan. With strong enough defense that bandits dare not strike, the journey has turned out boringly uneventful. I branched off from the merchants’ path, leaving me to face the cave alone, the home of a local legend I’ve come to speak with about the nature of the universe. In older times I’d be one among many, but her audience has dwindled since the days of old.

Different tales offer different truths. Old accounts say she looks no older than forty years, yet bears the experience of forty generations and the wisdom of four hundred. The locals say her visions were once lies from evil spirits disguising themselves as illegal gods, but once she saw the truth of Parc Pelbee’s supremacy, she accepted only his blessings and spoke only truth from that day forth.

When the merchants asked what a teen boy like me was doing on this voyage if not seeking work or trade, I answered honestly, and was met with all manner of scrutiny. One warned that the Oracle’s visions still come from deceitful spirits, and will always be false. Another called her a fraud entirely, saying her claims to seeing anything at all are fake. I pray that they are wrong, for only divine wisdom can settle this unease, and my prayers for clarity have only been met with more smoke.

I step through the stone maw and progress up the ground’s slight incline. Floating mold spores tickle my nostrils, prompting a loud sneeze. Triggered by the sound of a human voice, an eerie light begins to glow from deeper in the tunnel, just as the old records mentioned. Where the beacon once lit itself for fanfare and worship in the Oracle’s name, now it responds for sniffles. As I approach the passage’s end I keep my head bowed as a sign of respect, watching the strange mists which cover my feet and flow around my calves. They progress like a river toward the mouth, dissipating upon reaching the sunlight that feels so far behind.

“No need to bow, child.”

I turn my gaze up, seeing that I’ve inadvertently entered her chamber. The cavernous hall opens into her spherical abode, illuminated by light emitting from a crack in the earth. Mist rises too from this narrow crevice, descending to the floor and adding to the gaseous river only after floating up for a moment, creating an obscuring cloud through which I can barely make out a human form. I would bow if only she’d just told me not to.

“Step forward, come around. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Really? For how long?”

“Twenty-one years? Maybe two?”

My eyes widen, yet still I can’t perceive her through the cloud. She can discern me perfectly. Her eye has long become used to finding meaning in patterns seen through the mist. As I step around the fissure I see her more clearly, resting upon a throne with eyes gazing past my flesh and into my heart. All at once I believe her claim to precognition, not by her eyes but by the mind that shines through them. It’s like I can feel her knowledge projected into my mind, sending me false memories of old gods’ faces, of ancient tribes who rose and fell, of armies of pilgrims who once came to beg for her wisdom. No ruler, but a servant.

“What’s your name, child?” She asks, surely knowing already. I muster up the most dignified tone I can.

“Decadin.”

“Deh-Cah-Din? I like that name. Do you know what it means?”

“No..?”

“It’s from the old faiths. But you’re a Pelbeean, aren’t you?”

“Er, should I be?”

“That depends on who you ask.”

The righteous knights who barged in one day said that yes, following the Empirical Truth is a good thing, and refusal will be met with a sword through the Oracle’s neck. Followers of old gods said no, and called her a traitor for feigning a speech about Parc Pelbee’s omnipotent benevolence to save her own life.

“But I won’t ruin your name for you. What do you want to know?”

I stand now where people of great renown did throughout history. Chieftains pleading to know how their sons could be cured of plague, shamans asking when the next rain would come, warlords demanding to know the fate of the battle beginning at sunrise. Here I am, and I have the audacity to place myself among their ranks and ask:

“How do I handle my life?”

She tilts her head slightly. None of her long hair is free to sway, concealed beneath a cloth hood. I continue.

“Grandmother’s sick, I’m off to the capital in a week for school, I’ll have to stay on top of it and I feel like I can only handle so much. Like I’m one unseen disaster away from everything falling apart! Why is my life so chaotic? How can I handle it? How could anyone? It’s hard to believe Parc Pelbee is guiding me, I would have a path by now.”

A silence hangs for a moment. A grin spreads across the Oracle’s face.

“It sounds like you’re afraid of risk. And yet you came from so far. Surely you’re more brave than you make yourself out to be.”

“I guess.”

“So why risk this journey to see me when so much could have gone wrong?”

My answer comes only after thinking for a moment.

“Because the stories say you’re an agent of Pelbee, and I trust in him.”

Her eyes narrow as she softly chuckles. Most Pelbeeans think that even if her prognostic powers come from their god, her methods are too naturalistic and rooted in outside traditions. But the young ones have a certain curiosity that betrays this religious narrative, a mind for seeking out spiritual answers themselves that so rarely lives on into adulthood.

“Well, young Pelbeean, have you considered that all of this is as Pelbee designed it?”

I look at her askew, ready for some speech about how Parc Pelbee created a flawed world.

“Have you considered that chaos is part of the universal order?”

“What? How?”

“Well, if magic comes from chaos, and Parc Pelbee used powers that sound very magical to shape the world, can’t it be said that chaos was used to create order?”

Heresy!

“I-... I know it’s not that simple!”

Worse, heresy that I’m not enough of an expert to refute.

“Of course not, child. Everything is complex and layered, as you say. It can seem chaotic when you can’t figure out how it all works.”

“Can anyone? Can you?”

“Some have said that my life’s work is discerning order through the realm of chaos, Decadin. But would you like to know a secret?”

“Of course.”

“There is no chaos. I see order because order is all that is. Chaos is only an illusion which comes from being unable to understand the many factors at play. It appears causeless because you cannot see all the causes.”

She steps off her throne and extends her hand into the cloud pouring up from the crevice, grasping an orb of magic made misty material in a closed fist. With an outstretched finger she traces circles in the air in front of my face, and my eye follows the trail of mana it leaves behind.

“The world, you see, is a machine of many spinning cogs. Some so big you could spend years studying them, some so small that no mortal could notice them. No cog turns without reason, you just can’t see the others which move it. That which looks random comes merely from causes unseen.”

She finishes dramatically by opening her palm, letting the energy dissipate. I feel as though I’ve been snapped from a trance. Critical thought returns.

“But there is the Aether. The holy book tells us it is the source of chaos.”

“And yet even in the Aether, there is consistency. The mage who conjures fire repeats the same actions and finds the same result. Patterns are there.”

“In the place of chaos?” I ask. It’s all so much to take in.

“Do you think the Aether doesn’t have rules? It is a machine like any other. I know well that some cogs are invisible, some strangely shaped, some changing directions by a will of their own. But it becomes more coherent if you look at the machine as a whole, and how these odd parts come together and form certain rules.”

“Can it be controlled?”

“Isn’t that what magic is?”

“Right…”

It’s all so strange. It’s like she’s saying things about Pelbee’s creation that make more sense than what Pelbee himself said.

“You can master your life the same way, if you find which cogs you can control and what it’ll do if you mess with them. But I don’t think you came here to hear this, you probably wanted to know your future.”

“I mean, it’d be kinda nice, but I thought it’d be rude to ask.”

She laughs heartily. “Ah, come and breathe in some smoke.”

“That smoke?”

“Yes, it comes from a mana deposit down there. You must take it in, then I must breathe your breath to see your future.”

“It comes from mana. It’ll hurt me.”

“It’s what’s kept me alive all this time, child. Trust.”

Pressure from authority gets the better of me. I dip my face into the mist and let the universe into my lungs, feeling its heretical power eroding my throat. Swirling colors appear in my peripheral vision, drifting toward the center to crowd out reality.

“Now face me. Breathe out.”

All too happy to oblige, I turn to her and force the smoke from my lungs. It sinks through the air until it settles in her cupped hands, which she brings to her face.

“Show me.” She whispers to the dense mist, her breath sending ripples across its surface. She tilts her hands and drinks of the future, letting the mental image of Deft guide her visions. Each word spoken releases some of the gas.

“I see…”

I watch it spill down her chin to the floor below, joining the river.

“I see you using magic.”

“Magic? Me?

“Yes… I see cans, full and empty. I see piles of paper, scribbled and scrawled. I see crystal and metal. I see power coming just in time.”

I smile excitedly. It’s gibberish, but I feel like it makes sense in a way I can’t describe.

“I see brilliance. I see recognition. I see a great lined disk floating in the sky. So magical, and yet, not. A wall held up by what it walls. And through its portal, I see…”

I hold my breath in anticipation. She releases the rest of hers in a sigh of awe. Her eyes open as she speaks.

“A new age.”

She smiles down at me, seemingly with a new excitement.

“Yes, child! You will sort things out!”

“That’s such a relief, I can’t thank you en-”

“You will be renowned throughout the land! You’ll do things so grand that great men long after will call you their inspiration!”

That sounds a little too good to be true. Maybe she is a fraud.

“I guess I can’t ask for more details?”

“That might make you do things differently.”

Yeah, probably a fraud. Maybe she lost her powers a long time ago.

“Well, thank you. I should probably get out of here now, leave you to your important business.”

She returns to that business: sitting upon her throne.

“You have a long journey home. Do not be late, your mother will worry.”

Despite the instinct to linger, it’s easy to leave. It feels like the river pulls my feet toward the exit. As I tread down the slope, I can hear her voice in the wind:

“You will change the world, Decadin.”

Yaldev is a fantasy/sci-fi worldbuilding project based on Beeple art. It is the story of a world in magical pandemonium, of the nation which rose to conquer it, of this empire’s inevitable collapse, and of the new world which emerged in its wake. The project has major themes about perspective, imperialism, nationalism, nature and the metaphysical battle of law against chaos. For all stories in order, check out the pinned post on the subreddit at r/Yaldev, or this album on the Facebook page!

#fantasy #scifi #worldbuilding #writing #short story #surreal #everyday #dystopia #dystopian #dystopian fiction #science fiction #science fantasy #scifantasy #sci-fantasy #worldbuild #worldbuilder #worldbuilders #magic #witch

0 notes

amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes · 7 years

Text

Forgive

Author’s Note: Back at it again with another writing challenge! My prompt is Forgive provided by the lovely @backseat-negan.

Word Count: 1,133

Warnings: Angst, not my usual funny/smut stuff and I apologize now. Mentions of blood, sickness. I used some first hand knowledge from when I was incapacitated in June so this is kinda personal to me.

Additional Note: Heavily inspired from Here’s Negan Parts 1-4 and written from Lucille’s point of view. Dialogue in italics is flashbacks/memories and lifted from the comic. it’s like 50% comic - 50% my interpretation

Tagging: @backseat-negan, @genevievedarcygranger, @i-am-negan-trash

***************************************************

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitoring was always something I hated about hospitals. I always hated hospitals in general but the constant beeping of that machine was so annoying. It’s only rival was the blood pressure cuff that seemed to squeeze the life outta me every ten minutes. What’s a girl gotta do to get some rest around here? If it wasn’t the machines driving me crazy or the nurses waking me up every single time I would drift off to sleep to take my temperature or some other BS, it was Negan. He was almost as bad as the nurses. Well maybe not as bad but pretty up there. His constant hoovering is wearing thin on my already shot nerves. But one look at the big baffone and I can’t help but sigh. I almost felt bad for him. Heh. I felt bad for him yet I was the one dying and the one he cheated on. Go figure.

The night he told me about his affair was probably one of the worst nights of my life. After just being told I have cancer, my “darling” husband decides to clear his conscience and tell me that he’s been unfaithful and had ended his fling. It wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have after a round of strenuous chemo. Was the universe laughing at me? Had I been an evil person to deserve this? I knew karma was a bitch but jeez, let up a little honey!

“NOW?! You wait for this to end it?! Why?” I wasn’t stupid; he was a handsome man and had been messing around for awhile. But he always came home to me so I let it pass. I remember when I confirmed my suspicions of his infidelity and I went crying to my mother and aunt. They practically laughed in my face and patted my head. “Oh honey, men are dogs. You are the wife and as long as he comes home to you, let him have his fun. The day he doesn’t come home is the day you divorce him.” Crazy old women. But in time, I saw there was some truth to their words. Negan did come home to me and still doted on me as if we were high school sweethearts. But in the back of my mind I still had the nagging voice telling me to confront him. Well, that went to hell because the day I decide to do so, boom.

“I don’t need it. I don’t… want it anymore. I just want you. I just want us to be together.” he was practically pleading. It took everything in me not to punch him in his face. I would have if every inch of my body wasn’t radiating with pain. Stupid. He was so stupid. But not because of the cheating. I couldn’t even look at him; the guilt and remorse was clear in his voice. He was sorry, sure. But not as sorry as he was going to be. “Well… You’re not going to have that for very long. What’s wrong with you? Why would you pick the sick one?”

I had accepted my fate but Negan hadn’t. Or more so he wouldn’t. He became the ideal husband and companion; taking me to all my appointments, chemo treatments and even held my hair back when I was sick. When there was no more hair to hold, he was still there. Every once in awhile he would break down and shed a few tears; some he let me see and some he didn’t but I knew when he was crying. I always did. I had to hand it to him. When he said he wanted us to be together he meant it. We were always together; whether I wanted him there or not. I was so angry at him but found my anger dwindling and being replaced with the love I always felt for this baffone. If he’d sense my spirit wavering, he’d tell the corniest jokes laced with the most profane words. It would hurt to laugh but I’d humor him with a smile that he’d mirror and show me those dimples I’d grown fond of. Big jokester with a potty mouth. God, did I love him.

How I wish I could tell him now. That I do love him. But this ventilator makes it so hard to talk. I can feel the long tube snaked through my nose and down my throat so if I try to swallow, my trachea contracts painfully around it. I can feel it pumping the air into me as it breaths for me, my own lungs having failed me. But I hate this ventilator. The tube hurts my nose and throat, leaves me raw and sore. Last time I had it inserted I was coughing up blood for days and my voice was hoarse when it was removed. I frown at the thought and Negan squeezes my hand. Had he been there the whole time? I must have been in and out of sleep. My head feels heavy and I can’t turn towards him. I can’t move any part of my body. Frustration overtakes me and I groan around the tube in an attempt to voice my displeasure. My hand is squeezed again and I hear his voice. He’s been talking too? What’s going on?

“Did I fucking cause this? If I’d been there for you… and not…. If I didn’t….” his voice trails off as his words are heavy with sorrow and regret. If you didn’t what, honey? I want to ask but this time I can’t even muster a groan. His hand departs mine and the lost of contact leaves my hand cold. Not just my hand but my whole body. It’s so cold in here all of a sudden. My fingers and toes have gone numb. Negan, did you turn the air down? Dammit I can’t speak. This ventilator is now my top hated machine over that damn beeping…. Huh? I don’t hear the beeping heart monitoring anymore. I don’t hear anything. I can’t feel anything. My eyes are closed but I see a light. It’s far off but it’s getting closer. The closer it gets to me, the warmer I feel. It’s like bathing in sunlight. It’s nice. A whole lot better than this pain I’ve been feeling.

But... Is this it? Is this the end? Negan, where did you go? I need to tell you something. No matter what happened between us, I still love you. And even though I never said it out loud and now won’t ever get the chance, I’ll say it telepathically and hope you hear it someway somehow. I forgive you. I love you and I forgive you, you big baffone. Now and always.

#backseatwritingchallenge #twd negan #Lucille #The Walking Dead #twd #here's negan #negan fanfiction

24 notes · View notes

kcrbyn-blog · 7 years

Text

hiya babies ! my name is emma, i’m 19, i’m from the est timezone, and if kesha doesn’t stop all this releasing new music without any kind of warning business, i’m going to have a heart attack. this is my lovechild, korbyn el-amin — works at musicology by day, is the lead singer/guitarist of saturdaze whenever she’s not working (occasionally at night). i have been itching to plot with all of you and your beautiful muses already, so pretty please swing through my ims or just like this post for me to magically appear in yours! prepare for rambles beneath the cut.

so, a little info on k:

ever since she could remember, it’s always just been her and her father; the backstory on her mother has always been hazy since she could never get much out of her dad about her, other than that she was no longer in the picture. korbyn knows she’s alive and that is as far as her knowledge goes, she’s not looking to expand it any time soon, either. she’s content with it just being her and her dad — they got along well, settled into a nice little routine that worked well for them, all that jazz

she’s always been incredibly independent mostly because she’s used to being alone and it’s never really bothered her?? her dad worked his ass off when she was a kid, working for an internet marketing company that demanded he travel quite a bit, so while it’s just the two of them, once work called it dwindled down to just korbyn. she never was one to follow a crowd or try to fit in, she did her own thing and didn’t really give a fuck who liked/approved of it or not?

was also totally the new kid, she didn’t move into newcastle until she was thirteen after her dad quit his marketing job because he was tired of constantly traveling and this didn’t faze her any; she didn’t necessarily enjoy the sleepy atmosphere of newcastle but she wasn’t packing her bags and running back to upstate new york, either

probably came off as rather terrifying/broody but she’s not, really?? like...she’s actually pretty outgoing and charming but she doesn’t take fucking shit, and isn’t about to go chasing after something she’s not really all that interested in anyways

music was the first real, true love of her life; her dad was a huge classic rock junkie and brought her up on it, and the older she got the more and more obsessed with the concept of music just in general?? she listens to just about any genre ( her least favorite is country ) and she started growing quite the vinyl collection after her dad got her a record player for her twelfth birthday. korbyn loves to take apart music and analyze it, from the instrumentals to the lyrics to the production value, all of it, it was her biggest hobby.

when she was younger, she’d sneak into her dad’s room whenever he wasn’t home and would get his guitar out and teach herself as best she could, and he promised that when they moved, he’d set her up some real lessons (hello musicology)

the cosmogyral has always been one of my favorite labels and i haven’t put it to use in a really long time (thank god for this rp giving me the opportunity to tbh) the definition of the word cosmogyral is ‘whirling around the universe’ and that’s certainly korbyn to a t. she’s never content with stagnancy, she likes to constantly be thinking and doing and moving and striving to be all the things, essentially. korbyn’s a very strategic, take no prisoners kinda girl who acts first and asks the questions later; opinionated, pretty fiery, and often doesn’t have a filter, but she’s also a huge dreamer with a big heart that often gets shadowed by all her steel. she tends to live in her head quite a bit, which comes at its costs. the big part that i usually read into with the cosmogyral is that they are incredibly volatile, they’re easy to flip or turn in their moods and are pretty fickle. korbyn is the type of person who will change her mind a lot about something and she’ll be hella stubborn about it. she sticks to her guns, this one, even if she’s constantly changing them up

is a highkey rebel, does whatever she wants, says whatever she wants, has probably got into quite a bit of trouble for this but doesn’t really care, she’s your girl if you’re looking to cause some trouble

has evaded the law more than she cares to admit, i’m sure, but she’s hella smart and she’s a charmer

bisexual as fuck, total softie when it comes to romance...like, expect for her to write a fucking song about u

entj, that’s her basically

perfectionist as fuck, it will either be endearing or irritating. a lot of time it dictates how she acts, and she can kinda drive herself over the edge and get so frustrated with herself she’ll just.....riot

also probably smokes a LOT because she’s great at stressing herself out

saturdaze is the fucking love of her life at the moment and the only one she needs, truthfully; she pours every little ounce of herself into the band because it’s what she’s passionate about and the music they play makes her feel so fucking good and happy and it’s not something she wants to let go any time soon

also pretty supportive of all the other bands in town?? she’ll go check them out on nights she doesn’t have practice/work/a gig/plans, girl likes good music and doesn’t care where it comes from

korbyn’s in her last few years of school and she fucking loathes her major now, it was a basic one she just decided on and never changed it and doesn’t really want to do anything with it, and school is driving her off the edge, to the point where she’s on the verge of dropping out and just playing her little local gigs w saturdaze and working the ropes at musicology forever so she doesn’t have to make a decision

this however, is not an option, because her dad is the one paying her way through school and she knows giving a big fuck you to that is a one-way ticket to a conflict she doesn’t want (after years of not having any conflict w her dad, it’s bound to arrive at some point and korbyn believes this will be it) but she just so desperately wants to be happy and live her life the way she wants to that she’s pretty much pulling herself apart at the seams, fun times!!

wanted plots !

these are all just ideas that i’d love to see for k, we obviously can flesh these out as our hearts desire or do spins on them or do something entirely different, i’m open to literally everything but these are pretty much a starting block

ride or die (1/1) — korbyn would literally do anything for this person; she probs gets into all kinds of trouble with them, but they are her Best Friend and she’d trust them with her life if it ever came down to it

awkward ex (0/1) — the two of them dated a little while ago, and the relationship lasted longer than they’d anticipated, and for whatever reason, they decided to go their separate ways. awkward bc korbyn is a fan of their band and still goes to shows when she can and therefore, they see each other quite a bit

skinny love (0/1) — at some point, korbyn realized their friendship was more than just friendship-like feelings on her end but she’ll be damned if she’s the reason she loses this person, so she tries her best to act normal around them but it probably...doesn’t work lmao

enemy she fuckin on the low (0/1) — lmao now THIS person, they get on korbyn’s last fucking nerve and she really can’t tolerate them, but one night they fell into bed together and decided y’know....angry sex really is the best, so while they’re pretty open about their disdain for one another in public, they be hooking up on the down low

sworn to secrecy (1/?) — korbyn enjoys doing stupid shit that attracts trouble, and she and i’m thinkin like maybe two or three other people?? yeah they all did something one night that was FUCKED, and they’d be fucked if anybody ever found out about it so they’re all incredibly close mostly because they share this dirty lil secret

sexual tension (0/?) — they’re all musicians, ok. there’s BOUND to be some sexual tension, whether it’s acted on or not is up to us but korbyn turns on the charm when she sees them at shows (theirs and her own, so someone from a diff band works swell for this), they probably flirt a lot in public...such fun

bad influence (0/2) — korbyn can be a lot to swallow sometimes lmao, and yet this person doesn’t really fucking care, they’re who she can go out and get into fucking trouble with and they encourage her to do shit or! korbyn’s basically corrupting your muse and is bringing them outta their shell

good influence (0/1) — this person balances out korbyn very well, keeps her outta trouble and tones her down when she gets fired up as best they can, is essentially the little tiny angel sitting on her shoulder

i’m really open to whatever okay just throw it by me if you have a different idea, i’ll probably say yes

i have this queued to drop as soon as we open so i may be off eating dinner, but please don’t hesitate to come message me? like i said, i am dying to write korbyn and get to know you all in the process so please, love me, i beg of you. i’m so fucking excited about this roleplay, guys, i can’t wait to get started x

#「•• heroin(e) ; out of k.#ncvt:intro

7 notes · View notes

keijay-blog · 6 years

Photo

New Post has been published on http://cookingtipsandreviews.com/how-to-become-a-certified-cicerone/

How to Become a Certified Cicerone

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "makemoneyq-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cooking"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "Kitchen"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "51fe4d035c7af8dc5928e6f5e5b79c4e"; amzn_assoc_default_browse_node = "284507"; amzn_assoc_rows = "4"; amzn_assoc_design = "text_links";

[Photograph: Dustin Hall]

BEER!

We love it. And you’ve voted. See which is the best American beer city.

Not very long ago in America, beer was generally unexciting and bland. Beer was beer. Movies and TV programs would show someone walking into a bar, saying “Give me a beer,” and actually getting served. It’s not like people in the ‘70s and ‘80s were ordering “a wine” or “one liquor.” What Prohibition started—the decline of independent brewers—rapid post–World War II industrialization and consolidation nearly finished. By 1978, there were only 89 breweries in America. With a dwindling number of producers competing to make the most cost-effective light lager, the American brewing industry just wasn’t super interesting.

But these days, as you’ve surely noticed, the number of independent producers is booming, supermarket shelves boast a tremendous variety of styles, and beer is getting the respect it deserves. People are passionate about beer in a way Uncle Todd drinking Stroh’s in the backyard out of a koozie never was—many more beer drinkers nowadays study the styles and keep tasting notes, obsessively track new brewery openings, teach themselves to home-brew, and stand in massive lines for special releases. And with that surge in mainstream popularity have come ways for people both inside and outside the brewing industry to collect, expand, and prove their knowledge on beer. As an outgrowth of that, some companies have come along to offer certification and training to gauge whether someone knows what they’re talking about when they talk about what’s in your glass.

That certification works in favor of brewers and distributors—they can gauge a job candidate’s general level of knowledge without having to test them, train employees without having to write up or administer an in-house program, or use employee certification as an indicator of passion and knowledge. But are the concepts studied in these programs relevant to everyday drinkers, aside from conferring a greater chance of finding good beer at the bar? I decided to find out.

Going for Certification

[Photograph: Rich Orris]

My quest began where I assume most other people’s does—Monday-night curling on a lethally cold January evening in Chicago in 2017. I curl (it’s like bowling but more precise, or shuffleboard but slippery) in a league made up of teams sponsored by breweries, beer bars, and other beer-adjacent concerns; I hit the ice for Lo Rez Brewing, a newer South Side brewery owned by friends of mine. One of the other teams was made up of employees from the Cicerone Certification Program, which has certified beer-service knowledge at different levels since 2007.

At the time, I appreciated that mission, and drank my fair share of beer, but I also couldn’t have told you the difference between an IPA, an APA, and an amber ale. I knew I loved roasty, coffee-like stouts and strong, figgy Belgian abbey ales. But the nuances—why I liked the refreshing bitterness of the IPA from the brewery down the street, yet found the acclaimed barley wine from Colorado kinda caustic; the recipe differences between beer styles; most of the actual brewing process—totally escaped me.

I wasn’t looking forward to memorizing hundreds of data points about various beer styles, which I knew was part of getting certified. But the Cicerone employees were encouraging, and I accepted their invitation to the Road to Cicerone Bootcamp®—a weeklong course of hands-on instruction designed to give those serious about certification a big push toward passing the three-plus-hour test.* And, since I’d be spending a week of class time on the subject, it only made sense to think about taking the certification exam as well.

* Full disclosure: I got to attend for free—a big deal, as the regular price is $1,995—but explicitly with zero expectation of media coverage.

Cicerone Certification Levels

The Cicerone Certification Program offers four levels of certification:

Certified Beer Server: A 30-minute, 60-question online test. Many breweries and beer-focused bars encourage or require this level for employees. Currently there are more than 100,000 Certified Beer Servers worldwide.

Certified Cicerone®: A three-plus-hour exam, including essays and tasting, with a pass rate of around one-third. There are 3,331 Certified Cicerones worldwide at the moment.

Advanced Cicerone™: The newest certification level, which culminates in an expansive two-day written, oral, and tasting exam. There are currently 88 Advanced Cicerones.

Master Cicerone®: The highest level of beer-knowledge certification that Cicerone offers, requiring two days of oral, written, and tasting challenges with over a dozen experts from around the industry. Only 16 people have achieved the title, including BrewDog cofounder James Watt and Patrick Rue of The Bruery.

Cicerone isn’t the only certification game in town. The Brewers Association and Beer Judge Certification Program keep beer styles codified, and the latter certifies judges for brewing competitions. Canadians interested in brewing and service can take the Prud’homme Beer Certification course, provided they’re able to travel to whichever university is holding classes. And the Master Brewers Association of the Americas offers a range of Beer Steward certificates for service professionals.

But I don’t brew, Cicerone is local (like, walk-there-from-my-house local), and from my perspective—years working as a writer in the very beer-adjacent food and restaurant world—it seemed to loom largest over the service-side certification landscape.

The test has a reputation as a tough one. Cicerone doesn’t track or share exact pass/fail numbers, but the pass rate is about 40%, which, for context, is a good deal lower than most states’ bar exam pass rates.

Boot Camp, but for Drinking

[Photograph: Liz Clayman]

So it happened that for one week in February 2017, I abandoned most of my worldly responsibilities to learn to drink better. And I wasn’t alone—17 other people had come from around the world, including China, New Zealand, and Panama, to take the class. Before we even set foot in the classroom, the program emailed us a fairly comprehensive list of readings to brush up on in preparation for the first day. We spent the week hearing from Moody Tongue brewmaster (and black truffle pilsner creator) Jared Rouben, Tasting Beer author Randy Mosher, Cicerone founder Ray Daniels, and others. Classroom lectures ran from 10 a.m. to about 6 p.m. every day, and two nights featured beer-pairing dinners afterward. Lectures covered topics ranging from draft theory (gas pressure, troubleshooting, proper cleaning) to tasting technique to brewing history. Beer-style tastings and comparisons were woven through the lecture units, with consideration for the time of day—no tastings first thing in the morning, no imperial stouts before noon. One thing to note is that the certification exam is not offered especially soon after the week of the class, because a) there’s a whole lot more to study independently, and b) they don’t want to create a perception that you’re paying to pass the exam.

I didn’t have the built-in advantage of most candidates, who are employed in the industry and thus are around beer and pick up firsthand knowledge of it all day. So I needed to figure out when I’d be ready, and set the date myself.

Plenty of people have gone through this process already (Serious Eats contributor Lucy Burningham even wrote a very cool book about it), so I asked around for a realistic timeline. The general response I got from people in the know was one to two years, but I chose a date around 11 months out, in November. It seemed like just about enough time to become confident in knowing the material.

With the class complete and the test slated, it was time to study.

The Certified Cicerone exam is structured as a three-hour written test (short-answer and essay), an hour consisting of three separate tasting-exam units, and a brief taped demonstration. The syllabus breaks the entirety of what you need to know into five distinct units, which I tackled individually.

Pouring Beer, Professionally

[Photograph: Liz Clayman]

The first major section of the exam addresses beer service. Draft systems, kegs, bottles, glassware, line cleaning—everything relevant to the operation of a beer-focused bar that gets the beer to the drinker in the best possible condition. I hadn’t worked at a bar a day in my life. I knew that Guinness gets nitrogen for the fancy bubbles, and that was about it.

And I’m sure it wasn’t just me. A lot of your passionate craft-beer advocates—the ones who stand in line for hours to get this double IPA or that barrel-aged stout—don’t home-brew, bartend, or work in beer stores. I needed to figure out, roughly:

How and why you clean draft-beer lines

Cleaning and replacement schedules for the rest of the equipment

How to fix a tap that isn’t pouring correctly

How different draft systems (long-draw, kegerator, jockey boxes, et cetera) operate

How to apply the right amount of pressure to a keg to get a good pour from the tap

What kind of gases, and in what mix, to apply to kegs

How heat, oxygen, light, and time affect beer

Fortunately, the Brewers Association puts this kind of information out for free. You can go download everything I needed to know, if you’re curious. After that, it’s just a matter of studying, and maybe persuading a friendly bar or taproom owner to let you have a little practical experience. I found that after just a few study sessions (and some hands-on work with a borrowed draft faucet), every component fit together naturally, and the whole system made intuitive sense. Like a Lego set designed by Tom Waits.

Even for experienced brewers, it can be a lot to learn. Kevin Lilly, cofounder of Lo Rez Brewing (and co-captain of my aforementioned curling squad), began as a home brewer and found that figuring out the service-side details was a vital prerequisite before opening a commercial brewery and taproom. He ended up pursuing Cicerone certification to smooth his transition to full-time commercial brewer.

“Both my cofounder and I got a lot out of the draft-system knowledge—maintenance, troubleshooting for foamy beer, and fixing issues as they come up,” Lilly says. “We took it from there, and by digging deeper into the science, we were able to build our own draft system.”

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

The other half of service is customer-facing. What glassware matches up with certain beers (Belgian-style beers need more room for a tall head, while high-ABV beers should get smaller glasses); how to tell if a glass is clean enough for beer (basically, no bubbles clinging to the side); and how to manage inventory to ensure the beer in a customer’s glass is at its peak (serve it as fresh as possible, and rotate your stock frequently).

The kinda sad thing is that once you figure out how things work, you also start noticing when they’re off. The next thing you know, you’re realizing that the tap at your favorite bar, the one with worn-out chrome plating and exposed brass, is giving your beer a metallic aftertaste. You can’t un-learn things. But hey—that’s what cans and bottles are for.

I took a go at the first of several practice tests and failed. Not by a ton, but I was also self-grading pretty leniently.

In addition to storing away all this geeky beer knowledge, I learned something else around this time, with far greater personal consequences: My wife and I were expecting our second child in August. I remembered what having a newborn was like, so the idea of taking the test in November was out, as was September. So suddenly “I’ll have most of the year to prepare” turned into taking the test on July 12.

Let’s Learn 71 Different Kinds of Beer!

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

To call yourself a Cicerone, you need to be familiar with 71 unique styles of beer, and you have to learn the following for each one:

Color range, expressed in the Standard Reference Method, a color-associated number from 1 to 40 that measures how much light passes through the beer

Alcohol range, expressed in alcohol by volume (ABV)

The amount of dissolved isohumulone (an iso-alpha acid found in hops), expressed in International Bitterness Units (IBU)

The ratio of Original Gravity (which measures the amount of dissolved sugars in the wort prior to fermentation) to Final Gravity (the same measurement, afterward). This dictates much of the result, including alcohol content, mouthfeel, and how dry or sweet a beer tastes.

Flavor descriptors—does the beer have bready, nutty, or biscuit-y malt notes? Are the hops herbaceous, citrusy, or fruity? Is the beer effervescent and highly carbonated, or thick on the palate?

The styles aren’t set in stone, or even decided on by Cicerone. They use the BJCP style guidelines, which are updated every five years to reflect trends in brewing. So I used flash cards—lots and lots of flash cards. When I got sick of that, I used an app on my phone. It was a flash card app, but it seemed new and exciting at the time.

Looking at beer just by the numbers isn’t fun or productive, and as I progressed, I realized that you don’t have to murder yourself memorizing figures if you know how different styles relate to each other. Kolsch looks and tastes a lot like the traditional light German lagers but is made with an ale yeast; the hoppier character of American wheat beer is the result of American brewers trying to make Weissbier before recipes were widely available; and the English bitters are mostly distinguished from one another by their alcohol levels.

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

When you’re learning about the styles, you usually get a history lesson along with the numbers. You learn how the town of Plzen in the Czech Republic changed the entire concept of what people thought of as beer with the pilsner—setting the first example of the crisp, clear, and golden-colored brew that drinkers worldwide think of as the default form of beer. Or how London’s porters and stouts were the first mass-produced beers, and how their business practices paved the way for the beer world of today. Or, famously, how a few lines from a tax law in Germany in 1516 (the Reinheitsgebot), dictating that beer must be made with only water, barley, and hops, continue to loom large over how the world treats beer.

And, most importantly, you have to, you know, drink the stuff to really get an idea of what sets different varieties apart. Between January and July, I tried a staggering 219 beers, give or take a couple—everything from a plastic cup of Old Style at Wrigley Field (okay, maybe several) to a foraged-ingredient sahti at a tiny brewery in a town of 629 people. And I took a ton of notes along the way, adding as much evocative language as I could so I’d be able to call up the memory months after the fact. For instance:

“Scalded milk, Tootsie Roll” (milk stout)

“It’s like an old person made an Airhead from figs. A little cherry and currant, thin body.” (A Flanders red ale. Belgian beer is great for memorable flavors.)

“Dirt. Rotten mud. Old garbage. Dear god, what happened?” (Bière de garde. Turns out the yeast had autolyzed—become strained and basically eaten itself—which can create a lot of strong, unpleasant flavors.)

“Acrid. Maple syrup. Black pepper in old coffee. Smoke smoke smoke.” (This was for a rauchbier I actually quite liked.)

To pass the exam, you also need to be able to tell styles apart just by taste. They showed us a bit of this in the class, during which I failed to tell a German pilsner from a kolsch all three times it came up. So I bought a bunch of pils and a bunch of kolsch, and considered it all study material.

In late May, it was time for practice test number two. I either passed or failed by a couple points. (I got a few too many wrong on the short-answer portion, and it’s kind of hard to grade your own essays.) Also, I still couldn’t tell a pils from a kolsch.

Learning How to Make Beer by Making Beer

[Photograph: Liz Clayman]

While the BJCP exam maintains a far more in-depth and intense focus on the brewing process, the Cicerone exam also asks a fair bit of test takers about how to make beer. This is generally where the home brewers excel and the beer-distributor employees tend to fall short. Hands-on experience really makes the knowledge click.

Through some of that hands-on work, and lots of reading, I ran through the following:

Beer ingredients and how variations affect the beer

How yeast strains contribute to a beer’s character

Non-core stuff that gets added to beer (known as adjuncts, including oats, rye, and corn) and what they do

How different brewing processes dictate the result in your glass

The equipment that’s used in brewing and what each item does in sequence

Really, the way to drive everything home is to brew at least one batch. There are a couple different kits available online that let you produce a gallon of beer at a time for around 50 bucks. And, while your scale will be different from that of, say, Lagunitas, home brewing and commercial brewing are essentially the same process, according to Lilly.

“If you’re all-grain [using malt, rather than malt extract] home-brewing, I’d say you’re probably learning 95% of how the commercial brewing process works. The underpinnings are all there: the knowledge of why I’m doing what I’m doing, why I’m choosing a certain mash temp, what kind of hops are added and at what time,” he says. “The biggest difference between home brewing and commercial brewing is the scaling, and even pros moving to new systems have to deal with that issue.”

At yet another practice test, in June, I finally did well enough—91%, give or take—that I felt pretty sure I was making good progress. I’d started confidently pointing out kolsches and pilsners like a dramatic courtroom prosecutor. Sometimes, I was even right.

Learning to Taste

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

Learning a higher level of beer tasting was both really cool and somewhat intimidating. I’m guilty as anyone of rolling my eyes at someone nose-deep in a glass of beer or wine, talking about “notes of chicory” and “a hint of citrus fruit.” It’s easy to scoff at—it sounds kind of pretentious or kind of impossible, depending on your attitude. But I needed to figure it out.

First lesson: There’s a reason no one feels super confident discerning individual flavors in food or drink at first—it’s a learned skill. I’m not a mouth scientist, but one thing I did learn is that human beings’ sense of taste operates on a Will Kill Me/Won’t Kill Me binary. Our hunter-gatherer ancestors didn’t concern themselves as much with hints of dark fruit and sherry.

So what you end up doing to learn to taste is building new memory associations and flavor descriptions. Taste, blurt something out, repeat. Literally, just blurting out whatever dumbass thing comes to your mind is the best way to start to create flavor associations, at least from what I remember from Randy Mosher’s classroom lecture. Eventually, you’ll get more confident, and it will come more naturally. I started finding new flavors in my morning coffee within a couple months, which is something I’d never cared to do.

The only wrong-wrong thing to do is get tentative about being wrong, and shut down. This is another place where a lot of people quit, because it can be hard to put yourself out there and think you might be wrong.

Writing this piece was a big help in mastering the off-flavors part—identifying the flavor characteristics of compounds like dimethyl sulfide, diacetyl, acetaldehyde, trans-2-nonenol, 3MBT, and acetic acid that indicate a problem with the beer. I also ended up taking a separate off-flavor class through Cicerone. Another option is off-flavor spikes for your beer, which you can find here and here, though, cost-wise, it’s a lot easier if you can split it with a few other people who are also trying to master the yuck. You’re paying to get the unfiltered versions of these flavors, but chances are you’ll encounter them in the wild eventually.

“The off flavors we test on are definitely the most common that you’ll run into at a bar,” Shana Solarte, who teaches Cicerone’s off-flavor-specific courses, says. “I hear all the time where someone runs into a stale, papery beer. It’s really important for us to use a set of flavors that are realistic. You’re learning to taste beer to assess whether it’s in good shape.”

Right before the exam, my wife helped me spike beers and blind-taste them. And she tried really hard not to laugh at my grave, “This is me swirling and noting the bouquet of some skunked Amstel Light” face. She also helped me in one final round of Pilsner or Kolsch: Seriously, Enough Already With This.

Food and Beer Pairing: Possibly Black Magic

[Photograph: Brendan Daly and Dayna Crozier]

Once you start to pull out individual flavors in beer, you need to turn your brain to pairing with food. While pairing is tricky, complex, and frustrating (many people’s opinions on the matter, both online and among friends and loud acquaintances, begin and end with yelling “BULLSH*T!” through cupped hands), the right pairing can really make both the food and the beer sing. Certain malting and mashing processes in beer production create reactions in the malt (including every Serious Eats reader’s favorite, the Maillard reaction) that mirror ones you find in food.

The easiest approach was to start small. Grilled sausage with a beer that features roasted malt. A light citrus-dressed salad with a fragrant, bitter IPA to balance the sweetness. A dark chocolate cake paired with a raspberry kriek reminds diners of classic desserts. Then, figure out a few things that don’t work—poached shrimp with an imperial stout washes out all the briny seafood flavor; spicy beef curry with a double IPA creates an irritating amplification of the heat on your scorched palate. Add to that my experience trying to pair a Scottish wee heavy with sautéed hen-of-the-woods mushrooms—two relatively earthy things that kind of tasted like mud when layered on top of each other.

What works for some people won’t work for others, but generally, there’s stuff that works well enough to be standard (brown ale and cheddar cheese), stuff that doesn’t work at all (mint and dark beer produces a certain toothpaste quality), and stuff in the middle, a space where you can refine pairings by degrees and find new and interesting combinations. It’s not the biggest focus of the exam, but it’s also important to view beer flavors and traits outside of a beer-only bubble. We’ve published a fair amount on beer pairing, because it’s one of those realms where you can always find new and surprising things to elevate the dining experience.

[Photograph: Mike Reis]

Time to Take a Big Dang Beer Test

Eventually, after a few months of flash cards on the train ride to work, beer books during lunch, and YouTube videos on draft systems at night, it was time to quit studying and take the test. I didn’t drink the night before—standard test prep, but a little funnier considering the subject matter.

To pass, and earn the title of Certified Cicerone, candidates need to score at least an 80% on the overall test, and at least a 70% on the tasting exam, no matter what the overall score is. Both written and tasting exams can be retaken separately.

Our phones were sealed in envelopes, our names replaced with numbers to ensure grading impartiality, and test packets were distributed.

There were dozens upon dozens of short-answer questions, covering everything from the areas I’d studied, sometimes in extreme detail. What kind of beer fits these descriptors? What color should this beer be? When should you add yeast to the fermenter during the brewing process, and why?

Then there were three essay questions—one covering a retail service setup, one covering the attributes and history of a specific beer style, and one on the flavor results of a certain element of the brewing process.

Once I’d answered everything and turned in my test, I went off for my short recorded demonstration. I was filmed from the neck down (about as anonymous as they can get), detailing the parts, function, and cleaning method of a specific piece of the draft system. Luckily, this was a piece I’d carried around in my bag since February, taking it apart and putting it back together, Full Metal Jacket–style, until I knew it inside and out.

If I’m being slightly vague about the exam where you’d want more detail, this is where I point out that exam takers sign a nondisclosure form that states they won’t reveal the test questions to others.

A lot of people used every second of the three hours. I finished the written exam around two hours in, and, since my phone was sealed in an envelope and my scratch paper was turned in with the test, the remainder of the time was a solid 70 minutes of staring at the wall and disassembling and reassembling my pen.

Eventually, time was called, and we got a short break before the tasting exam. One guy whispered something to the effect of “I can’t…” to the proctor and left, never to return. Either he’d already passed the tasting exam, or I was witness to a fairly calm and polite test freakout. I hoped it was the first one.

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

The tasting portion of the exam stands on its own—as I mentioned, you can retake the tasting alone, and a decent number of people end up having to. There are three distinct components:

Identifying off flavors in a low-key light beer

Style discrimination, in which you’re asked to identify which of two similar styles a given beer is (e.g., “Is this beer a milk stout or an Irish stout?”)

A service portion, which puts you in the scenario of a bar manager tasting beer a customer has sent back. Is it okay to serve, or has it gone off? And if it has, how?

While we waited, the staff poured sample after sample of beer for the tasting portion—12 per person, covering a large table in the front of the room. The anticipation was intense, with only these beers standing between us and the end of the test.

The off-flavor section went well—I’d practiced with spiked samples the night before, and managed to peg all of them pretty quickly. The next section in the exam was the style discrimination. It was time! Pilsner versus kolsch. Kolsch v. pils. KvP! I’d spent months preparing for this. I was going to completely knock it out of the…

…aaaand, it wasn’t on the exam. The guy next to me wondered why I was laughing. But if any of you ever have a bunch of unlabeled kolsch and pilsner that needs sorting, I’m your man—this is permanently burned into my brain.

Style discrimination is a great example of the necessity of trusting your first instinct when you’re tasting. You learn a lot about different beers while you’re studying, but if you spend too much time trying to call that information back and bring it to what’s in front of you, things go sideways. You can convince yourself that your initial decision was wrong, and your mind will walk you all the way back to the wrong decision. It happened to me when I decided that yes, I was totally getting notes of dark fruit and plum, along with a candi-sugar dryness, in the Belgian dubbel that was in front of me. Except it wasn’t a dubbel at all; it was the other option, which was what I’d thought in the first place, and my idiot brain cost me points. But you never forget hard-won wisdom like this: Don’t overthink a beer, and never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

The final tasting-exam section is easily the most nerve-wracking, because your list of possible responses encompasses basically everything you’ve studied. You’re given four beers, along with their names, styles, and how they were served (i.e., draft or bottle/can). If the beer is bad, you have to detail why, and how it likely happened.

I was fairly confident on my answers for three of the four in this section and encountered a bad beer in need of an explanation for the fourth. It was a darker, malt-focused British ale, which made it trickier to peg the issue, since I’d studied these off flavors in lighter beers, where flaws really jump out. I thought it had a little diacetyl, but it was actually lightstruck. Half credit, maybe?

While getting your overall results takes weeks, the tasting answers are all revealed right after the test when you discuss the beers. These beers are also blind-tasted by a staff member to ensure that everything tasted was as good or as bad as it should have been. It’s sort of a call-and-response discussion (“Okay, who answered double IPA on this?”), so tentative hands went up with every question. And, wouldn’t you know it, a surprising number of people talked themselves into tasting flaws in the un-spiked beers. Tasting is hard, and will wreck your brain given half a chance.

The Waiting Game

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

With all the beer-learning done (hopefully), I went for a beer after the exam. Luckily, there’s a brewery right across the railroad tracks. Someone else in the test session, a lab tech at the Goose Island brewery, had the same idea. She and I agreed that it was nice to taste a beer without thinking too hard about it after months of focusing on this one test.

From that moment until I got the email with my exam results, I managed to convince myself that I’d passed, that I’d failed, that I’d passed with flying colors, and that I’d failed spectacularly. It’s easy to talk yourself in and out, especially as a lot of industry pros with deep knowledge and experience have needed more than one try to pass.

“We’ve had professional brewers who know everything about brewing and off flavors take the exam and totally nail those sections, but fail overall because they don’t have adequate style knowledge and know very little about proper beer service,” Cicerone founder Ray Daniels says. “Likewise, an expert in draft systems and beer styles could totally kill those sections, but not pass due to lack of brewing knowledge and lack of tasting skills. These individuals might well know more, overall, about beer than someone who does pass the exam, but the scores won’t reflect that. So, we don’t put a lot of stock in ‘the highest score’ or in comparing scores too closely.”

After about five weeks and change, while holding my one-day-old kid in the hospital, I got my results. I passed! Here’s how things broke down for me:

Overall: 89%

Tasting: 86%

Keeping and Serving Beer: 94%

Beer Styles: 85%

Beer Flavor and Evaluation: 90%

Ingredients and Processes: 92%

Food and Beer Pairing: 84%

After all that, I was finally able to confirm that you can definitely go from “Yeah, beer’s good” to “It all started with Josef Groll in 1842…” in about six months. You might have to make it your hobby—I didn’t read a non-beer book from January until July last year—and, as with any test prep, you’re going to have to cram your brain with some stuff you find less than interesting. But eventually, it makes sense, you start to ask better questions, and you look at beer differently from how you did before. Most important, the process should make beer more fun for you.

[Photograph: Brendan Daly and Dayna Crozier]

The knock on certification programs in general (and Cicerone specifically, on some message boards) is that they reduce something that people feel organic love for to a set of right and wrong answers. But that’s like saying maps take the fun out of travel: Once you know what to look for, you see the little peaks and valleys and offshoots that build the rich landscape of beer. People who want to learn more about beer and test themselves don’t tend to end up liking beer less. Months later, I’m relieved to report that I still love a cold Guinness, even though I know that fairy dust and ancient brewer magic probably don’t make a pint served in Dublin any better. And, even better, I’m finding new things to enjoy in the beers I’d thought I already knew, and giving ones I’d thought I hated a second chance.

If you’re interested in learning more about beer, or even getting certified, my advice is to go for it if the time, money (the Certified Beer Server exam costs $69 to take, while the Certified Cicerone exam is $395), and work involved make sense for your own goals. You don’t have to take a fancy weeklong course like I did—most people who take the exams don’t—and you can find a syllabus for each level of certification on Cicerone’s website. If you prefer to do your cramming in the company of others, scout around online for an in-person study group in your area.

The eventual certificate (and yes, it is a handsome certificate) is about 1% as important as the things you learn and the people you meet in pursuit of it. Turns out that brewers, bottle-shop owners, and bartenders, at least the good ones, love to talk and share what they’re passionate about. So get out there and try something new. If I can do it, you definitely can.

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_search_bar = "true"; amzn_assoc_search_bar_position = "bottom"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "makemoneyq-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cookware"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "All"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b45319dac495d29e17b5eff312392025"; Source link

0 notes